Page 42 of Antiletum (The Nocturne #1)

Selise smiles, a hint of sadness pulling at her features.

“I know it can feel that way. And I suppose maybe it is. Were we a different era of nobles in The Citadel, perhaps it would be chafing. But the tides of public opinion change, and they matter greatly. Our families—Val and Mallin personally—have gone to great lengths to help the people in whatever ways they can. As we’ve already spoken about, there’s a lot to be said for symbols of hope. ”

I nod softly.

“Are you sleeping better?” Selise asks, popping open a green fan painted with a screech owl, and fluttering it in her face. Barely a bead of sweat shimmers across her rich brown complexion. So smooth and beautiful it nearly doesn’t look real. A comical contrast to my red face, glazed from the heat.

“Not really,” I murmur, my aching, tired joints screeching their agreement. This level of tiredness is excruciating.

It radiates from the deepest recesses of my soul, turning my body into a mess of bone deep weariness. But even so, my eyes are wide. Manic. Sleep eludes me, haunts me like a ghost. Hinting at its presence, but refusing to surface.

Shaking away the melancholy that accompanies such acknowledgments, I address Selise more playfully. “Only the copious amounts of black kohl liner I allowed you to draw on my face is keeping me from looking like a phantom.”

“Yes,” Selise agrees, graciously picking up on my cues. “Now I’d liken you more to a tired raccoon.”

I give an indignant laugh, snapping my own fan closed and popping her on the head with it.

Selise gapes at me before falling into a fit of laughter. As our peals die, we regard each other seriously. With an impressive amount of subtlety, she scans our surroundings, ensuring that we’re still truly alone.

“I am sorry, Delaney.”

“Whatever for? ”

“That the forging of our friendship was born from such horrific circumstances. And that so much is expected of you without you ever being consulted. It’s not fair.”

I shake my head with a smile, removing my black hat.

“It’s not your fault. And I should apologize.

I purposely kept myself distanced from everyone.

This”—I gesture wide—“being around so many people, has all been very… new.” My cheeks flare in embarrassment.

“And how could I not be willing to readily accept this responsibility? After the life I was subjected to. Stripped of choice.”

She takes my hand in her soft fingers, squeezing gently. “No one blames you for being distant. Not after your upbringing and all that was thrust on you in your grief.” Bitterly, she adds, “Especially considering what they knew the whole time.”

“All the same. I’m grateful for your friendship now.”

It’s nice being in the thick of Omnitas with Selise, to escape the oppressive walls of The Citadel.

Resentment is steadily increasing for the capitol building of Noctua .

The scapegoat source of all my heartache, new and old, no matter how unfounded the sentiment.

I have a hard time finding it within myself to blame Omnitas itself, not when there was once something lovely tied to its streets for me.

Despite taking great lengths to shield myself from those bittersweet memories in the last ten years, I find myself gravitating towards them now, being back in the city.

I thought seeing that old spirlinary first hand during my solo (guards not included) exploration of the city would alleviate some of my heartache. Smooth down the jagged edges that have been cutting through my self preservation ever since my wedding night—when I first saw my husband.

And it did, but only for the briefest, most wonderful moment, even though I couldn’t force myself to go inside.

Too fearful to relive the memories from the walls within.

Fleeting like the smoothness of youth. That pristine relief was never going to last. Much the same as the mist of the past that I can’t quite grasp, no matter how badly I wish that I could. It’s not tangible.

“This spirlinary is said to be haunted,” one of the guards supplied. The story the servant told me of the Lord’s son’s spirit flitting throughout the sanctuaries, waiting for his love to find him, clenched my heart then. It does the same now.

As always, bridging the gap between that old spirlinary , between then and now, is my husband. The visual of him, his odd black eyes. Val invades those thoughts every single time they surface. Refusing to be shaken away.

Deos , it hurts.

Guilt still overtakes me at the sight, the thought, of Val in these moments, where past and present merge. For taking Rainah’s warning into account, and then, equally, for disregarding her caution. For projecting onto Val something that could never be. No amount of longing could ever make it true.

And now—most vexing of all—guilt has taken root for how gutted Val was when I suggested his father used him like a pawn.

Just another way we’re alike, beyond our necromancy.

