Page 29 of The Court of Venus

For centuries, a succession of pink-haired magicians had ruled in Lionesse, fostering the arts and sitting on the laps of sensual, aesthete kings. “Like what?”

He hesitated for a moment. “The court magician there was willing to cross certain moral lines. I was not. Know this: I have never forced the king and queen to feel anything for me. I have never once manipulated their desires. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

In his mind, a vibrant emotion flared.

Betrayal.

Edward stumbled in then, carrying a bowl of fresh water and new strips of cloth. He placed it all on the bed and just as quickly rushed out, sensing a heaviness to the conversation. Roland watched him go. “Last night, you were so focused on stealing The Celestial Bodies, you neglected to tell me about the Guildford meeting. Did you find it?”

Even if a current of distrust flowed beneath us, I would tell him what I knew. I had no other ally at court but him. “Yes.”

He wrung a cloth out as he smiled, staining the new water the same pink as his features. “And?”

“I was watching from up high in the chapel, as a—”

“Mouse?” He extended a hand, asking silently for my other arm. I gave it to him. A slight twist exposed my scraped elbow.

“I heard nothing about Hal. They complained you had too much influence over Cecily. They suspected Ambrose was killed by Fulke Roet.”

He pinched my skin together, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated. Magic flowed over my arm, bringing with it a rosy new layer of skin. “Show me?”

I placed the night of my spying inside his mind. His eyes closed, the pupils swiveling beneath his lids. Once he’d watched the memory unfurl, he said, “Your transformations have improved. A word of advice: When you’re lurking about, don’t hide in the shadows. If you want to learn more about Hal’s death, you should try participating in the conversation. Information like that won’t simply fall into your lap.”

“I’m so glad to hear that my ‘transformations have improved’ in your estimation, Roland. All these years, as I practiced and practiced, that was my sole purpose.”

He shook his head, scoffing. Dipping cloth into the bowl, he patted my elbow. I remembered something, then. “You were there. You were in Miranda’s mind.”

“So?”

“So. Why did you try and help me?”

He shrugged. “You wanted her to stop. I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

“I handled her well enough in the end.”

“Yes, you did. Perhaps too well. The king would like an audience with you,” he said unhappily. “So would Fulke Roet.”

“My near death amused them.”

“Impressed them.”

“And you?”

“The dragon was an inspired touch.” His voice had tightened. “There. Good enough.” A final dab with the cloth. “Take a look.”

I was immaculate. Untouched by Miranda’s hand. Only faint scar tissue remained on my thigh, the last remnant of her deepest cut. Roland promised it would fade entirely by morning. “Thank you.”

His jaw worked for a moment, and he combed a hand through his hair. “I told you it would be dangerous,” he muttered.

Setting the bowl down on the bedside table, he bid me to sleep if I could. He was depleted from the effort of stitching me together, and trying to hide it, but his own face betrayed him. After he used magic, there were imperfections. Little tells. Shadows under his eyes, a strained line between his brows.

In the silken sheets of his bed, I allowed myself—willed myself—to rest, only to escape the agony of my body. I dreamt of sharp teeth and sharper minds that impaled me when I tried to enter them. I dreamt of Roland and the bear. Edward Guildford’s face above as I rose to consciousness, undulating with Miranda’s.

When I woke, I knew what I must do.

Eight

The Moon of memory. The Sun of soul.