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“The journey will be shorter this year, with only three nobles selected to host,” she continued. “None of them left the Citadel to get ready, instead leaving all the preparation to their summer staff. It’s a bit of a scandal.”
How easy Lore’s life would be, if all scandals in the Citadel were so banal.
Recalcitrant strand vanquished, Juliette took a jeweled pin from the vanity and slipped it into place. “The King was quite choosy with who he invited to accompany him this year, as well. All the hosts will be traveling with the progress, and only two other families were invited besides.” She shook her head. “The size of the court is certainly smaller these days.”
“With good reason,” Lore said.
“Well, yes, of course.” Juliette tugged on her hair again, then twisted her head back and forth in the mirror, admiring her handiwork. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have nearly enough time to make you look queenly every day.”
Lore choked on a laugh. The other woman smiled, fleetingly.
Footmen carried her trunks—yes, plural, there were three of them, which after nearly twenty-four years of owning perhaps five outfits in total seemed astronomical—painstakingly down the northeast turret stairs. Lore, Juliette, and three other maids whose names Lore hadn’t been told followed behind. Apparently, in addition to three whole trunks, Lore was also traveling with a retinue.
This should be expected, with future Queens. It still made her feel completely out of place, like she was the rock caught in the bottom of a particularly fine slipper, ruining what was otherwise a perfect picture.
In the foyer, Bastian and the others who’d been selected for summer progress milled about in bright colors. Tinkling laughter that somehow managed to be both polite and an obvious ploy for attention echoed down the halls, in the clear hope that some less fortunate courtier might pass by and see the chosen few. Lore recognized them all from various court functions, curtsies and bows and introductions.
Amelia and Hugh Demonde stood near Bastian, closest to the door. Bastian was saying something, his head bent low as if he didn’t want to be overheard. It looked like he was telling a joke; Hugh grinned, and Amelia’s eyes sparkled, the blue of them made even lovelier by the sky color of her traveling gown. Jealousy made Lore want to scowl, but she knew that was ridiculous, so she schooled her face into placidity. Tried to, anyway. She found herself thankful for her lack of a mirror, so she couldn’t examine the resulting expression and compare it with Amelia’s.
Across the room, Gabe stood at attention, his arms clasped behind his back, his Bleeding God’s Heart shining on his chest. He watched Amelia, too, Lore noticed. She wondered if he was also having to smooth jealousy from his expression at the way she blatantly flirted with Bastian.
Gabe’s eyes met hers. They stared at each other a moment, and her cheeks flushed, remembering the hallway. Remembering what he said, when she told him he had only himself to blame for the way things were between them.
Every fucking night, I do.
A breakfast service had been laid out on a long table, reminiscent of the way lunches were made available during summer days in the Citadel. She’d eaten the tart Bastian brought her this morning like a ravenous thing, but Lore’s stomach still growled.
Alie stood by the table; Lore went straight to her, grabbing a handful of blueberries. “I truly cannot tell you how thankful I am that you’re coming.”
“Couldn’t miss it,” Alie replied, in a voice that said she deeply wished she could miss it. She sighed around her cup of tea. “It makes sense for me to stay here. Talk to Caius and Maxon some more. But Bastian was very insistent that I accompany you.” She pulled a face. “It was strange. I asked him yesterday about skipping progress this year, and he all but ordered to me to attend. Then last night, right before you and I went to the holding cells, he showed up at my door. Said he was sorry, that he didn’t want to force me to go, but he wanted to make sure someone was around that could keep an eye on you.” One pale brow arched. “I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not going to be your nursemaid, and that you didn’t need one.”
“Staunchly agree, on both accounts,” Lore murmured. “So you should stay.”
“No.” Alie shook her head and chewed the corner of her lip. “No, I do feel like I should go.” She snorted. “Intuition, I guess. That’s what Bastian is calling all his whims now, right?”
Lore said nothing and nervously ate another blueberry.
A warm hand on her shoulder. Bastian leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, and plucked up a piece of cantaloupe. “Ready?” He smiled as he popped it in his mouth. “Time to go, beloved.”
Lore tried to smile as the party moved toward the doors in floating swaths of silk and chiffon, as parasols were opened against the blazing heat, as horses pawed at the ground before well-appointed carriages.
Bastian hated cantaloupe.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Empathy does not require friendship.
—Fabien Allier, Eroccan monk
Summer progress, it turned out, was virtually indistinguishable from business as usual at the Citadel. The only difference Lore could surmise was that now all the parties took place in different locations, and the travel between them was much more irritating.
Also irritating was the fact that being stuck in this hellish cycle of traveling and parties meant she had no time or resources to look for a solution to her and Bastian’s god problem. She hoped Gabe and Malcolm were still hitting the books back in the Citadel. Maybe she’d return to the issue solved. Shit, maybe they’d receive the debris tests back from Farramark, too, and have an answer for what had happened on the ship, a concrete reason either for imprisoning the Kirytheans or for letting them free.
One could dream.
The first progress stop was at the palatial estate of the Lord and Lady Leclaire, Maison de Lune. Lore was informed of the name by the intricate wrought-iron archway over the entry drive. The sharp-edged letters were woven through with woody vines dripping pale datura flowers.
“Seems overt,” Lore murmured as the carriage passed beneath the arch.
