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“Then we’d better be fast. If Apollius catches wind that we want to restore the Fount, He’ll probably swallow the piece before He lets us have it.”

With a sigh, Alie started searching.

There were, unfortunately, lots of small things in the storeroom, and also unfortunately, most of them appeared to be stacked together, making them difficult to search through.

Alie found a pile of wrapped parcels wedged beneath a particularly ugly statue of a nymph and pulled a face.

Clearly, whoever was in charge of this room now didn’t care for organization like she did.

She crouched, reaching into the pile to pull out something that looked vaguely rock-shaped.

The whistle of wind was her only warning when the nymph statue toppled over.

It was instinct, movement without thought. Alie held up her hands, twisted threads, her thoughts gone to cloud and breeze. Air wove together, iridescent threads, stopping the statue right before the trident it held speared through her skull.

Alie stared up into the nymph’s face, breathing hard.

Her hands trembled as she kept hold of air, used it to gently lower the statue to the ground.

She watched it wide-eyed as her vision bled back into color, magic seeping away from her fingers.

They looked ghostly, nearly see-through, though that could have been the dim light and the way they trembled.

Close call , murmured a voice in her head, so quiet she barely heard it.

Alie froze. Lereal?

The voice was gone.

No. Couldn’t be. Nyxara told Lore the minor gods were too diminished to speak, too weak to come back as anything more than Their power. It’d been a cold comfort, one Alie clung to.

But it wouldn’t be the first time she and the others were wrong.

Cool breeze in her head, soothing. Lereal didn’t speak again, but the feeling was a kind of reassurance. Even if the god could talk, They didn’t want what Apollius did.

That was something.

For all that Lereal’s presence was gentle, it still wound Alie tight as a bowstring.

Still shaky, Alie bent and unwrapped the parcel she’d nearly been impaled for. A collection of satyr figurines, just as ugly as the nymph.

Fitting.

Five minutes and a few more figurines later, she heard a small, guttural gasp.

“Lilia?” Her eyes had adjusted, but Alie still couldn’t see much more than a few feet in front of her. “Did you find it?”

No answer. Alie followed the tiny flicker of flame from the other woman’s lighter.

Lilia hadn’t found the Fount piece. But she’d found something.

The Night Priestess stood in front of a huge painting, so large that the muslin cover still drooped from one corner where she wasn’t tall enough to pull it all the way off.

Alie could only see smudges of the subject until she stood directly in front of the canvas, and when she did, her mouth set in a grim line.

It was Lore. Lore dressed as the Queen of Auverraine, her generous body draped in white, a golden circlet in her brown-blond hair.

A silver crescent moon was mounted in the center of the circlet, hovering over her hazel eyes.

She wore a soft, demure smile, completely unlike any expression Alie had ever seen on her friend.

This was Lore as Apollius wanted her, Lore as a replacement for Nyxara, molded into the submissive wife the god had tried to force the goddess to be. It was almost like looking at a painting of a stranger.

“This was the piece the letter spoke of,” Lilia said quietly. The flame of her lighter was precariously close to her fingers; she appeared not to feel it. “It had been sent back to the creator and then reshipped—I thought it was to confuse anyone who might be looking for the shard.”

“It must have been sent back for artist revisions.” The word seemed inadequate.

Alie’s mouth puckered around it. “Every Arceneaux ruler has a portrait. Bastian must have commissioned this one as soon as he asked Lore to marry him, if there was time for one to be completed and revised. I guess Apollius wanted it to look different.”

A harsh swallow worked down Lilia’s throat. She flipped the lighter closed, apparently feeling the burn of it on her fingertips, before opening it back up again.

Back in the fabric-swathed graveyard of old art, Alie heard the sound of a door closing.

Lilia reacted faster than Alie did. She ducked behind the painting, her lighter snapping shut; in the sudden dark, Alie flailed, unsure where to go. Light bloomed behind her from whoever approached, holding a candelabra of their own. “Alie?”

Of course it would be Jax.

Composing her face into gentle chagrin, Alie turned to face her fiancé. “I’m sure this looks odd.” She huffed a rueful laugh. “I was just looking for an old painting I remembered my mother having when I was young—”

Behind the portrait of Lore, a crash.

Jax’s eyes whipped from Alie to the portrait as he stepped in front of her, candelabra held like a sword. “Who’s there?”

Lilia stepped out from behind the painting, eyes downcast, once again in the attitude of a servant.

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Even her accent was different, country-broad.

Overkill, Alie thought, since most Citadel servants were from Dellaire, but she wasn’t in the position to be giving notes.

“I looked through to the back of the room, but I couldn’t find it. ”

His brow rose, but the ruse seemed to work; Jax didn’t waste time looking at Lilia once his mind categorized her as help. His face softened as he glanced at Alie. “Anything confiscated from noble houses will be in a different room,” he said. “This is only for Citadel art.”

“Of course,” Alie said, smiling. But she couldn’t help the way her eyes flickered sideways, drawn once again to that uncanny portrait of Lore.

Jax followed her gaze. He didn’t grimace, but it was a close thing, a pull of distaste at the corner of his mouth. “Not much of a likeness, is it?”

Alie didn’t respond.

She didn’t really need to; he didn’t look at her, instead frowning up at the giant portrait. “He’s considering more revisions,” he said. “The King wants her to appear triumphant. Fiercer.” He shook his head. “It all seems like a waste of resources to me. I’ve never been one for portraits.”

“I’m surprised that He would want her fierce,” Alie said. “Seems more like He wanted her as broken as He could get her.”

“I can’t quite figure out His feelings on the matter,” Jax murmured. “Whether He loves her or hates her or just wants to own her.”

Next to the portrait, Lilia stiffened.

“Come.” Jax turned back toward the door. “I’ll show you the proper room to look in, for something from your mother’s estate.”

Alie and Lilia followed him out. Right before the door closed, Alie glanced back over her shoulder, looking at the portrait one more time.

In the dim light, the shape of Lore’s face changed, angles sharpened and hollows deeper. It barely looked like her at all.