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“Conrad,” I said, sucking in a breath, “why do you have this? It’s not supposed to be—”
“It’s important,” he said insistently. “Just keep it with you. I mean it.” His eyes, when they met mine, were grave.
I palmed the knife, quickly tucking it in the pocket of my dress. “You know I can’t use it. Why . . . ?”
“Just do it,” Conrad said. “I have to be getting back before they start wondering where I am—Stars, they’ve been watching me like hawks. Keep it with you,” he said again before hurrying back the way he came, toward the manor. “You’re going to need it.”
* * *
The Empyrea was usually depicted as a white winged horse, but the Stella’s slate roof, white walls, and red doors were designed to honor the Goddess’s human beauty as described by King Theobald: hair black as night, lips the color of a blood-red rose, and skin white as fresh-fallen snow. The gaudy, gilded halls of the Tribunal’s Grand Basilica were lined with depictions of angry angels and paintings of vengeful spirits; the Stella, in its simplicity, was its complete opposite. It was almost peaceful.
Inside, the hall was cavernous and quiet, filled with white light from tall windows. A balustraded balcony circled the marble aisle of the nave, which was lined on each side by mahogany pews. A berobed figure was bent over the lectern next to the altar, where a floral crown waited atop a velvet pillow. With the real crown jewels locked away by the Tribunal, the Stella’s monks had created a stand-in headpiece made of symbolic plants: leaves of olive and laurel entwined with late-blooming hawthorn blossoms.
Behind the altar sat the heavy golden chair that would act as the throne to which the king would ascend. Less ornate chairs flanked it on either side: seats for Conrad’s regent, Fredrick Greythorne, and his wife, Elisa. Plus another for Conrad’s chosen captain, Kellan.
I wasn’t sure if I was sad or thankful that there was no chair on the dais meant for me.
My heels clicked on the tile and reverberated through the airy rafters. The man at the lectern looked up with a start. “Oh, hello, child,” Father Cesare said, hurriedly attempting to hide a tall bottle behind an altar cloth. “Reviewing the script again. Just trying to keep my lines fresh in my mind,” he said.
“Why, Father, are you nervous?”
He wiped a bit of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “A little,” he confessed. “I’ve been giving sermons here for near on three decades. But I’ve never had so many gentlefolk in attendance to watch, nor ever presided over a ceremony as . . . auspicious . . . as this one.”
I eyed the bottle he had attempted to hide. “No doubt the Canary’s wine will help you through it,” I said, smiling. “Is that sombersweet?”
“Jessamine sold it to me,” he said. “Bought five bottles for the Day of Shades. It’s very good, though. Not sure it’s going to make it that long.”
“Be careful with it,” I warned. “It has some unfortunate side effects.”
He laughed and closed the book on the lectern. “I am very glad you decided to come, my lady. When we spoke last night, I felt sure you intended to stay away from the celebration.”
“When we spoke last night, I did intend to stay away.”
“The young lord Greythorne can be persuasive, I’ll admit.”
“Stubborn, you mean.”
“Yes, that too.”
I smiled. “Kellan said you had a book to show me. I assume you found something that might help me decipher Simon’s . . . gift?”
“Yes, yes. It is in my study. This way, if you please.” I followed him into the north transept hall, past the iron-grate door demarcating the end of the sanctorium’s public space and the entrance into the private living areas belonging to the Ursonian monks, then through a side room that was empty save for four simple cots lined up in a row.
Over his shoulder, Cesare said, “The young lord Greythorne was here when I got in this morning. I think he must have slept on one of the pews.”
“That was my fault. He let me take his room. He should ha
ve stayed in there with me, but he’s too genteel for his own good.”
“Well, he could have taken my cot. I had intended to return last night, but Delphinia kept me very late and then convinced me to stay. Thought it best to rest at the Canary and get a fresh start this morning. She has an insatiable thirst—”
I put up a hand. “Please, you don’t have to describe—”
“—?for knowledge,” he finished. Then he gave a good-humored shrug. “And other things, too, of course. But in those matters, I must confess, I am more student than teacher.”
On the other side of the bunk room was the door to the library and study. Sheaves of paper and ink-stained quills littered every surface not occupied by stacks of books. And books were everywhere—lining the shelves, piled into waist-high towers, wedged into every corner.
I walked past the bookshelves, observing the titles in turn. “So where is this book you told Kellan about?”
