“But he won’t love me like you do,” Yves said. Charon froze. “You do, don’t you? What you said to Laurent about us being impossible, you were talking about Nikos, about what you’d done in Arktos. You weren’t talking about me.”
He knew it was true as soon as he said it. Charon loved him. He’d loved him for years. Every late night they’d spent together, every time they’d taken up the kitchen while the other courtesans rolled their eyes, every sidelong glance and unspoken word, it was all there between them, as obvious as the fact that Charon was running from it.
“You heard what I said to Laurent,” Charon said.
“And it’s bullshit.” Yves took a step forward. “An attachment is impossible? Well, consider me attached, Charon. Nikos. I’m attached to both of you. Do you think I’d have gone into that room for someone I didn’t love?”
Charon held his bag over one shoulder, staring down at Yves as though his heart might shatter. Yves moved closer.
“Tell me that you don’t love me, Charon.” He grabbed the strap of Charon’s bag. “Tell me you haven’t loved me all this time.”
Charon took a slow, deliberate step toward Yves. Yves could feel the heat of his body, and as Charon stooped closer, he remembered that same warmth the night of the ball, comforting and familiar. It was his dominance, always present but never oppressive, like a fire burning in a hearth.
“Tell me that wasn’t you who kissed me at the ball last night,” Yves said.
Charon raised a hand, then hesitated. The blood on his fingers had gone dark like flakes of rust, and it lay thick under his thumbnail. Charon dropped his hand.
“Goodbye, Yves.”
The air left Yves’ lungs as though he’d been struck in the chest. He turned stiffly as Charon left the half-empty room, and tried to force himself to follow. He wasn’t a man who simply let things happen. He’d left his village for Duciel despite the protests of his entire family, he’d built a reputation for being the best brat in the Pleasure District, and he even convinced Laurent to plan his wedding. He didn’t give up. He didn’t break. He bent—prettily, with his hair tossed artfully and a glitter of mischief in his demure expression. He wasn’t the kind of man to sob like a child in the room of the man he loved. He wasn’t someone who would sit down in the middle of the floor and let Charon walk away.
It was Olly who found him there. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the growing dark, nursing the pain that felt like something had cracked in his chest, but when he looked up into Olly’s face, he realized that the only light came from the hall outside.
“I don’t want to see you right now, Olly,” Yves said. His voice sounded thick and miserable.
Olly crossed the threshold into Charon’s room. They were still holding their cat, and they reached out wordlessly to take one of Yves’ hands. Yves stared at them curiously, but Olly just placed Yves’ hand on the cat’s soft fur.
“It helps, sometimes,” they said.
Yves let out a soft, hiccoughing sob and stroked the cat. He rumbled in pleasure, and that was enough to bring the tearsrushing back, ugly and weak, his whole body shaking with the force of them.
“If he doesn’t love you enough to stick around, we can set fire to his things in the garden,” Olly said.
Yves was almost startled out of his misery by that. He looked up into Olly’s big, dark eyes. “I can’t do that.”
“All right,” Olly said, and returned to petting their cat. “But the offer stands.”
Yves stood in the middle of King Adrien’s private ballroom and tried to feel something.
“It was very kind of him to offer,” Raul said. He’d been treating Yves like a delicate soap bubble ever since Charon had left Duciel. Yves knew he was being unfair. Charon had been right: Raul was kind. He was thoughtful. Yves quite liked him, even when he was so meek and nervous that he tried to shrink into the wallpaper. They could have been good friends, if Yves weren’t so deep into melancholy that he couldn’t even be excited about using the king’s own ballroom for the wedding. King Adrien was supposed to be in attendance, a rare appearance for a wedding that featured a courtesan and a Kallistoi.
Yves knew exactly why King Adrien was coming, of course. The coast near Red Harbor had been burning for days—riots had broken out when the first of Marteau’s private brothels were raided. Someone had grabbed the guestbook, which featured several judges who’d been ferrying prisoners to the brothels. The king’s soldiers had knocked one too many heads in the ensuing fight, and now the navy was stranded as rioters took over the harbor. Everyone was saying that Yves had been the one to discover Lord Marteau’s plot, so the king was treating him like apersonal friend in the hopes of preventing Duciel’s citizens from following suit. King Adrien may have been the most agreeable king in recent history, but he couldn’t risk a riot in the capital.
So now here Yves was, letting the king’s steward plan a wedding while Sabre conscripted Laurent into some clandestine business for the crown. Here he was, trying not to scream in the middle of an empty ballroom.
“Maybe we should go outside for a minute,” Raul said, and Yves looked up at him in alarm, blinking fast.
“Sorry. I was a little overwhelmed.”
Raul nodded. “I understand that. We’ll have a smaller ceremony in Kallistos when I introduce you to the family.” He nodded to the doors, and Yves gratefully took the chance to escape.
Over the past few days, Raul had become almost talkative. Yves could tell it was to make up for his own unnatural silence, but he couldn’t seem to muster up the energy. He’d moved out of the House of Onyx and into Raul’s townhouse. He’d packed most of his things for the trip to Kallistos, and he was dithering on renting a house in Duciel to live in while Raul made glass halfway across the continent. He’d even invited his family, despite the fact that they’d left for the country after that disastrous afternoon in the garden. His mother would probably never speak to him again.
He took a slow, steadying breath.
“Well, I think it’s nice, even if you’re bored by it,” Percy said.
Yves blinked. Three days had passed—days of ribbons, flower arrangements, invitations, and dance troupes filing into the city. The coast was still burning. Yves stood in the palace tailor’s personal home office and stared at himself in the mirror.
