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He hesitated a moment before setting to work. For a monk, he was a clever hand at undoing a woman’s buttons, a thought that flashed across her mind unbidden before she resolutely shut it out.

“Did he say anything important while you were dancing?” Gabe asked.

The only things she’d learned while dancing with Bastian were about Gabe. But some tug of intuition told her that if she tried to talk about that, he’d shut down. She’d only known Gabe for two days, but it was enough to know that he wouldn’t take lightly to disparaging Anton or the Presque Mort. People who thought they’d been saved tended to deify the savior.

“Not really. Certainly not anything that made it seem like he’s a Kirythean spy.” With a sigh, Lore flopped on the opposite end of the couch and propped up her aching feet on the ottoman. “I don’t understand why August is so convinced the informant is Bastian.”

“He told you. Because Bastian doesn’t want to be King.” Gabriel stared into the dying embers in the fireplace, head propped on his hand. He’d loosened his cravat, revealing a triangle of pale, freckle-dusted skin. “When we were young, he used to tell me he wanted to be a pirate.”

It was strange to think of the man across from her as the boy he must’ve been, cavorting around these halls with the Sun Prince and pretty Alie every summer. Not knowing that his life would crash down around his ears, that he’d have to rebuild it into something holy in order to survive.

“As someone who was maybe one degree removed from being a pirate,” Lore said, “I would like to disabuse anyone of the notion that it’s a great time.”

“A better time than being a King, I’d think.”

“Doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to start a war.”

“It might seem like one if you had the responsibility of being an Arceneaux King hanging over your head,” Gabe murmured to the fire.

She gave him an incredulous look. “For someone who clearly dislikes the man, you seem very in tune with how his mind works.”

He frowned at that. “I’m just saying I know Bastian well enough to understand that he’d see a war—especially one that seems all but inevitable eventually—as a small price to pay for leaving behind the responsibility his lineage brings him. Holy and otherwise.”

Lore scoffed, thinking of the iron bars on the marble floors, what they symbolized. The Arceneaux family’s divine right to rule came with the caveat that they’d have to control the Mortem leaking from Nyxara’s body. Establishing the Church and Citadel on top of Nyxara’s tomb kept Mortem contained, mostly, but according to the Tracts, the Arceneaux line could also wield Spiritum, Apollius’s power—the magic of life.

But not one Arceneaux had ever actually been able to do it.

“Do you believe that part?” she asked. “The Spiritum bit?”

Gabe stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. “I believe that the presence of the Arceneaux family in the Citadel is what keeps Mortem from overwhelming the continent.” He spoke slowly, piecing together a tapestry of belief and doubt. “That’s just history; we have records of what it was like before the Citadel was built, before Gerard Arceneaux made it the seat of his power.”

“But there’s no records of him actually using Spiritum, like it says in the Tracts.”

“It’s possible that was a misinterpretation. It’s happened before.” He looked her way. “Did your parents ever scare you with tales of the Night Witch?”

Her throat went dry. “The mad priestess?”

She said it like a question, like she wasn’t sure if she had it right. Like that story wasn’t an indelible part of her history.

“Exactly.” Gabe shifted on the couch, scratching at his eye patch. “The Night Witch was just a priestess, leader of the Buried Watch, a holy order tasked with guarding the Buried Goddess’s tomb and monitoring how much Mortem leaked out. They were a sister sect of the Presque Mort, actually, another group of Church-sanctioned channelers, though after the Citadel was built and Gerard Arceneaux crowned, that requirement was waived. By the time the Night Witch came around, she was the only channeler in the Watch.”

Lore made herself nod along.

Gabe continued. “Eventually, she went mad and tried to open the tomb. She claimed she was the goddess reborn, because she’d misinterpreted some Tract in the Book of Holy Law. It’s been stricken from the Compendium since.” He shook his head, almost in pity. “That’s why we need men like Anton, who can read the Tracts and help us know what they mean. The consequences can be horrific.”

Her fingers knotted in her lap, cold and numb.

They sat in silence, except for the crackling fire. After a moment, Gabe stood. He went into the bedroom that had been designated as his and came out with blankets and pillows, then began piling them by the door.

“You know there’s a perfectly serviceable bed in there, right?” Lore asked.

“I’m sleeping in front of the door.” Gabe glanced at her, a calculating shine in his visible eye, before stripping off his doublet and shirt. His chest was well muscled, covered with reddish hair darker than the gold-tinged shade of his head and beard. “I don’t trust anyone in this Citadel as far as I can throw them.”

“It looks as though you can throw them rather far,” Lore muttered.

“Let’s hope I don’t have to demonstrate.” Gabe nestled down into his makeshift bed, back against the door. If anyone tried to enter, they’d be blocked by a pile of one-eyed holy man. “If I were you, I’d go to bed. First Day prayers are at sunrise.”

First Day prayers—she’d forgotten that August was officially introducing them to court then. With a groan, Lore rose and walked to the bedroom that Gabe hadn’t ransacked. “Good night, Mort.”