Page 111

Then he was gone, disappearing into the dark. Her door opened, his body blocking the sliver of light, then closed again.

Lore leaned back against the window and let the cold seep down to her bones.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Hold tight the rein of your body, for it will lead you into ruin.

—The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 67

She woke late the next morning, achy and tired, her eyes gummed with sleep. Last night felt like a dream, and she might’ve convinced herself it was, were it not for the slight bruise on her shoulder. A place where Gabe’s control slipped, lavender proof of near-sin.

Lore scowled at it and hiked up her nightgown. His control had won out, in the end. And as frustrating as it had been in the moment, part of her was glad for it now. Daylight through the windows chased out idle fantasies, limned everything stark and real and simple.

Things were complicated enough without all that.

Embarrassment made her middle a writhing knot, but Lore kept her chin high as she pushed open her door. Gabe would act like nothing happened; she’d let him. It was easier.

But when the sitting room lay before her, it was empty. Gabe’s nest had been reassembled into carefully folded blankets and left on the corner of the couch.

He’d left before she got up, then. Good. Simple, easy.

Gods-dead-and-dying-damned easy.

A breakfast tray gleamed on the table behind the couch. A note was stuck under the tray’s lip, short words in a familiar elegant hand.

Last night made me hungry. I assume it did the same for you. Rest up. —Bastian

He surely hadn’t delivered breakfast himself, so the double entendre of the note must’ve been for the benefit of possible prying eyes. Lore’s lips twisted. The whole Citadel thought she was sleeping with the Sun Prince already; might as well lean into it.

Especially if they were going to be traveling to the stone garden tonight on their own. A lovers’ tryst would be a convenient excuse if they were caught.

Thoughts of lovers and the stone garden naturally led to Gabe. Lore opened the tray with a clang and set to the fruit and pastries inside, staunchly refusing to think of him, to think of last night and what they’d almost done. What it might mean.

Nothing, she told herself, shoving a cherry tart between her teeth. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

When the tray was nearly empty and she’d poured herself a cup of coffee to wash it down, Lore sat on the couch with a sigh. Rest up, Bastian’s note said, and she took it as code for stay in your room. Probably a good idea. If she kept far from courtiers, there was little chance she’d be questioned by Bellegarde or anyone else who might have some connection to the bodies in the catacombs.

She’d have to raise one of those bodies tonight. The back of her neck prickled at the thought.

At least now she knew what to expect. The open, unmoving mouth, the whispering. She could only hope that this time, the corpse said something helpful.

Lore dropped her head into her hands with a frustrated growl.

She was stuck in her room, and there was nothing here to do. Nothing but those books of erotic poetry she’d taken from the gilded library. Exploring the halls with Gabe, laughing at the ridiculousness of the Citadel, felt like lifetimes ago.

With another long sigh, theatrical as if someone could hear it, Lore got up and retrieved the books from her bedside table, then took them into the tiny study to the right of the door. She sat down in the single chair at the desk, hooked one leg over the arm, and opened the book to a random page. The poem seemed to be about a priest forsaking his vows for the favors of a deep-bosomed lover.

“Ironic,” Lore mumbled.

When her stomach was rumbling insistently enough that more pastries wouldn’t satisfy, Lore disobeyed the Sun Prince. Throwing on clothes, she left the room, nearly slamming the door behind her, and started the winding trek down to the main hall.

The long table was set with just as many delicacies as it had been before. A wine fountain burbled in the center, surrounded by vegetables and bread and meat, including Bastian’s hated peahen. Lore served herself a heaping plateful, and it felt like spite as much as hunger.

“Lore!”

Alie. Her gown was a pale orange today, matching the jeweled pins holding back the white curls of her hair. She looked like a butterfly, something meant for air and flight.

Lore allowed herself to be hugged. An affectionate touch that didn’t require something of her in return made a mortifying lump rise in her throat; Lore swallowed it down.