Malcolm eyed the room dubiously. “I think the cloisters have more recently updated upholstery, but this place does have more furniture.”
Anton shot him a dark look. “The Consecration begins in less than an hour,” he said, “and both of you must be there.”
Gabriel’s arms tightened across his chest. His one eye slid to Lore, and then away, like someone trying to keep an eye on a horse they thought might kick. “I was unaware you needed my presence at the Consecration.”
“Of course we do.” Something in Anton’s voice sounded… not shrill, but close to it, as if the idea of Gabriel and Lore not being at the Consecration was unfathomable. “You two are to get close to Bastian, so of course you must attend.”
“Will the Sun Prince not find it strange that a random duke’s cousin is suddenly stuck to his ass?” Lore asked from the couch. “If you want me for my spying experience as well as my unfortunate Mortem affliction, let me give a word of advice: Staying on someone like a burr on a pant leg isn’t always the best way to find out the information you want. Sometimes you have to use a bit more subtlety.”
Anton approached the couch and glared down at her. Lore wanted to sit up, but it would feel like a capitulation, so she stayed sprawled over the pillows and gave him an inane smile.
“You will follow the orders you’ve been given.” Anton’s voice was cool and smooth. “To the letter.”
Lore didn’t respond. She shifted on the lumpy throw pillows.
The Priest Exalted stepped away from the couch and turned to Gabriel. “There is appropriate clothing for the girl in one of the bedrooms. For you, as well. Go change, and we will escort you to the Consecration. Bleeding God help us all.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
In their twenty-fourth year of mortal life, the gods ascended: Apollius to the rulership of life and the day, Nyxara to rulership of death and the night, Hestraon to rulership of fire, Lereal to rulership of the air, Braxtos to rulership of the earth, and Caeliar to rulership of the sea.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 7
Lore wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to wear to a Consecration, having never been invited to one. They occurred on your twenty-fourth birthday, but only the nobility made a fuss over them—everyone else would just go get blessed at the South Sanctuary by whatever priest had the time, if they bothered with observing it at all.
The mass of clothes she’d been provided would be overwhelming even if she wasn’t trying to dress for a holy holiday. None of the dresses were as ridiculous as the things she’d seen in the donation closets, thankfully, but they were far finer than anything she’d worn before. In the end, she chose the one that looked easiest to get into by herself. If she asked any of the Presque Mort for help, they’d probably keel over.
The sage-green dress fit too nicely to be a coincidence. Lore studied herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the closet door. A high neck, short, gathered sleeves, and a floor-length skirt that just brushed the top of the matching slippers she’d found lined up beneath the canopied bed. Either the seamstress who’d made it had a dress form exactly her size—unlikely, as she was a good deal curvier than most mannequins she’d seen—or it’d been tailored to her measurements.
Gooseflesh raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. The Presque Mort had known about her since she raised Cedric years ago—Val had told her as much. Still, the knowledge that she’d been watched didn’t settle easily.
Thoughts of Val didn’t settle easily, either. Lore swallowed, hard, forcing down the constriction that wanted to close around her throat, the liquid heat gathering in the corners of her eyes. No time for all that. Letting go was a skill she’d had extensive practice developing. Val and Mari weren’t part of her life anymore. Her life now was silk dresses and matching slippers and a golden leash held by the Sainted King and Priest Exalted.
She tilted up her head, blinked until that prickly feeling in her eyes was gone. All she’d ever done was adapt; this was just one more thing to get used to. She’d survive. She always did.
Lore hastily braided her hair in a crown around her brow, the fanciest hairstyle she knew how to do, and pushed open her door with a sarcastic flourish. “Behold, a lady.”
“Close enough, at least,” Anton said drily.
Behind him, Malcolm tapped at the side of his head. “You have a braiding mishap, my lady.”
“Shit.” Lore turned to an age-spotted mirror hanging on the wall behind the couch. A strand of hair stuck out of her quick braid, making it look like she had half a set of horns. Scowling, she took her hair down and braided it again.