Page 109 of The Court of Venus

“Exaltation.” He held it up. “Do you understand how it happened?”

I bit my lip, puzzled. “Do you?”

“I have a theory now. Yes.”

“Enlighten me.”

He traced his teeth with his tongue, hesitating. “Tell me more about Balthasar first. Saturns truly know when someone will die?”

I scowled and crawled back into bed, settling on Roland’s chest. “If he is to be believed. And according to Eleanor and Prospero’s star chart—he called it a Final Breath—there will be a death in three days. A death that will shake Alvion.”

He didn’t ask who was to die; he was quick enough to know. He only blanched and stared at the ceiling for a long while. “You want someone to reply to a letter quickly. Someone at court.” He turned his head. “Who did you write to?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

His laugh turned into a groan from the pain in his back. Then he was groaning for another reason altogether. His thumb stroking down mine. A serene happiness sighed through him whenever he touched me. “We’ve been apart for so long, and—”

“Only a few days. And you avoided me for one of them.”

“A lifetime when I have so much to discuss with my advisor.” He tipped my chin up. “Who did you write to? Who at court do you suppose would ally with me?”

“Clearly, I would. Though,” I added, “our alliance is tenuous.”

“Yes, it rests on a knife’s edge.” His eyes skimmed up my bare legs. “I wish I had the strength right now to thank you properly.”

He leaned forward. Traced his tongue around the edge of my mouth, teasing me the way I liked, before our lips met in earnest.

Last night I’d knelt in his arms in the chapel, facing death. The urge to fight, to deny myself, was gone. All of my guilt and shame melted away—I was burning too hot.

I pressed myself against him. Waiting was agony, an ache between my legs. As he tugged on my lower lip, he began tracing tight circles on my thighs. I whispered his name, my face so close to his, our foreheads and noses brushing. “While I’m healing,” he said, his breath ragged and sweet against my lips, “I’d like to learn every single way I can pleasure you. Won’t you show me what you want now, so I can prepare?”

I ducked my head, hiding my face beneath his arm, which smelled impossibly of roses and musk. He stroked my hair tenderly as I considered it, for no one had asked me such a thing before. Not even myself.

What would I want with Roland?

I thought of the council room, of him pushing me against the door. No—of him pushing me against the table. His deft hands flickering over my thighs, lifting my gown. Him praising me, calling me sweetheart, darling—

He cursed into my nape. “Is that why I should return to power? So I can fuck you in my council room?”

I twisted in his arms, kissing the divot in his chin. “It is a motivation, surely.”

“You have my attention now, Mouse,” he said, his eyes bright. “Now what, exactly, is your plan?”

Twenty-Five

Only one prisoner has ever escaped from the Archimago Tomb in the three hundred and twenty-seven years since it was built. King Henry XVII had sent his own brother to the Tomb, and so the younger brother had his agents murder the king in cold blood. The Tomb’s will transferred to its new, rightful heir, and so the king’s brother—now king himself—walked free.

—THOMAS FEYDON, A HISTORY OF MAGIC IN ALVION

Oliver arrived first.

“You didn’t say he would be here,” he hissed, gesturing to Roland.

“I didn’t say he wouldn’t be, either,” I countered.

“Fair play.” Oliver considered us across the booth. “These are dangerous times. The king is a walking corpse. The Guildfords are now insisting Cecily is pregnant—most courtiers assume it is a lie, of course. Fulke Roet has sent a flurry of messages across the country and abroad to his mother’s relatives in Bastian, asking for support. The divisions are drawn in court. Why, pray tell, would I throw my hat in with you lot, when you, Lord Chancellor, are meant to be dead?”

Roland’s annoyance rose. He pressed his lips together.