Both jerked around by the hidden faces of some much bigger conspiracy.

But at least Val knew what was expected of him.

Why everything was happening. Regardless, he showed me that hurt and I exploited it.

Am I any better than the man I accused of doing the same to my husband?

Val doesn’t deserve my remorse. Not any of it. Not in the slightest. And still …

A fierce pang in my chest roars every time I recall our fight and the ugly words I said, just wanting him to hurt as much as I do. It doesn’t feel good now that it’s over.

But his manic devotion isn’t enough. Not nearly enough to justify his actions.

The list of things that could ever make me consider attempting to forgive my husband is incredibly short, and everything on it an impossibility.

That doesn’t stop me from wishing they were true in the lonely hours of night, though.

As if thoughts of Val have summoned him, my attention is pulled across the lawn of the park to find him cresting a hill, dressed impeccably in a black suit, trimmed with silver, and a black silk top hat with a barn owl embroidered above its brim.

More polished and formal than the day we shopped together. Making a statement.

There truly is no escape from Val.

A tall figure walks at his side.

Selise stands, anxiously waiting for the party to join us.

I gravitate towards her side, the tension around my husband’s eyes becoming evident as he draws closer, stare pinned on me with pure fire.

Possessive. A flare of heat pulses through me.

I have a mind to march across the croquet game and meet him halfway, to tell him he has no right to be angry for not being invited.

But Selise’s strained voice whispering, “Oh dear,” catches me off guard, easing away the tingles racing up my back.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Do you remember Roarke—from the party?”

“The rakish blond?”

“The very one.”

“Isn’t that him with Val?”

“Yes,” Selise sighs; worry pulls at her mouth. “They hate each other and generally try to keep their distance. ”

Ah. Perhaps my assumption regarding the tightness evident in Val’s body is incorrect.

I laugh. “I gathered as much at the party.”

I could practically hear Val’s jaw grinding every time the man glanced in my direction, even across the glittering, lavishly decorated room. I suppose the air of murder coming off my husband when Roarke took my hand and told me he was honored to meet his new Lady wasn’t imagined at all.

It wouldn’t do a single person any good to admit to the sense of satisfaction that possessiveness bred—at the time.

I grasp my lemonade in my hand, channeling the feel of the fateful mirror when I witnessed what Val did. Trying to hold tight to my loathing that I wore in the hours immediately after, letting past versions of myself melt away into something harder and new.

But the fight after our shopping trip chiseled away at unexpected corners of that rage. Our graveyard encounter last night snapped another personal thread between us. Rather than bringing about a severing, it just reeled us even closer against my will.

It’s like the more I try to hate him, the more the sleeping deos try to lessen that gap, to push us together, to make me desire him.

It’s the small details, I’m sure of it. The dark eyes.

The unique mannerisms in how he slowly cocks his head to the side, just like his owl form.

All so easy to see now. The way I’m able to take those traits, erase the person holding them, fit it to the ache rearing in my heart.

“Why do they hate each other?” I ask, ignoring the tingles gathering in dark places, skittering like unwanted little spiders. Menaces coming to wreak havoc.

“Well, Roarke’s father was supposed to take the role of Alter .

Until at the last moment, he was glanced over and the position went to Val’s father instead,” Selise hastily explains, the two men drawing ever nearer.

“He’d never outright admit it, but Roarke is bitter and believes that the ven’Sols stole their legacy.

And Val has always been a tad arrogant.” I snort, and Selise’s lips quirk up.

“He likes to rub it in Roarke’s face. It’s bred a terrible rivalry. ”

Instead of the terror that someone Val offers such violent stares should exude, the man boasts a smug grin. His yellow hair gleams like over polished gold beneath his slate grey hat.

Roarke makes to greet me openly, side stepping Val as if he were nothing more than a pile of dog excrement—blatantly disrespectful. A bold move that Val meets with grace, placing a firm hand on Roarke’s shoulder, physically stopping him in his tracks and putting Roarke at his back.

Unintimidated.

“Val,” I say breathless in the surge of emotions that ever accompanies his presence and deposit my drink on the table before it slips from my hand. Completely feigned of course. All a show for the crowd. “I didn’t know you planned to join us.”