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Lore dressed quickly, in a lavender gown with a high waist and sleeves that covered only her shoulders. The skirt was long and full, but not as much as some she’d seen the courtiers wear—she was in no danger of taking up the entire width of a hallway. She had no idea what appropriate clothing was for a croquet game, but this would have to do.

Her hair she frowned at for a moment before partially braiding it in a crown around her head, leaving the rest of it down. Its color wavered between brown and gold, most days, but the gentle shade of her dress made it look darker. A pause, then she pinched at her cheeks, bit her lips to coax some color into them. She told herself it had nothing to do with Gabe, and absolutely nothing to do with the chance of seeing Bastian.

Gabe was dressed when she came out of her room. Wordlessly, he offered her his arm. She took it.

They marched down the hall like they were headed to a sentencing.

Lore had grown used to the crosshatched iron bars set into the floors, so much so that she barely noticed them anymore. But after last night, the bars stood out again, incongruous and dark. A reminder that things like her did not belong here.

The lunch spread was in the same place as the day before, on a massive table groaning beneath the weight of pastries and hundreds of tiny sandwiches. Alie lingered with a knot of other courtiers, her cloud-pale hair making her easy to spot.

Just as easy to spot was Bastian standing next to her, sipping from a glass of wine and eyeing Lore and Gabe like a hunter peering into a set trap.

“Oh, excellent!” Alie clapped her hands. Delicate bracelets of pale-blue gems caught the light. “Now we’ll have even teams!”

“Splendid,” Bastian murmured. “Alie, dear, I think it’s only fair that you be on Gabe and Lore’s team. You and I on the same side wouldn’t make for much competition.”

The woman standing beside Alie—Cecelia, Lore recognized now, though she looked clear-eyed and poison-free this afternoon—gave Bastian a mock pout. “Are you saying you’re better than me, Bastian? As I recall, I beat you last time we played.”

He chucked her under the chin. “Yes, but I was very distracted.”

Cecelia blushed prettily and cast her eyes away.

The man next to Cecelia glanced at Lore with a long-suffering expression. “You’re always distracted, Bastian.”

“You wound me, Olivier.” Bastian put a hand to his heart. “Don’t be cross; you distract me just as much as your lovely sister.”

Olivier rolled his eyes, but high flags of color rose in his cheeks. The blush made him and Cecelia look obviously related, highlighting bright-blue eyes and dark hair.

“Save your flirting for after the game.” Alie marched forward, headed for the doors that led to the green. “I am focused on a different kind of conquest.”

“Gods spare us all,” Gabe muttered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

What’s the difference between a poison runner and a god?

If you pray, the poison runner might hear you.

—Overheard in an Caldienan tavern, 306 AGF

An hour into their game, Gabe had fortunately managed to refrain from hitting Bastian with a mallet. Lore had, too. However, she’d also managed to refrain from hitting the ball through the wicket.

“It’s your right arm, I think,” Alie said. She’d made Lore stand still, bent over and ready to take a whack at the black ball on the grass, so she could inspect her form. “You’re holding it too stiffly, so when you swing, you’re hitting the ball with the side of the mallet instead of the front.”

“So I should bend it?” In the past hour, Lore had discovered that while she held no real love for croquet, she especially didn’t hold any love for losing. She stuck out her elbow, taking it from straight to nearly a right angle.

“Not that much.” Alie pushed her arm in slightly. “There. Now give it a go.”

Lore did. The ball missed the nearest arch, but curved enough to inch through another.

“Finally!” She straightened, beaming, and resisted pumping the mallet over her head in victory.

Bastian, leaning on his own mallet at the edge of the playing field, gave her a gleaming grin. “Wrong wicket, dearest.”

Well, shit.

“That makes the score ten for us and four for you.” When Cecelia had first started keeping score, she’d sounded excited that she, Bastian, and Olivier were winning so handily. Now she almost sounded embarrassed.