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She didn’t, either.
An hour later, when Lore was dressed and coiffed, a knock came on the door. Alie stood on the other side, in a sky-blue dress with cap sleeves made of cerulean feathers. “I thought you might want company on the walk to the observation tower.”
Lore did. With a final approving look from Juliette, she hooked her arm through Alie’s and let the other woman lead her down the hall. Bastian was nowhere to be seen; Lore assumed he was at the party already. Maybe she could talk to him there.
Careful, the voice in her head warned.
“Any idea why the sudden change in party plans?” Lore said as she and Alie crossed the hall, mounted a set of stairs at the end.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Leclaire announced that the theme was changing soon after everyone was shown to their rooms. Said it was by special request.” She grimaced, scratching at her feathery sleeve. “I suppose I should be grateful. My costume was a bluebird, and the headpiece itched like every hell.”
Lore thought of that lost look Bastian had given her as she left the foyer. He’d orchestrated this, she was certain. She only heard Nyxara at night; maybe he only heard Apollius during the day. Maybe he was trying to give them an opportunity to speak without the god listening. Trying to seize the chance to act as King while he was the only one in his mind.
“I have no idea why he’d change the theme,” Lore said, the lie coming easy. “I can’t say I’m upset, though. I’m over masquerades.”
Alie huffed an agreement.
When they reached the observation tower, Alie drifted away, going to greet Lady Leclaire and the other ladies traveling with them. Everyone wore a gown that was clearly supposed to be part of a costume, subtly altered. Alie motioned Lore over, but Lore waved her off, looking for Bastian.
There he was, by the long table holding flutes of champagne, talking to Leclaire. He looked different—tired, again, his face wan, despite the smile he gave his nobles. One of his hands was bound in bandages.
Lore rushed over. “Bastian? What happened to your hand?”
She expected him to be eager, to pull away immediately. He’d planned this, surely, trying to give them time. But instead Bastian looked at her and held up a finger. Telling her to wait.
And she did, too taken aback to react any other way.
The nobles finished their conversation—something inane, mentions of weather and gardening, Lore wasn’t listening over the nervous roar in her ears—and then left, heading to the telescopes arranged around the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, pointed at the sky. Half-moon tonight.
“And again, Your Majesty,” Leclaire said, nervously turning his glass in his hand. “Please don’t worry about the window. We can have it fixed in no time.” He chuckled. “Truth be told, I’ve wanted to put my own fist through the glass more than once. I hope whatever angered you so has been resolved, and if there’s anything I can do…”
“No need, Vincent.” Bastian drained his flute as he pulled his bandaged hand closer to his chest. “The matter is closed.”
Vincent nodded gratefully and walked away.
Finally, Bastian faced her. He put down his empty champagne flute, picked up another. There was a slight tremble in his fingers.
Some of her anger seeped away. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” His hand twitched, as if he might hide it behind his back like a caught child. “Like I said, it’s taken care of.”
“So you’re coping with your anger by punching windows now? Mature of you.” But even as her voice came cutting, worry tightened its hold. “It’s past midnight; we don’t have much time. We need to talk about—”
“Lore.” His voice was pained. “We can’t.”
Her mouth hung open, the rest of her sentence poised on her tongue, words tangling with the conversation’s new direction. “What do you—Bastian, I know you changed this on purpose—”
He stepped close, like he might kiss her, their bodies pressing together and turning so her back touched the chill glass of the window. To anyone looking, it would be the start of an embrace, expected between the King and his betrothed. But there was no lust in his expression, only longing as his bandaged fingers touched her lips, bidding them closed. “I tried,” he said quietly. “I tried, and He punished me. He hears everything, even when I’m the one in control.” His eyes, so deep a brown now they were nearly black, looked pleadingly down at her. “I’ll keep trying, but you have to give me time.”
Then he left, weaving through the party, leaving Lore standing by the cold window with the moon hanging over her head.
I guess You were right, she thought at Nyxara.
The goddess was silent.
Lore didn’t try to ask Bastian about the voices again. Not when they left the Maison de Lune the next morning, everyone exhausted and hungover from the night before. Not when they reached the home of the Viscount Allairs, without a fanciful name over the door, and not when they had to endure the costume ball they’d previously avoided at the Leclaires’. This time, Lore was dressed as a night sky, in a midnight-colored gown dotted with stars. Bastian was dressed as the day, his doublet a soft blue with golden thread.
“You look lovely,” he said, slightly strained, as they walked into the ballroom arm in arm.
