“This was the piece the letter spoke of,” Lilia said quietly. The flame of her lighter was precariously close to her fingers; she appeared not to feel it. “It had been sent back to the creator and then reshipped—I thought it was to confuse anyone who might be looking for the shard.”
“It must have been sent back for artist revisions.” The word seemed inadequate. Alie’s mouth puckered around it. “Every Arceneaux ruler has a portrait. Bastian must have commissioned this one as soon as he asked Lore to marry him, if there was time for one to be completed and revised. I guess Apollius wanted it to look different.”
A harsh swallow worked down Lilia’s throat. She flipped the lighter closed, apparently feeling the burn of it on her fingertips, before opening it back up again.
Back in the fabric-swathed graveyard of old art, Alie heard the sound of a door closing.
Lilia reacted faster than Alie did. She ducked behind the painting, her lighter snapping shut; in the sudden dark, Alie flailed, unsure where to go. Light bloomed behind her from whoever approached, holding a candelabra of their own. “Alie?”
Of course it would be Jax.
Composing her face into gentle chagrin, Alie turned to face her fiancé. “I’m sure this looks odd.” She huffed a rueful laugh. “I was just looking for an old painting I remembered my mother having when I was young—”
Behind the portrait of Lore, a crash.
Jax’s eyes whipped from Alie to the portrait as he stepped in front of her, candelabra held like a sword. “Who’s there?”
Lilia stepped out from behind the painting, eyes downcast, once again in the attitude of a servant. “I’m sorry, my lady.” Even her accent was different, country-broad. Overkill, Alie thought,since most Citadel servants were from Dellaire, but she wasn’t in the position to be giving notes. “I looked through to the back of the room, but I couldn’t find it.”
His brow rose, but the ruse seemed to work; Jax didn’t waste time looking at Lilia once his mind categorized her as help. His face softened as he glanced at Alie. “Anything confiscated from noble houses will be in a different room,” he said. “This is only for Citadel art.”
“Of course,” Alie said, smiling. But she couldn’t help the way her eyes flickered sideways, drawn once again to that uncanny portrait of Lore.
Jax followed her gaze. He didn’t grimace, but it was a close thing, a pull of distaste at the corner of his mouth. “Not much of a likeness, is it?”
Alie didn’t respond.
She didn’t really need to; he didn’t look at her, instead frowning up at the giant portrait. “He’s considering more revisions,” he said. “The King wants her to appear triumphant. Fiercer.” He shook his head. “It all seems like a waste of resources to me. I’ve never been one for portraits.”
“I’m surprised that He would want her fierce,” Alie said. “Seems more like He wanted her as broken as He could get her.”
“I can’t quite figure out His feelings on the matter,” Jax murmured. “Whether He loves her or hates her or just wants to own her.”
Next to the portrait, Lilia stiffened.
“Come.” Jax turned back toward the door. “I’ll show you the proper room to look in, for something from your mother’s estate.”
Alie and Lilia followed him out. Right before the door closed, Alie glanced back over her shoulder, looking at the portrait one more time.
In the dim light, the shape of Lore’s face changed, angles sharpened and hollows deeper. It barely looked like her at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LORE
In all things, you will see My hand.
—The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 778
Morning, Your Majesty.”
Every part of Lore ached. Her head pounded, her eyes were gritty, and her back shrieked, stretched out on a thin layer of sand that barely cushioned against the shale of the cliff. They’d stayed worrisomely close to the edge last night, not quite near enough for Lore to reach out and touch empty air, but not far off. Safer that way, Dani said. Less likely for someone to come upon them by accident.
Not that anyone would be traveling on the cliffs, anyway. This part of the island, scrubby and nearly treeless, was mostly left alone.
The night before, they’d traveled halfway to the southern side of the island, where the repair dock was located. They’d stopped to sleep on the cliffs as the sun began to rise, where Lore anticipated being kept awake by nerves and guilt and the interruption of her natural rhythm. Instead, she’d dropped almost immediately into a deep sleep, ending up on the dreamwalking beach. No one else showed.
Still, she’d stayed there until she woke, not letting herself wander into another dream. On the off chance that someone would appear, yes, but also as a test of her mettle. The only other time she’d done this was when Anton was creeping into her dreams, unspooling her power to kill those villages, and dreamwalking still made her nervous. Making herself stay, forcing it to be on her own terms, helped heal that fear. Not all of it, but some.
