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Gabe’s jaw was a straight line of hard-won restraint. “There were extenuating circumstances,” he said stiffly. “I was sent back to Balgia, I didn’t choose to go.”
That didn’t seem to deter Bellegarde. “And when Anton brought you back, you still did nothing to call off the betrothal, leaving it to our house to correct the paperwork—”
“He was ten.” Lore straightened, trapped between the two of them on the stairs, glaring at Bellegarde with every bit of her considerable contempt. “He was a child.”
She stood close enough to smell his aftershave, but Bellegarde looked at her like he’d forgotten she was there. “And now this,” he said with a humorless chuckle, mirroring all that contempt right back. “Leaving the defense of your honor to a country cousin I wasn’t even aware existed. Truly, Gabriel, bravo.”
Lore’s fingers tightened to a fist. Gabe’s hand clapped around it like a shackle. “Is there something you wanted, Severin?” He should’ve sounded angry, but Gabe just sounded tired. “It’s late, and I assume if you were coming up the southeast turret, you had a particular item you wanted to discuss with me. Your seasonal accommodations are no doubt somewhere more fashionable, and I doubt you’d lower yourself to speaking to anyone else relegated to the far corners of the Citadel.”
Lore glanced at Gabe from the corner of her eye, but the monk didn’t look suspicious. It seemed as though it was perfectly in character for Severin Bellegarde to come to one’s room for the sole purpose of an upbraiding at nearly midnight.
Nearly midnight. Bleeding God in a bandage, they had to go.
Bellegarde’s face gave away nothing, but his hand twitched by his side. Lore looked down just as the man crumpled what looked like a small piece of paper into his palm.
“I merely wanted to welcome you back to court, Gabriel.” There was nothing like welcome in Bellegarde’s tone. “You and your… cousin.”
“Rather late for a social call,” Lore said.
But Bellegarde just shrugged. “The hours kept in the Court of the Citadel are not the hours kept outside. And while I wanted to be polite, I admit that calling on you came dead last on my list of daily priorities.”
Gabe heaved a weary sigh. “Thank you for the welcome, my lord. I regret to tell you that my cousin and I are running late—”
“Yes, I gathered when I interrupted your mad sprint down the stairs.” Bellegarde narrowed his eyes at Lore’s dressing gown. “Where might you be going with your cousin half dressed?”
“A party, of course.” Lore answered before Gabe could try, mostly because she saw the panicked look on his face that said he was completely at a loss. “One I don’t plan to return from until at least dawn. Might as well be comfortable.”
Bellegarde raised an eyebrow. “It appears you fit into the court just fine.”
That, apparently, was his goodbye. After an awkward moment of maneuvering, Bellegarde passed them on the stairs, continuing up as Lore and Gabe climbed down. Lore frowned after him. So he was doing something other than trying to find Gabe. That, or the idea of walking all the way to the main floor in their company was not a pleasant one.
The feeling was very mutual.
Right before Bellegarde took a turn of the stairs that would take him out of sight, he looked down at her again. His mouth flattened, and his hand curled into a tighter fist by his side. The hand holding that small piece of paper.
Neither she nor Gabe spoke until they reached the bottom of the servants’ staircase, emerging into the scarlet-carpeted corridor that marked the first floor of the turret, branching off the Citadel’s front hall.
“What a horrible man,” Lore muttered, starting down the corridor with more stomp in her step than before. “What a vicious, small little man.”
“Don’t think too ill of him.”
Lore’s eyebrows shot high.
“Bellegarde has no love for the Presque Mort. He thinks that channeling Mortem is an unforgivable sin, that there must be another solution to the problem and we should wait for Apollius to show us what it is.” Gabe shrugged, following her down the hall at a quick pace with significantly less stomp than her own. “If I’d taken a prison sentence instead of Mort vows, he’d have no problem with me. Or less of one, at least. Honestly, he probably would’ve preferred if I’d just died from my wounds in the first place. Then dissolving my betrothal would’ve been less paperwork.”
Lore’s scowl deepened. “And yet I saw him in the North Sanctuary this morning. Which makes him not only small and vicious, but also a hypocrite. I will continue to think very ill of him, thank you.”
“For all his issues with the Church, he’d never miss prayers,” Gabe said. “That would be an insult to Apollius.” They reached the wide, shallow staircase at the end of the hall and went quickly down, booted feet making little noise on the thick carpet, their voices dropped to just above whispers. “Bellegarde doesn’t like that the Church is separate from the crown, doesn’t like that they’re two different entities instead of one governing body. He thinks the Church should be under the King’s rule, since he’s Apollius’s chosen.”
“A theocrat. Delightful.” Lore rolled her eyes. “I can’t imagine that makes him and Anton the best of friends.”
“They mostly just avoid each other.” Clearly just talking about someone disagreeing with Anton made Gabe uncomfortable; he didn’t look at her, and shifted his shoulders. “Bellegarde and his ilk are few, and more interested in looking like they smelled a fresh pile of shit than actually trying to change anything. Their identity is in being upset; if they actually got what they claim to want, I don’t think they’d know what to do with themselves.”
“Does Alie share his views?” Lore fervently hoped not.
“Not at all.” Gabe shook his head. “Truth be told, I don’t think Alie spends much time pondering religion or politics.”
“What a life to lead,” Lore said wistfully.
