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The gate was unlocked, then pushed open by the footman and the Presque Mort. As they went back to their mounts, out of breath, Bastian rode through into Courdigne, not waiting on the rest of the party.
Alie frowned through the window after him. “Seems Bastian is in a hurry.”
Lore didn’t say anything, keeping her eyes on the sky as it faded from blue to lavender, twilight chasing the sun’s downward arc. Her shoulders tensed as the dark fell, expecting another missive from the goddess that had taken up residence in her mind, but She was silent.
A hup from the footman, now reinstalled at the reins, and the carriage rolled forward through the gate and into Courdigne.
Alie pulled the curtain back over her window, staring straight ahead. Her dark-green eyes were wide, her breath coming in deliberate pulls in through her nose, out through her mouth.
Lore stretched out her hand, settled it over her friend’s. “It will be fine.”
The other woman’s eyes fluttered closed, a rueful snort taking the place of all those careful breaths. “Seeing him is never fine,” she said quietly. “But it has to be done.”
She opened the carriage door and stepped out into the encroaching twilight.
Unease spiraled in Lore’s middle, laddering up her ribs. She leaned her head back against the velvet seat and took her own deep breath, then opened the door.
The footman waited beyond it, one hand outstretched, his eyes looking anywhere but at her. It almost made her laugh. Deathwitch and future Queen. She must be terrifying.
“How was the trip?”
Bastian, appearing at her side. She expected a limp from being sat in the saddle so long, but he stood tall despite the bags under his dark eyes. His hand rested briefly on her shoulder, then fell.
“Fine,” she answered. But he was staring off into the hazy horizon instead of looking at her, watching the night close in, and she knew he’d only asked to be polite.
The distance between them shrank and expanded like a tide.
“Good.” He turned his eyes from the darkening sky back to her. “I wanted to give you and Alie time to talk. I know things have been…” He trailed off, his mouth cramping to the side, as if someone had twisted his throat to change the words waiting in it. “Difficult,” he settled on quietly.
“It was nice,” Lore responded when it became clear Bastian was done speaking. “Nice for us to… to talk.”
He nodded, something unreadable flashing across his face before he turned toward the manor, offered out his arm. “Good.”
Lore took it and let him lead her silently to the door of Courdigne.
The manor couldn’t be called beautiful. Imposing was a better descriptor. Black spires pointed accusingly upward from the four corners, an imitation of the Citadel’s construction. The arched windows were few and far between, indicating that the inside of the manor house would be just as dark as the outside. The door was arched, too, and crowned with bronze fashioned into a spiking pattern that crawled over nearly the entire front of the house.
It took Lore a moment to recognize that it was supposed to be sun rays. They looked sickly, twisted. A hobbled sun, crushed into a shape that was technically correct but seemed somehow wrong.
Alie waited by the door already, her packed trunk by her feet, her arms crossed and her fingers tapping a nervous tattoo on her travel-wrinkled sleeve. Lore didn’t know if the bell had already been rung, or the door knocked, or whatever it was you were supposed to do to signal that a royal traveling party had arrived. She shifted from foot to foot, watching shadows grow longer over the ground.
Next to her, Bastian stood tall, with the kind of stiffness that spoke of supreme effort. As if he’d topple over with the slightest gust of wind.
The door opened, finally, with a creak as if the hinges were decades from their last oiling. Lore expected a butler or another footman, but Bellegarde himself stood on the opposite side of the door, ghostly in the dim light.
“Well,” he said after a moment, in his haughty voice. “I would say this is unexpected, but I suppose it shouldn’t be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There are two stages to truth. When you first know it, and when you finally speak it aloud to another.
—Alia Meroux, Auverrani poet
That was all the greeting they got. Bellegarde stood aside, nearly hiding himself behind the door. Bastian and Lore entered first, wordless. Bellegarde barely acknowledged Lore but gave Bastian a deep bow.
“Stop,” Bastian said, his voice hoarse.
Bellegarde did, his back at an angle. He didn’t raise his head, but he did lift his eyes, narrowed in the gloom as he watched his King. They darted from side to side, searching Bastian’s face, and came away disappointed.
