The queens were never given a proper burial, and to this day, no one knew where the bodies lay. People had different theories, of course: they’d been burned in a pit, or dumped in the sea, or chopped into pieces to prevent resurrection.
No one knew for sure.
Since their deaths, and the birth of the New Republic, the Good Commander had been stripping the magic from every captured witch by purging her of its source: stringing them by the ankles like animals, slitting their throats, and leaving them to hang until every drop of blood drained from their bodies.
Rune shuddered.
As if in response, Gideon withdrew his hands from the piano keys and stepped back. The absence of him was like a too-heavy coat slipping from her shoulders, allowing her to breathe. He turned toward the thousands of book spines filling the walls, illuminated by the incandescent lighting.
“Do you mind if I look around?”
Relieved by the distance between them, she waved her hand. “Go ahead.”
If he had lived at the palace, he’d lived among witches, which meant he knew how to spot the signs of her kind. Spell books were an obvious giveaway, but there were none in the library. Casting marks were another tell, but the only spell cast recently enough to leave marks was in Nan’s casting room, where Rune had enchanted the cup she’d given to Lizbeth.
There’s nothing to find, she thought, watching the witch hunter.
Perhaps she should use the cup now. Gideon appeared at ease, and the sooner she learned where the Blood Guard were keeping Seraphine, the sooner she could rescue the woman before they transferred her.
After several moments of watching him browse, she said, “Reading can be so tedious, don’t you think? Sometimes I get exhausted just looking at all these books.”
Gideon, who was currently perusing her collection of operas and plays, either didn’t hear her or was ignoring her. The light illuminated his fingers as he traced the titles on the weathered spines. When he arrived at Rune’s favorite play—about a mysterious hero who risks his own life to rescue aristocrats in danger—Gideon slid the book off the shelf and opened it to the first page.
Rune clenched her jaw, annoyed that he’d chosen it. She didn’t want him holding something she loved in his hands. They were the same hands he used to strip witches out of their clothes. To search them for scars. To give them over to be purged.
“For a girl who hates reading, you own a lot of books.”
“They were my grandmother’s. Nan was obsessed with books.” Rune tapped her fingertips against the piano bench, itching to tell him to put her book back and never touch it again. She counted to ten, lost her patience, and said instead, “Would you like to see a witch’s bedroom, Citizen Sharpe?”
To her great relief, he closed the book and returned it to the shelf. When he turned to face her, his eyes were deep wells.
“I’d like nothing more, Miss Winters.”
Rising from the bench, Rune tugged the bellpull, letting Lizbeth know she was ready to put the last part of her plan into action.
ELEVEN
RUNE
IN HER BEDROOM, THE lamps were already lit. Their flames burned dimly, as if the room had been patiently waiting for its mistress.
Rune turned to Gideon, who looked like a wolf stepping into unfamiliar territory: wary, aloof, ready to bare his teeth at the first sign of danger.
His stony gaze scanned the room, taking in the lavender walls and the loft ceiling made of glass. Other than the four-poster bed, there were only a few furnishings, all of them tasteful and understated. Just the way Rune—the real Rune—liked things.
The sea breeze blowing in through the windows ruffled Gideon’s hair. “This is your bedroom.”
She clasped her hands in front of her. “That’s right.”
This was her favorite place. Her safest place. And she had invited a dangerous enemy straight into it.
“You said it belongs to a witch.” He stalked slowly toward her, his gaze pinning her in place.
“It belonged to my grandmother, yes.”
Gideon halted.
Did you think it would be that easy?
She frowned, staring at him. He wasn’t very good at this game.
Sudden footsteps made them turn toward the doorway, where Lizbeth stood. On the tray gripped in her hands sat two cups and a decanter of red wine. “Your refreshments, Miss Winters.”
Rune nodded her thanks.
Lizbeth, who’d played her part in this charade dozens of times, brought the tray to the low table in front of the love seat. “A telegram arrived for you earlier. I’ll leave it with your drinks.”