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“I’m not sure the opportunity to lurk around the Citadel in the hope someone would tell me something useful ever occurred to me, really,” Lore said.

“You’ll do more than lurk. You’ll make friends. Insinuate yourself into society.” August saluted her lazily with his chalice. “And above all, you will stick as close to my son as you possibly can. If this proves too much for you… well. There’s always room in the cells.”

Nerves twisted her middle. Lore tried very hard not to let them show in her expression.

The Sainted King took a long drink, draining the cup, then set it back down on the arm of his throne. “Time grows short. Bastian’s Consecration will begin soon, and all of us must be there.” August flicked his fingers at Gabriel like one might gesture to a well-trained dog. “Gabriel! Step forward, please.”

The look on the duke-turned-Mort’s face was drawn and tense as he stared at August. But Gabriel followed orders, stepping up to where the Sainted King waited. He kept his head down, eyes trained on the floor.

His docility rankled her, for reasons she couldn’t quite name. That strange feeling of familiarity she had toward the Mort told her that he wasn’t supposed to be like this, placid and easily led, smothering the flames of his anger. He was someone who should let it burn.

August stood and descended from his throne of spiking iron. The throne was on a slightly raised dais, and he remained on the bottom stair, putting him right at eye level with Gabriel—clearly deliberate; the King didn’t want to look up at someone he deemed beneath him.

The Sainted King stretched out his jewel-scabbed hand to place it on the Mort’s shoulder. “I know you wish to leave your title behind,” August said softly. “I know it has brought you nothing but trouble and shame.” Lore’s eyes narrowed. She was very familiar with the way people wielded pity like a bayonet, hiding the desire to make sure you knew your place behind false concern. August wasn’t trying to comfort Gabriel; he was trying to intimidate him.

“But you’ve always known that someday you would be expected back in court,” August continued. “This is your chance to redeem yourself. To show the Citadel that the Remaut family isn’t made wholly of traitors who give up at the slightest hint of conflict. You know the Tracts as well as I do: Parental sins are passed on to the children. Your father’s treason is carried in your blood.”

“I was ten.” Gabriel’s voice didn’t waver, showed no emotion but for the slight emphasis on the number. The look in his one blue eye was far away, unfocused. “I was ten, and Jax had just killed my father and carved out my eye. I didn’t know what else to do.”

So that’s how he’d lost the eye. Jax had taken it. Anton had used the maiming to bring Gabriel into the Presque Mort fold, and now August used it as proof Gabriel carried sins that weren’t his.

Lore decided, then, that she really hated both of the Arceneaux brothers.

“And that’s how they remember you.” August changed the course of the conversation smoothly; he was practiced at this, apparently, feeling out the cracks in someone and working them open. “As someone who hid.”

Almost absently, Gabriel reached up and touched his eye patch. “Anton gave me a place,” he said quietly. “Anton told me I could work to cleanse my line, if I joined the Presque Mort.”

“You reentering the court doesn’t make you less of a Presque Mort. Think of this as one more way to atone for your father’s mistakes. To make his name an honorable one again.” August released Gabriel’s shoulder with one final clap. A small smile, nothing kind in it. “So many of them would love to see you again, Gabriel. Alienor Bellegarde, in particular.”

The name stiffened Gabriel further. He stepped back, that blank look still on his face, staring carefully at nothing.

“I will make official introductions tomorrow, when the court gathers for morning prayers in the North Sanctuary. Wardrobes of appropriate clothing will be provided, but in the interest of discretion, no servants will be assigned to the upkeep of your quarters.” The King’s dark eyes slid to Lore. “Do try to keep it tidy.”

She resolved to pour an entire bottle of wine on the carpet the first chance she got.

August looked to his brother. “Show them to their apartments, but do hurry. We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”

With a smooth inclination of his head—not a full bow, Lore noted—Anton glided through the now-open double doors. Gabriel and Malcolm followed, Gabriel still with a dazed look in his eye.

Lore glanced back at August before following. The Sainted King was resplendent on his throne, sunlight gilding him like a statue. “Welcome to the Court of the Citadel, Lore. I’ll see you at my son’s Consecration in an hour.”

Bloodcoats were waiting outside the throne room. Wordlessly, they escorted the four of them through shining hallways that Lore would have no chance of navigating on her own, through open atriums that could be museums in their own right, covered in icons and tapestries and frescoes. The halls were empty, the gathered courtiers apparently still abed or preparing for the ceremony. The light through the windows put the time at around midday.

Anton walked in front, right behind the bloodcoats with Malcolm on his heels. Lore and Gabriel trailed them, as if some invisible partition had cut them off, separated them into factions of court and Church.

The guards led them up a wide, carpeted stairway, lined in marble statues of buxom figures in varying states of undress. The staircase ended in a short hallway full of identical arched doors; the bloodcoats walked to its end, where another door opened on another staircase, this one smaller and shabbier, though still ornate.

“The southeast turret,” Gabriel murmured, as if he could tell Lore was having a hard time keeping her bearings. “The least fashionable one in the Citadel. Everyone who’s important lives in the northwest turret during the summer.”

His voice was deceptively even, but when Lore looked at him, his face was pale, his eye distant. Her hand was halfway raised before she realized it, ready to land on his arm in comfort.

Lore snatched it out of the air before it could, fingers in a fist. Gods, that odd familiarity was inconvenient. Misplaced softness for a sad Mort was the last thing she needed right now.

The stairs evened into landings every few steps, but the bloodcoats led them farther and farther up. Finally, they came to a stop, on a landing whose carpeting looked far more worn than any of the others.

The bloodcoats pushed open the door. Another hallway, dimly lit, the only illumination provided by a golden candelabra on the wall. Another Bleeding God’s Heart; the candelabra was shaped like a heart inside a sun, with one flickering oil lamp in the center. Small candles studded the ends of the sun rays, but most of them had burned out.

Across from the light fixture, a heavy wooden door.