Alienor’s face was open and kind, with no trace of artifice. Lore found herself desperately hoping it was real, though everything about the Citadel called for caution. “Alie,” she repeated.
The three of them lapsed into uncomfortable silence. The music stopped, then swelled, going from a lively jig to something even more upbeat.
Gabriel frowned. “This music,” he said, twisting his head. “It’s Kirythean.”
“Is it?” Alie looked puzzled, but not disturbed. “Well. That’s interesting.”
“If by interesting you mean traitorous.”
“That seems a bit dramatic.” A new voice, from behind Lore—smooth, courtly, with an upturned edge like it was on the verge of a joke. “I prefer daring to traitorous,” the voice continued.
Gabriel’s one visible blue eye was stormy, teeth clenched tight in his jaw. But Alie grinned, waving a glitter-dusted hand. “Speak his name and he appears.”
Lore turned.
The Sun Prince of Auverraine stood behind her, one brow arched over his domino mask. He’d been handsome from far away, clothed in gleaming white at his Consecration and seen from behind roses in the garden. But up close, wearing all black to match his hair and eyes, he was near to devastating.
And the grin he gave her said he knew it.
“The return of the Remaut family to the Court of the Citadel is a momentous occasion indeed,” Bastian Arceneaux said, clapping Gabe on the back; Gabe stiffened and didn’t move, a tree refusing to bend to a gale. “My father is very excited to have you here, and suggested most strongly that I make you welcome, though I doubt a masquerade was what he had in mind. Technically, we’re all supposed to be at evening prayers, but since I was just Consecrated, I think the Bleeding God will give me the evening off from piety.”
“As if you’ve ever been pious,” Alie scoffed.
“You wound me.” Bastian pressed a hand to his chest, then looked back at Gabe. “I must say, I’m thrilled that I beat out Apollius for your attentions this evening. Sorry about the mask, old friend. I wasn’t sure how it would interfere with…” He waved a hand at his eyes. “All that.”
Lore had known it was Bastian behind the lack of a mask for Gabe, but hearing it still churned her middle. A flippant cruelty, making Gabe the center of attention for people he had no desire to be around. She tried to keep her eyes from narrowing.
Bastian’s lips curved in a mischievous smile that didn’t tell her if she was successful or not. His voice dropped low as he bent and took Lore’s hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance from up close this time. Believe me, had I not been otherwise occupied, I would have stopped to speak with you at the Consecration. It’s rare to get new blood in here.”
She was thankful for his leather gloves; they’d hide the clamminess of her palm. “I’m pleased to provide,” she said, giving him the best coquettish smile she could muster.
Apparently, it wasn’t a good one; she saw Gabe’s mouth twist before he looked away toward the wine table, like he was fighting back a laugh. Lore darted him a quick glare from the corner of her eye. She was supposed to get close to the prince, right? In her experience, this was how the game was played.
But there was something calculating in Bastian’s eyes, a spark of steel that his smile couldn’t hide. Something that said he was just as good at playing games as she was.
Alie crossed her arms, shedding more glitter from her dress. “You told everyone it was supposed to be a costume party, Bastian, but all you wore is black.”
“I’m a night.” The Sun Prince straightened, releasing Lore’s hand and gesturing to the shining sword by his side. For being part of a costume, the blade still looked sharp. “Get it?”
“Bleeding God.” Alie rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. “Everyone will think they’re overdressed, as opposed to you just being lazy.”
“Oh, no, they all know I’m lazy.” Bastian’s eyes hadn’t left Lore’s. She held his by instinct, as if she’d unwittingly entered a battle of wills by meeting his gaze. A battle she now refused to lose.
A courtier approached, dressed in layers of pastel rainbow tulle, eyes lined in shimmering dust. She swayed on her feet, a glass clutched in her hand. More poison, the assault of it making Lore’s nose wrinkle and her fingertips go numb. Instinctively, she backed up, nearly stepping on Gabe’s foot again. The awareness of Mortem was just a tingle, a prickle of unease and slight nausea. That mental trick Gabe had taught her must really be something.