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She flushed, her scowl deepening. “The… unexpected guests, for two.”
None of the maids fluttering around her seemed fazed at her wording, so maybe whatever rumors the farmers had started weren’t yet in the Citadel.
“You think they’re invited?”
“Are they not?”
Bastian grinned. “Of course they are. Give it another twirl, it’s still not lying right at the bottom.”
Lore gritted her teeth and spun again.
A ball and dinner immediately following the coronation of a new King was customary in Auverraine, but the reality of the thing hadn’t struck Lore until she was hustled up to her room by the same Presque Mort who’d guarded her during the ceremony. When she got there, Juliette and a cadre of other handmaids waited with a truly gigantic white ball gown.
It was, without quarter, the finest thing Lore had ever worn. Even finer than the black gown from the eclipse ritual, before that unfortunate stab wound had soaked it in her blood. This dress was similarly simple, a tight bodice that hugged her from breast to hip before flaring out into layers of nearly translucent chiffon, only made opaque by sheer volume. Puffed sleeves of the same chiffon began just under the jut of her shoulders, leaving them bare, and gathered at her elbow. It felt like wearing her own personal cloud.
But even a perfect cloud-dress wasn’t enough to distract her from the feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong at this damn ball. Even if she couldn’t manage to convince Bastian.
“We have plenty of room for the unexpected guests,” Bastian said, voice smooth. “And don’t worry over my safety. Leave that to Remaut, if he’s so inclined. I can’t imagine that’s truly his problem, though. He’d probably be thrilled to see me assassinated.”
Juliette’s lips tightened, but she pretended not to hear. Fantastic. Another rumor for the mill.
Lore narrowed her eyes at Bastian as she embarked on yet another slow twirl. “That’s not true, and you know it.”
Her twirl apparently brought to light some new minor imperfection, and Juliette waved a hand for her to stop. A pause, a plied needle, and the invisible problem was vanquished. Lore met Bastian’s gaze in the mirror. “I know it’s tradition, but a ball right now seems ill advised.”
“Thankfully,” Bastian said, “I’m not asking your advice. I’m the King, I want a ball, so we’re having one.”
Heat flushed Lore’s chest. She wanted to fight with him, but knew doing so in a room full of lady’s maids was as ill-advised as this fucking ball.
Juliette made another minuscule adjustment to Lore’s skirt and fluffed it out, as if there wasn’t a half argument between the King and his deathwitch happening over her head. “I think it’s as good as it’s going to get, Your Majesty.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement.
“Good.” Bastian nodded, jerking his chin toward Lore’s dressing table. “Hair.”
Juliette bustled her over, and Lore’s skirt rose around her like the foam on a wave as she sat down. “Is there a reason you’re involved in me getting ready?” Lore asked as a comb was jerked through her tangles. The curls of this morning were now hopelessly flat, her hair once again just a mass of plain gold-brown waves.
She expected some pithy rejoinder, but instead the Sainted King sighed. He stood up, crossed over to where she was seated in front of the smaller mirror. Juliette waved a hand again—in a manner that seemed much gentler than when she waved at Lore—and the maids backed away, graceful as a school of fish parting for a prow.
Bastian braced himself on the back of Lore’s chair, leaning over her slightly. His eyes met hers in the mirror.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Lore raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry that you’re caught up in all this royalty bullshit.” He looked exhausted. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping like he should, nerves keeping him awake like they did her. “Balls and coronations and… and all of it. I know it’s not what you wanted, but I have to keep you near me. Keep you safe.”
She frowned into the mirror, suddenly stricken with the desire to reach up and cup his cheek, try to soothe away the worried lines across his brow. The flash of anger she’d felt disappeared, easy as dew in morning heat. “That’s not your job, Bastian.”
“It is.” Matter-of-fact, no room for arguing. “And it’s what you want. You can’t lie to me.”
Her lips closed tight. It was what she wanted, and she hated that. Lore had taken care of herself for twenty-four years, and her most secret longing was not having to anymore. It was a large part of why she didn’t fight with him, why she let him lead. Because he knew the Citadel better than her, yes, but also because it was so nice to be taken care of.
Even if she hated herself for it, just a little.
Behind her, Bastian was lit in lavender light from the falling evening, the moon a sickle sketch above him in the window.
“So let me do it,” he said, barely a whisper, so even the maids behind them couldn’t hear. “Trust me, Lore.”
