Lore only stuck herself once as she carefully pulled the paper off the sharp end of the pin, leaving her thumb in its place so she could put it back exactly where she’d found it. Keeping her hand beneath the heavy fabric required crouching strangely next to the wall, so she unfolded the note and read it as quickly as she could.
But the note didn’t have words. Just a number.
75.
She frowned at it a moment before hurriedly thrusting the note back behind the tapestry, pricking her finger again and hissing a curse. She was already hopelessly late, and there were seemingly endless stairs between her and Bastian’s apartments.
After making sure the note showed no sign of meddling, Lore went back to the stairs, doing her best not to run. A blister was forming on the arch of her foot, helped along by her thin slippers, and it gave her a counterpoint of discomfort to concentrate on as she thought over what she’d found.
75.
Seventy-five what? Maybe it wasn’t for anything important after all. Maybe Bellegarde was cataloging the tapestries—she didn’t know how many were in the corridor, but seventy-five didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. Maybe he wanted to make sure the turret he lived in during the season had more tapestries than any of the others. It seemed like something a Citadel courtier would do.
She couldn’t quite buy that, though. Bellegarde had acted strangely when he saw her. He’d stood in front of the tapestry like he was trying to hide it, and conversely brought it to her attention instead.
Lore stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking at the tiny bead of blood the pin had brought up. She hoped the note meant something, or she’d just impaled herself for nothing but discovering how many gaudy tapestries August hung in a hallway.
A tactical mind for the ages, Gabe had called her. Gods dead and dying.
Bastian’s directions kept her heading up the stairs, until she reached their end at a corridor wider than any of the others she’d passed. She glanced down at the crude map, at the words written in a surprisingly graceful hand beneath the badly drawn winking face. Between the palms.
The landmark was unneeded. There was only one door at the end of the long, wide hallway, painted white with a swirling pattern of golden suns, two leafy palms on either side. The sounds of laugher drifted from within.
“Here goes.” Lore strode down the hall, raising her hand to knock.
A maidservant opened the door before she could, and to her credit didn’t give Lore the appraising once-over she surely deserved, out of breath and limping due to her rapidly growing blister. Instead the maid only inclined her head, stepping aside to let her into the most beautiful room Lore had ever encountered.
It was breathtaking in its simplicity. The walls were pale marble, veined in delicate traceries of gold, left bare of art in favor of showing off their simple beauty. Tiles in blushed, subdued colors made up the floor, turning the whole expanse to a disorienting whirl of swirls and arabesques, like standing in a cloud. In the center of the room, a stone fountain shot jets of water up toward the domed glass roof, disturbingly similar to the one covering the vaults, and arched windows in the walls were nearly blocked by a green profusion of plants. Beyond the open foyer, a staircase led to what Lore assumed were more rooms, a mansion in its own right sitting on top of the Citadel.
She might’ve stood there gaping for hours if Alienor hadn’t called to her. “Lore!”
Alie, grinning brightly and dressed in pale yellow that made her copper skin glow, hurried over to clasp her arm. “I’m so glad you could come!” She waved a hand to indicate the room. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Bastian usually keeps it a mess in here, but apparently his apartments were deep-cleaned before ours were.”
“It’s beautiful.” It was easy to imagine Bastian here, in the glow of the light through the clear windows, surrounded by lush plants in the prime of health. Alie looked at home here, too. They both had some inner, shimmering quality that made them fit in with light and air, with easy luxury.
Lore wondered just how out of place she looked.
“Ridiculously beautiful, much like the man himself.” Alie arched a pale brow. “At least he put the peacocks in the garden for the afternoon. I hate those things. They’re so loud, I don’t understand how he ever sleeps.”
“I don’t think he sleeps in here much,” said a new voice. In an alcove walled completely in sparkling glass and stuffed with emerald ferns, a woman with jet-colored hair and eyes to match took a sip from a delicate teacup, its pale gleam complementary to her golden-brown skin. “Just hosts parties and carouses.”