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Lore only allowed herself one moment of pressing into the green to close her eyes and clench her teeth and try very, very hard not to sob.
So when she heard the sob, soft and muffled, at first she thought it was her own escaping.
She held her breath. The sob came again.
Slashes of pink and red crisscrossed Lore’s arms from the leaves of the hedge maze, stinging as she extracted herself. She’d barely noticed before, too focused on fleeing from Bastian, on getting somewhere private where she could fight back an imminent breakdown. Now a curse hissed through her teeth as she turned around in the middle of the maze, trying to pinpoint where that crying was coming from.
Laughter. A sigh. A flicker of pink tulle as someone ran around the corner. Then a hiccuping breath, on the other side of the hedge.
Lore started forward.
A few twists of the maze brought her to another corner like the one she’d taken refuge in, though this one had a bench settled into the three walls of close greenery. Someone sat on it, their back to Lore. Someone with long golden hair and a circlet of roses.
Amelia.
She should leave. Lore was certain she was the last person a crying Amelia wanted to see. But before she could melt back into the maze, the other woman turned around, her face as red as her roses.
“You.” But it didn’t sound vicious. It sounded weary.
For a moment, Lore just stood there, caught in Amelia’s blue gaze, shifting back and forth in her muddy slippers. “Are you…”
“No.” Amelia snorted, a surprisingly un-lady-like sound from such a poised woman. “No, I’m not.”
A moment’s decision, and Lore walked over to the bench, sitting gingerly beside her. “Me, either.”
Silence, but a disconcertingly comforting kind. This wasn’t like that night Lore had seen her in the atrium, when Amelia had been full of righteous anger. That had bled out, somewhere along the way. Now they were just two people who barely knew each other. Sitting together was, in a way, like being alone.
“I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” Amelia said finally.
“Not particularly,” Lore answered. She risked a glance at the other woman. “What’s gone wrong? Was the punch not mixed properly? The foxgloves didn’t bloom to their full potential?”
“Gods, you’ll be an awful Arceneaux Queen.” Amelia ran her wrist beneath her nose, another un-lady-like gesture that Lore was sure she’d never make in the company of another. And it felt like that when she spoke again, too, like Lore was something inanimate, beneath her notice. A substitute for talking to herself. “It’s all fucked, now.”
Lore traced the scratches from the hedge on her hands, so like the scars Lady Leclaire hid beneath her gloves. “I know the feeling.”
They sat in silence, neither requiring explanation from the other. Lore assumed something had gone wrong with the party, or Amelia had fought with Hugh, or she was still upset that Lore had usurped a place meant for someone of her social stratum. But misery loved company, and sitting here with someone who was miserable over mundane, understandable things made her feel marginally less lonely.
After a while, when Lore started to worry that she might be missed, she stood up. Her legs were stiff from sitting on the hard stone. She didn’t say goodbye to Amelia as she left, picking her way back through the maze.
Amelia stayed where she was, staring into the greenery, her rose crown askew on her head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Trust that your god knows all.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 457
Lore wanted to sleep late the next morning—Nyxara had been uncharacteristically quiet, and she hadn’t been plagued with dreams the entire summer progress, she wanted to enjoy it—but Juliette flung open the curtains barely past dawn.
“Up,” she commanded, passing Lore a cup of bitter coffee, no sugar to be seen. “The King wishes to be on the road in an hour.”
Finally, it was over, and they could go back to the Citadel. Back to the library, and hopefully to answers. Lore sipped the coffee, pulled a face, placed it on the table never to be touched again. “He’s in a rush to get home.”
“Not home.” Juliette seemed troubled as she bustled over to Lore’s trunk. “At least, not for you two. You’re going to Courdigne.”
Another impromptu stop. Fantastic. “What’s in Courdigne?”
Juliette looked back at her, her arms full of a gauzy blue traveling dress. “Courdigne is the estate where Severin Bellegarde is serving his house arrest.”
