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The rest of the dinner proceeded in stilted conversation, and it was all Lore could do not to heave a sigh of relief when the same bell that had gathered them all to dinner chimed again, this time to dismiss them into the ballroom. Bastian lingered by her chair until the other courtiers had gone, and only once they’d left did her spine lose its rigidity.
“Gods dead and dying,” she muttered.
“Quite.” Bastian held out his arm. “Not done yet, dearest.”
The song playing when they reentered the ballroom was a waltz, Lore thought, though everything sounded like a waltz to her, since it was the only dance she reliably knew the name of. The other courtiers swept immediately into the dance, swirls of glitter and lace skirts like night-opening blooms.
It reminded her of her first night in the Citadel, Gabe by her side, dressed as a foxglove. Next to her, Bastian had a similar preoccupied look on his face, and she wondered if he was thinking of him, too.
In the center of the room was a dais with two thrones, slightly elevated so whoever sat on them could easily observe the ball. Both chairs were silver, and both were tangled with what looked like dead vines.
“The florist must be upset that we haven’t engaged their services for Horse yet,” Lore said.
“That’s on purpose.” Bastian’s voice was steely.
She frowned. “Explain.”
Bastian gestured for her to step up first; hand on her waist, he followed behind, then gave her a wide-but-weary grin. “Demonstration number two.”
Oh.
Lore gnawed on the inside of her cheek as she examined the dead vines. Roses, what else? The thorns were sharp, woven into the silver lattice of the chair backs, woody and dry and dead as dead could be. At least it wasn’t hemlock, to really drive the point home.
She shook out her fingers, already feeling the curl of Mortem in the dead matter, sensing the gleam of Spiritum far beneath. “Are you going to tell them all to look? Play ringmaster?”
“Not necessary.” Bastian turned and situated himself behind her, his hips rustling the fabric of her skirt as he pressed close. “They never stop looking.”
There was no need to talk through the plan. Every time they did this, it felt more natural, more instinctual. Bastian held out his hands on either side of Lore, the same stance he’d taken at the farmlands. She placed her hands in his, knuckles-to-palm.
The world around them dimmed, faded into black and gray and gold.
It was so easy. Lore threading out the death, Bastian feeding the life, the strands of both powers cycling through them like tributaries on the way to the ocean. When the roses opened, the pall of channeling-space lifted, color bleeding in again.
“Perfect,” Bastian whispered. It didn’t sound like his voice, not right then. Too resonant, too low. But when Lore looked back at him, Bastian seemed fine. More than fine; he seemed ecstatic.
The roses were blood-colored, full as powder puffs. There was silence for just a moment, but then someone started polite applause.
Bastian took her hand, turning her around on the dais. He held out his arms like a showman, laughing. Lore tried to do anything but grimace.
Across the room, in the corner, Caius stood. He raised his wineglass, eyes glittering, though he didn’t join in the applause.
CHAPTER NINE
Never let those you love be parted from you, as I never allowed them to be parted from Me.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 1347
In a move that both surprised her and made her give thanks to all gods dead and dying, Bastian didn’t make her dance. When Lore asked about it, he gave her one raised brow. “We are trying to look intimidating.”
She swatted his leg.
So instead of dancing, they spent the ball seated on their rose-festooned dais, sipping wine and people-watching. Bastian was very good at catching every minor embarrassment of his court, lightly tapping Lore’s thigh and jerking his chin to tell her where to look. She saw at least three hissed arguments, four stomped toes, and one attempt at a grope in the corner by two very drunk noblemen who stumbled out of the room before things got too debauched.
Lore also saw Alie talking to Caius.
Her hand on Bastian’s leg wasn’t playful, this time. She gripped his thigh, cold fear pouring down her nerve endings. “We have to go over there.”
Bastian followed her eyeline and frowned, but didn’t spin into Lore’s panic. “There’s no need. Alie has things well in hand.”
