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They swayed in silence for a moment, the air between them filled with violins and the scent of spilled champagne.
“I suppose the fact that Gabe joined the Presque Mort was fortunate for you.” Bastian’s eyes were so dark a brown as to almost be black, and lit with prying curiosity. “As it was your ticket into the Court of the Citadel. I can’t imagine the third cousin of a disgraced duke being invited for the season if said disgraced duke hadn’t become the Priest Exalted’s pet project.”
He said it with a purposeful sort of condescension, like he was trying to bait her into disagreeing, and as if that disagreement would give something away.
She gave a closed-lip smile. “I would’ve found a way in,” she answered.
A country cousin hungry for power and placement, eager to be here. It was as far from what Lore felt as possible, but she could play the part.
Bastian stared at her a moment, inscrutable beneath his mask. Then he laughed, spinning her around again.
Gabriel still stood with Alienor at the edge of the ballroom. The two of them spoke with their heads bowed toward each other to hear, but his eye, bright with nerves, kept straying to find Lore and Bastian.
She was better prepared when Bastian spun her out this time. And when everyone stomped their right foot to the beat, Lore was perfectly in sync.
Bastian grinned. “A fast learner, are we?”
“I’m certainly trying to be.”
They came together again; Bastian slipped a hand around her waist, and she did the same as they circled each other, a movement that would’ve looked predatory without the softness dancing brought it. “That dress suits you,” Bastian said, not trying to hide the turn of his eyes up and down her form. “I didn’t get a very good look at you during the Consecration—or yesterday morning in the gardens, occupied as I was—but I thought it might.”
So he did recognize her from the gardens. Lore gave him a self-deprecating smile. “That was you? How embarrassing. My belongings didn’t arrive on time, so I had to borrow a dress from the Church’s donations.”
Hands left waists, came to face height and hovered within an inch of each other, palms flat as Lore orbited around him. “How fortunate,” Bastian murmured, “to have such a close contact in the Church.”
The dance ended. Around them, other couples were in a pose with their right hands together and the other curved above their heads, but Bastian and Lore still stood with their palms facing between them, almost touching but not quite.
“I look forward to having you around, Lore.” His voice was low, breath brushing her temple as he leaned forward to speak into her ear. “It certainly has the potential to be interesting.”
“Do you think so, Your Highness?”
He was close enough that she felt the brush of his lips curving. “I know so.”
Across the room, Alie watched them, giggling behind her hand. Next to her, Gabe caught Lore’s eye, arched a sardonic brow. She tried to make a face that communicated what else am I supposed to do? but mostly just succeeded in looking nauseous.
Bastian stepped back. He reached into his coat, and for a wild moment, Lore thought he was going to pull out a dagger or one of those tiny pistols, prove himself the Kirythean informant his father thought he was by taking care of her right here in the middle of his own party. The courtiers would probably love it. They’d all bring in peasants to murder at their own balls; it’d be the next big trend in masquerade hosting.
But all Bastian pulled from his coat was a pressed flower, a line of pale-purple blooms on a green stem.
“A foxglove for a foxglove.” Bastian handed it to her with a bow and a flourish. “Beautiful and poisonous. Much like yourself, if I may be so bold as to make an assessment after our brief acquaintance.”
Gingerly, Lore took the bloom. The dry petals crunched slightly between her fingers.
“Until next time, Lore.” Bastian turned and walked away, a drop of ink in a sea of color.
Lore closed the door to the apartments behind her and leaned back against it. “I suppose that went about as well as it could.”
“You performed your assignment admirably,” Gabriel said, sitting down on the couch with a long sigh.
“It seems ingratiating myself with Bastian won’t be the hard part.” Lore pulled off her mask and let it drop. “Getting any kind of information out of him will be. He’s not going to tell me he’s a traitor just because he thinks I’m pretty; he’s smarter than his father or his uncle gives him credit for.”
Gabe snorted.
Lore toed off the heeled slippers that had come with her costume, pale purple and embroidered with serrated leaves. Foxglove leaves. The dried bloom Bastian had given her was still in her palm. If she’d been found with something like this on the streets of Dellaire, it’d be at least three days in the Northwest Ward stocks if it was a first offense, and a ticket to the Burnt Isles if it wasn’t. But here, in this gilded palace full of money and excess, it was a prince’s idle gift.
She thought of the courtiers in the corner with their belladonna tea, physicians on call and no reason to worry. Her fist closed, crushing the flower into pastel dust. She brushed it from her hands and let it fall to the floor with her mask.
Feeling coming back into her feet now that her slippers were off, Lore walked over to Gabe and stood in front of him, gesturing to the buttons down her back. “Help me out here, I can’t reach.”
