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“Apologies, Duke Remaut.” The nearest bloodcoat inclined his head to Anton, then Gabriel and Malcolm as he inserted a key into the door and turned the lock over. Lore, he ignored entirely. “Our Sainted King was insistent that you both stay in these apartments. They formerly belonged to Lord and Lady Grosjean, but they both passed away this past winter.”

Of course August would put them in a dusty hallway, far away from the rest of the peerage. It’d make them easier to keep an eye on.

Gabriel paled, as if the guard had just given him a live rat. “You mean… you mean both of us are staying here?”

A nod from the bloodcoat. “On orders of the King, you and your cousin are both to stay in these apartments for the duration of the season.”

Malcolm’s dark brow rose. Gabriel swallowed.

Lore rolled her eyes. “I promise not to impugn your virtue.”

Malcolm made a noise that might’ve been the choked beginning of a laugh. Gabriel made none at all, but his already-pale face went whiter.

Anton gave her a slicing look, then waved an imperious hand at the bloodcoats. “Leave us.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.

They obeyed almost as quickly as if the order had come from the King. Shaking his head, Anton pushed open the door.

The apartment was nearly twice as large as Michal’s row house. The first room was furnished with a low couch and two chairs before a cold fireplace, the upholstery luxurious, if a few seasons out of fashion. Beyond the sitting room, three open doors revealed two bedrooms just as sumptuously appointed, with a tiled room housing a gleaming copper washtub between them. A door beside the fireplace led to an enclosed balcony, full of spindly wicker furniture, and another small study opened off the main sitting room. At least four people could live here comfortably.

Anton sighed, turning to Gabriel. “I know this is overwhelming, especially after your cloisters at the Northreach monastery. But I specifically asked that August put you in the apartments farthest from the rest of the court, so you’d have the space you need to be comfortable.” The unscarred side of his face softened, though it looked forced. “Truly, I’ve done everything I can to make this as easy on you as possible, Gabe.”

Gabe. It should’ve sounded gentler, Lore thought, for being a nickname. But coming from Anton, something about it had edges. She recalled what Malcolm had said before, about Gabriel being from the country monasteries. Apparently, he’d been brought back to Dellaire for the Consecration, and he’d gotten all this in the bargain. A vague, dangerous assignment and betrayal from the man he appeared to trust above all others.

She shot a look at Gabriel. The monk had his arms crossed, eye on the floor. The wrinkle of his brow above his eye patch said he was deep in thought, his shoulders tense as if waiting for a blow.

“Well, I’m satisfied with these accommodations,” Lore announced, sprawling on the couch. It sent up a tiny cloud of dust, proof it hadn’t been disturbed in a while—so much for August asking her to keep it tidy; it looked like the Grosjeans hadn’t done a great job of that themselves. “Seems better than a cloister to me, in Northreach or otherwise.”

Malcolm eyed the room dubiously. “I think the cloisters have more recently updated upholstery, but this place does have more furniture.”

Anton shot him a dark look. “The Consecration begins in less than an hour,” he said, “and both of you must be there.”

Gabriel’s arms tightened across his chest. His one eye slid to Lore, and then away, like someone trying to keep an eye on a horse they thought might kick. “I was unaware you needed my presence at the Consecration.”

“Of course we do.” Something in Anton’s voice sounded… not shrill, but close to it, as if the idea of Gabriel and Lore not being at the Consecration was unfathomable. “You two are to get close to Bastian, so of course you must attend.”

“Will the Sun Prince not find it strange that a random duke’s cousin is suddenly stuck to his ass?” Lore asked from the couch. “If you want me for my spying experience as well as my unfortunate Mortem affliction, let me give a word of advice: Staying on someone like a burr on a pant leg isn’t always the best way to find out the information you want. Sometimes you have to use a bit more subtlety.”

Anton approached the couch and glared down at her. Lore wanted to sit up, but it would feel like a capitulation, so she stayed sprawled over the pillows and gave him an inane smile.

“You will follow the orders you’ve been given.” Anton’s voice was cool and smooth. “To the letter.”

Lore didn’t respond. She shifted on the lumpy throw pillows.

The Priest Exalted stepped away from the couch and turned to Gabriel. “There is appropriate clothing for the girl in one of the bedrooms. For you, as well. Go change, and we will escort you to the Consecration. Bleeding God help us all.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

In their twenty-fourth year of mortal life, the gods ascended: Apollius to the rulership of life and the day, Nyxara to rulership of death and the night, Hestraon to rulership of fire, Lereal to rulership of the air, Braxtos to rulership of the earth, and Caeliar to rulership of the sea.

—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 7

Lore wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to wear to a Consecration, having never been invited to one. They occurred on your twenty-fourth birthday, but only the nobility made a fuss over them—everyone else would just go get blessed at the South Sanctuary by whatever priest had the time, if they bothered with observing it at all.

The mass of clothes she’d been provided would be overwhelming even if she wasn’t trying to dress for a holy holiday. None of the dresses were as ridiculous as the things she’d seen in the donation closets, thankfully, but they were far finer than anything she’d worn before. In the end, she chose the one that looked easiest to get into by herself. If she asked any of the Presque Mort for help, they’d probably keel over.

The sage-green dress fit too nicely to be a coincidence. Lore studied herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the closet door. A high neck, short, gathered sleeves, and a floor-length skirt that just brushed the top of the matching slippers she’d found lined up beneath the canopied bed. Either the seamstress who’d made it had a dress form exactly her size—unlikely, as she was a good deal curvier than most mannequins she’d seen—or it’d been tailored to her measurements.

Gooseflesh raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. The Presque Mort had known about her since she raised Cedric years ago—Val had told her as much. Still, the knowledge that she’d been watched didn’t settle easily.