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Now, it was richly appointed. Not large, but plenty lavish.

Rich gossamer draperies on the bed, embroidered with intricate golden thread on the scalloped edges. A jeweled chalice sat atop the mantle, along with a ceremonial plate of pure goldstone and a large, opaque white crystal. Gilded mirrors hung on the wall. The kitchenware was all studded with gemstones.

A clear example of why the Ancestors had discharged the priestesses of their power—they imagined themselves equals to the King and Queen. A sweeping glance of the room was enough to tell Parys that Merlin was of the same school.

He went to the work table first.

He couldn’t linger here; Merlin was unpredictable in her routine. The only times that were reliable were when she went to pray to the Ancestors in the temple. But the temple directly adjoined her sanctum, and Parys wasn’t stupid.

He’d be gone by the time she returned for afternoon prayer.

A book of rituals with incantations… a folder of correspondence with other temples across Annwyn…

He recognized the Offering and Joining ceremony in the book. As well as the words for Lugnasa. Generally unremarkable. The letters…

Nothing untoward there either. Requests for particular texts to be exchanged, and sending acolytes…

The acolytes.

The ones Veyka had stabbed and threatened. Not dispersed back to their families, but to other temples.

Fuck.

It was enough to call Merlin to account. Directly disobeying the queen. But instead of picking up the letter that was his proof, Parys slid it back into place.

Acolytes were not the root of this. Maybe some small part of a bigger scheme. But whatever Merlin was plotting with Igraine was more dangerous.

Time. He was running out of time.

What else…what else…

Where would she hide things? These were her personal quarters, but Merlin wasn’t stupid. She knew that someone could get past the lock. She was a powerful water-wielder herself. But there were too many spaces to search—a cabinet of small drawers that stood as tall as his head, the bookshelf built into the wall.

But those were workspaces, where the singular acolyte she was allowed might stumble across some evidence of treason. Where, then…

Maybe in plain sight?

Where is the most obvious place to put something when you want visitors to see it…

The mantle.

His reflection stared back at him from the gilded mirror. He ignored the slightly frantic look on his own face and examined the items on display. A golden plate larger that his face, ceremonial, surely, with inscriptions. He had to tilt his head to read—to beseech the Ancestors for blessings and plenty…Ostara, when the High Queen and King would take the ceremonial first bites and mark the beginning of a plentiful spring.

A small painting he hadn’t noticed before. A female who looked strikingly similar to Merlin herself—porcelain skin, up-tilted black eyes, straight sheet of black hair. Her mother, probably.

He marked the other items quickly. The chalice that had caught Veyka and Arran’s blood at the Offering and a crystal that appeared to have been left on the mantle casually. It wasn’t arranged in any particular way, or set up to display. Just a pretty white crystal, large enough to fit in his palm. Unremarkable.

His attention went back to the portrait. There could be something behind the canvas in the frame. He eased his wind forward, letting it seep into the cracks, trying to sense if there might be layers—

Footsteps echoed through the room.

Sent on a brisk wind—Merlin was coming. His cousin had sent the breeze, amplifying the sound. For half a breath, Parys considered shoving the portrait into his pocket. But it was a personal item—Merlin would surely mark his absence.

He made for the door, pausing just long enough to sweep his eyes over the room, trying to memorize every detail so he could dissect it later. His eyes caught on the chalice, a ruby in its stem glinting in the light slipping through the open door from the temple.

Parys closed the door and hurried out into the corridor, carrying away the too-loud sounds of his own footsteps in the opposite direction.

He was running out of time.