“Have you not heard?” The man’s face was a mask, as unable to be read as a carving rubbed clean. “Another village was struck this afternoon. A few hours ago.”
Another village.
She’d failed to find out what was happening, and while she wasted time spinning in circles, another whole village had died.
“How did they find out so fast?” Her voice felt like it issued from a different body.
A muscle jumped in Bellegarde’s cheek, like he’d said something he hadn’t meant to. “The Church and Crown have informants all over Auverraine,” he said, not really an answer at all.
Lore wanted to crumple, her eyes finding the floor before they blurred. She thought of the little boy in the vaults, framed between Apollius’s garnet-bleeding hands. “I hate to hear that,” she whispered.
“A tragedy, to be sure.” Bellegarde watched her closely, though his expression still gave nothing away. “And all the more reason for us to come together at the eclipse. A time for new beginnings.”
She was too numb to nod.
“Severin?”
August, coming down the hall toward them. The King looked remarkably ordinary, with his gray hair and his deep-red clothing, his station denoted only by the golden circlet on his brow. He stepped between Lore and Bellegarde gracefully, but in a way clearly meant to sever conversation, and though his smile was bright, it didn’t mask the wariness in his eyes. “And what would you two be discussing so ardently?”
“The eclipse event.” Bellegarde’s voice was cold. “I was making sure Eldelore and Gabriel will be attending.”
If the other man’s strange fixation on Lore’s social calendar puzzled the King, he didn’t show it. Instead, he looked almost relieved. “Excellent news. We’ll be thrilled to have you.”
She managed a nod.
“It’s sure to be a splendid time,” August said, “and Gabriel will doubtless enjoy an eclipse not spent shackled to the Church’s doings. The Presque Mort typically spend all eclipses in prayer, but for this one, my brother made an exception.” He clapped Bellegarde on the shoulder, a succinct dismissal. “Go on, Severin. Let us leave the lady to her social responsibilities. She’s dressed for a party.”
Bellegarde’s face cramped, but he nodded. Then the two of them watched Lore.
It took her a moment to realize they expected her to leave first. With another clumsily dipped curtsy, she did. Right before the turn of the stairs blocked them from view, she ducked to look at Bellegarde and August again. They’d started down the steps below together, speaking quietly. Bellegarde’s hands, she noticed, were empty, the paper he’d held now gone.
Lore crouched on the landing above, hidden from view.
“Everything is coming together nicely,” Bellegarde murmured. “The next group is set to be processed by this evening.”
“And the bindings?” August sounded impatient.
“Seem to be in working order.”
“But we won’t know until I try.”
A heartbeat. “Correct, Your Majesty,” Bellegarde said.
Then silence, but for the sound of boots on plush-carpeted stairs.
When the tread was gone, Lore counted to fifty. Then, moving as quietly as possible, she stood and crept back down the stairs.
The hall was empty. Lore didn’t waste the moment. She ran straight to the tapestry where Bellegarde had stood, the one right before the stairs.
It didn’t look any different than the others lining the sumptuous corridor. White thread picked out a rearing unicorn, hooves slashing at the air, surrounded by silver-helmed knights and blobby wildflowers in spring pastels. Lore frowned at it, tracing the thread pattern with her eyes until they went blurry.
He’d been looking for something in the tapestries. Lore was familiar with how people acted when they didn’t want to seem suspicious; the overly casual stride, the rapid movement of eyes. Severin Bellegarde had ticked all the boxes.
And there’d been that paper in his hand. A paper that had disappeared when he left with August, either disposed of or slipped into a pocket. Maybe he’d been looking for a hiding place, somewhere to put it?
With a quick glance up and down the hall to make sure she was still alone, Lore shoved her hand behind the tapestry, between the fabric and the wall. Nothing but smooth wood, at first, but as she ran her fingers along the thread-nubbed back, they caught on something sharp.
A pin, holding in place a tiny slip of paper. She’d bet money it was the same one that had been in Bellegarde’s hand.