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The band whipped up, violins and cellos sighing out a plaintive note before launching into a faster tempo. The dancers clapped gleefully, yelling their encouragement.

“Over a dance,” Bastian continued, and laced his fingers with Lore’s, tugging her out into the bright whirl.

CHAPTER TEN

To my chosen, I bequeath my power—Spiritum, the magic of life. May it be used to bring about the world as it should be.

—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 714 (green text; spoken by Apollius to Gerard Arceneaux)

Lore the poison runner felt slightly nauseous, between the hunger and the smell of poison and the anxiety that numbed her limbs. But Eldelore Remaut would be thrilled to be pulled out into a mad Kirythean dance by a handsome prince, and it was Eldelore Remaut who needed to be here tonight, getting close to the Sun Prince and learning if he was currently committing treason.

If he was, the choice of Kirythean music was a bold one.

The deep-purple tulle of her skirt caught under her heel again, and Lore swore soundly, kicking it away. Bastian arched a brow, an amused smile picking up the corner of his mouth.

Eldelore Remaut probably wouldn’t do that.

The cousin of a duke would also be expected to dance well, a skill Lore didn’t possess. She’d tried, once, with a job at a tavern like the one Elle had, keeping patrons dancing, drinking, and spending their coin. She’d knocked over two barmaids and hadn’t lasted the night. Poison running was the only thing she’d ever been good at.

Poison running, and spying. She could do this.

Lore pulled back on Bastian’s leading hand. There were calluses on his knuckles, she noticed, which seemed strange for a prince, and the nose beneath his black mask looked slightly crooked, like it’d been broken before.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I won’t bite.” Then, the smile twisting higher, “unless you decide you want me to.”

She supposed she should blush, but she’d heard much worse, and dealt it, too. She tried for an answering smile she hoped was demure. “I’m afraid I don’t know this dance.” The Kirythean music careened wildly from the violins, a match for the cavorting of the crowd. The dance appeared to involve jumping and clapping, neither of which Lore thought she could do in her dress. “I’m not familiar with Kirythean customs. Are you?”

A leading question: Start easy, and see how hard they were going to make you work.

“Not necessarily.”

Harder than that, apparently.

Bastian pulled her to the center of the floor, through courtiers that parted like a jewel-toned wave. He raised a hand and gestured to the band in the corner. Abruptly, the music changed, moving to something slow and measured.

“But I’ve decided I’m over the katairos.” Bastian grinned, placing one hand on her waist. A beat, and he swept her into something Lore thought was a waltz. Hopefully, her guise as a country cousin would be ample cover for her lack of grace.

“So the Kirythean music was just for Gabriel’s benefit, then?” Lore cocked her head, smile still in place, though there was a hint of venom behind the question. The Mort was stuffy and overimportant and built like he could take care of himself, but their odd circumstances made her feel almost protective of him.

“It wasn’t for Gabe’s benefit at all.” Bastian spun her out, then pulled her back in, close to his black-clad chest. He was shorter than Gabriel, but only just, and Lore’s forehead would’ve knocked into his chin if he didn’t lean gracefully away, making it look like part of the dance. “The Kirythean music was because I like it.”

“I’m sure that thrills your father.”

His eyes sparked behind his mask, the slight smile on his mouth going sharp. “Nothing I do thrills my father. He’s decided I’m worthless, and I don’t particularly care enough to try and change his mind.”

Another spin, under his arm this time, his hand staying on the small of her back to guide her through.

“And just so we’re clear,” he murmured as she passed close again, “I wouldn’t taunt Gabe about his family. I know he thinks I’m awful, and he has his reasons, but even I’m not that heartless.”

Lore hoped her laugh didn’t sound as false as it felt. “But you’d make sure he doesn’t have a mask, so that everyone here can see his face.”

“I wanted the court to know he was here. To give him an opportunity to see what he’s missing, maybe decide to stay instead of slink back to the Presque Mort.” Bastian’s voice was pleasant, but the ridge of his jaw could carve stone. “My uncle has been half mad since his accident, even if everyone wants to pretend like it’s something holy, and he’s controlled Gabe’s life for fourteen years. I saw an opportunity to set him free, at least for a few weeks, and I took it. He should thank me.”

Lore wondered what Bastian would think if he knew that Gabe was only in the court because of Anton. That his uncle’s control was still ironclad.

“How exactly would making sure the court sees him here make him want to stay?” she asked.

Bastian waved a hand at the party. “Stick a man in a den of iniquity after he’s been cloistered for over a decade, and it’s likely he’ll fall into sin. If it was public enough, Anton might not let him come back into the monkish fold. That was the hope, anyway.” The Sun Prince snorted. “Though I’ve probably underestimated Gabe’s piety. He always was predisposed to martyrdom.”