Page 33 of The Court of Venus

I scoffed, shaking my head.

“It’s all my councilors speak of. And her brother, her father, and Planets know what other men. I try and make her nights more pleasant for her. I alter his appearance and cover his stench, and even then, it is difficult. I believe there is another way.”

“Prospero’s research. Exaltation.”

“Precisely. You guessed it two nights ago, in the library. If Prospero was so consumed by it, he must have believed he could give the king what he wants most. A new son.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked quietly.

“Because I want something, and you want something. We call such an opportune arrangement a trade. When I saw you compete in the tournament, I realized how incredibly useful your talents are.”

“I’ve already agreed to tell you what the Guildfords say.”

“I have something more pressing in mind.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, nodding for him to continue.

“You will become Prospero and speak to the king,” Roland said, drawing a finger first through the water, then along the soaked linen lying across his abdomen. “He is unstable, mad—this will be just another bout for him. A vision. He’ll believe you to be a ghost come to visit him. And as Prospero, you’ll discuss your research. Specifically, what you were researching before your death.”

Prospero’s name had once been revered—now, it was scarcely even whispered. He had waited, like every other prisoner, to be led up the winding staircase of the Archimago Tomb. There may have been a final glimpse of Jupiter somewhere above, a final prayer, before his head was slammed onto the scaffold and snow buried his body.

I saw Roland with snow in his hair, too, the flakes clinging to his long eyelashes. “Now tell me what you want in return,” he pressed.

A formality. He already knew. “Help me investigate Hal’s death.”

“Agreed.”

I felt it in the air between us: the shared loss, that feeling of tripping internally once we remembered all those who were gone. Each day we dressed and ate, and they were dead. Hal. Prospero. The women who had strayed too close to King Richard. The court of our childhood that no longer existed.

He extended his hand for me to shake. Our palms touched, his wet and cold, mine dry and even colder. Our eyes locked. He scooped up the fabric resting on the water and draped it over his body as he stood, beads running down his chest, down the slant of his hips. “Would you?” He inclined his head toward another white nightshirt folded on a chair. I tossed it to him.

He splashed me as he leapt from the bath. I heard the rustling of fabric, the patter of droplets hitting the floor as he settled by the fire. “Well, this has been rather productive, hasn’t it?”

I glanced out the window: nearly light. Morning mist hovering over the gardens, the Moon fainter than before. The Guildfords would be meeting soon, so I had to be quick. Roland had turned away from me; all I could see was the sharp blade of his cheekbone. “Hal would have wanted this,” he said softly. “Us working together, for his father.”

“He would have never thought it possible.”

For a moment, we watched the fire spark. Neither of us spoke. Our minds somewhere else, maneuvering pieces around a board.

He didn’t object when I wore Edward’s face again, promising to tell him whatever I learned in the Guildford meeting. In the afternoon, we decided, I would become Prospero.

“And Bianca?” he called, just as my hand touched the door. “Welcome to my court.”

Charles Guildford’s note was a cryptogram. Most likely, a Mercury designed the cipher for the family long ago. It would take hours trying to decode it by hand, hours I didn’t have after spending the night with Roland. And when I searched the palace for any tread of Guildford minds, for the unique tint of their emotions, there was nothing.

They wouldn’t gather in the same place twice. They were too smart for that. What animals had the best hearing, the best nose? If I could get my hands on a Guildford shirt, I could follow the scent trail. The borrowed livery I wore now was freshly laundered and smelled only of soap.

I tripped over my feet in Edward’s lanky, unfamiliar body. Deeper into the labyrinth of apartments, I tried door after door. Most refused me.

Another groom stood self-important and glum beside an archway. I didn’t know his name, but we were familiar from the way he acknowledged me. He was younger than Edward, maybe sixteen or seventeen, his livery stitched with the Guildford griffin badge.

I dipped my head, hoping the slump of my shoulders would make me appear drunk from the festivities. “I’ve got to get into Lord Charles’s rooms. My uncle, he needs his—”

“Shall I fetch it for you?” The boy sounded eager.

“No need.” I tugged on my smile so it would appear half-crazed with drink.

The boy peered up at me. “Are you all right, Ed?”