Muffled, hidden in her hair. “Tell me.”
So she did. How she sneaked into the greenhouse, that night after the tomb broke in the catacombs, after she gave Nyxara her first bodily death. How she cut off his head with the garden shears.
“He was in pain, Gabe,” she murmured. “That wasn’t any kind of life, not really. I was trying to be merciful. As merciful as I can be.”
That was a kind of confession. Deep down, Lore was not a being disposed to mercy. Even without the Buried Goddess in her head, she was a dark and harsh thing, beautiful in the way a sharpened blade was beautiful.
“I know,” Gabe said. He took a deep breath. “I know.”
A pause on the silent beach. Time was slipping away from them. He could feel Lore going more diaphanous, melting into the air. Waking up.
“I should be grateful,” Gabe said finally. “That you could do what I was too weak to.”
“Not weak,” Lore corrected, grabbing his jaw, making him look at her. “Too good.”
But that wasn’t right. If Lore was a dark and harsh thing, so was he, down in the bedrock of himself. Even if he’d tried so hard to scrub those stones clean.
She faded away, slowly. He stood there as it happened, until she was gone, until the circle of his arms was empty.
Gabe closed his eye.
The scent of burning dough woke him—Val was probably trying to help with breakfast again. She’d taken it upon herself to be useful since they moved in a week or so ago.
Gabe forced himself out of bed, performed the barest hint of ablutions at the basin in the corner, picking up the straight razor meant for his face and turning in the spotted mirror to try shaving his head instead. He’d never kept it as short as Malcolm, shaven straight to the scalp, but it was probably all he could manage at the moment.
His fingers lingered on his hair, where Lore had run her hands through it in his not-dream. He put the razor down.
Downstairs, a cheery girl from the market was delivering milk and eggs to Mrs. Cavendish, the landlady. The delivery girl’s name was Lucie, and before they’d moved in, she apparently only came by once a week. Ever since she saw Gabe, she’d been here every other day.
She sat on the edge of the table, eating a scone Mrs. Cavendishhad provided—one that wasn’t burnt, so probably not the responsibility of Val. “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t have more deliveries today!”
“Then we’d love for you to stay, dear,” Mrs. Cavendish said.
Mari, seated at the table with coffee, looked at Gabe and hid a smirk behind her mug when she saw his grimace. He took a seat as far from Lucie as he could.
Oblivious, Lucie leaned conspiratorially close, nominally looking to Mari before turning back to Gabe so they were both included. “Did you hear about what happened?”
Gabe picked up a scone. “No.”
Lucie seemed thrilled to be the one to impart the news. “The Sainted King in Auverraine is claiming to be Apollius reborn.”
It wasn’t news to Gabe, obviously, but he didn’t have to feign his surprise. His pulse kicked in his wrists, and his breath hitched.
“Well, I never.” Mrs. Cavendish shook her head at the oven. “It seems something dramatic is always happening in Auverraine.”
“Quite a claim.” Mari’s smirk had fled the scene, her face grave. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Oh, everyone is talking about it.” Lucie waved a hand. “I heard it from Matilda, who heard it from Grace, who learned it from her husband, who guards at the Rotunda in the evenings for a little extra pay. Between that and a new Arceneaux sister, it seems things are interesting in Dellaire.” She grinned at Gabe. “Makes you glad to be here instead, right? I’m glad you are, anyway. Dangerous down there.”
He was not one to be flirted with often—he didn’t have the demeanor for it, and the Presque Mort tattoos on his palms put off anyone who might be brave enough to look beyond his glower—but Gabe knew Lucie was flirting with him.
She was very pretty. Logically, he knew that. Green eyes and bright-red hair the color of poppies, an easy smile. But he was spoken for. Spoken for twice over.
“Interesting,” Mari said, when it became clear that Gabe wasn’tgoing to give the verbal reaction Lucie wanted. She managed a wry smile. “It was always clear that the King thought highly of himself, but claiming to be a god is taking it to another level entirely.”
Lucie laughed, sliding off the table. “Well, they say he’s as handsome as a god, so I guess it went to his head. I’ve only seen portraits, myself. They’re certainly godlike, though I think some artistic liberties were taken.”
“No,” Gabe murmured. “He really looks like that.”
