The maid giggles and hurries away.
“And here we have Sir Reginald the Bold.” He gestures to a suit of armor. “He hasn’t moved from this spot in decades. Such dedication.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” I ask.
“Now that’s an interesting philosophical question. What truly defines talking? Is it the words themselves or the meaning behind them? Oh, good morning, Frederick,” he says as he waves at another guard.
We turn a corner, and he gasps at another bust. “Lady Beatrice. You’ve changed your hair. Very daring choice, going for the whole stone look.”
Two maids passing by burst into laughter, which only encourages him more.
“You know,” he says, “these halls used to be so dreary before I started naming all the artwork. Now they’re positively buzzing with personality. Isn’t that right, Geoffrey?” He pats a gargoyle on the head.
I press my lips together, fighting back amusement. It’s harder than it should be to remember he’s my enemy when he’s like this.
“Is that…” Aleksander leans closer to inspect my face, “…could it be? No, surely not.”
“What?”
“I do believe that was almost a smile.” He leans toward a window and yells out. “Quick, someone alert the palace scribes. This moment must be recorded for posterity.”
My lips instantly pull down into a frown. “It wasn’t.”
“Oh, but it was.” He moves ahead of me, then walks backward to keep facing me. “I saw it with my own eyes. Right there.” He points at my mouth. “The corners went up and everything.”
“You’re seeing things.”
“Am I?” He raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps we should consult Sir Reginald. He witnessed the whole thing.”
“The suit of armor?”
“He’s very observant.” Aleksander grins. “Haven’t you noticed how he follows you with his eyes?”
“He doesn’t have eyes.”
“Details, details.” Dismissively, he waves his hand. “The point is, you smiled. Or at least attempted to. It was a valiant effort, really. A bit rusty, but with practice—”
“—I did not smile.”
“Denial won’t change the truth, Annora.” He places a hand over his heart. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Well, me and Sir Reginald. And possibly Lady Beatrice, but she’s quite good at keeping things to herself. Being made of stone helps with that.”
I scowl at him, which only makes his grin widen.
“Much better,” he says. “That frown suits you far more. We wouldn’t want people thinking you’re actually enjoying yourself.”
When we reach the door outside the Argent Chamber, he shoves it open. It takes everything in me to follow him into the room, where rose-colored marble stretches across the floor, tall windows line the circular walls, and ancient tomes rest on shelves carved directly into the stone.
In the center, a raised dais holds what appears to be a pool of liquid silver. But it’s not the dais that holds my attention. It’s the person standing there, a smile on her face.
Rowena.
The House of Crimson’s Muchrah.
She looks the same as she always does—autumn-colored eyes and long gray hair.
The corners of her mouth lift into that familiar gentle smile, the one that made learning about crimson fire magic fun.
“What…” I swallow and start over. “What is she doing here?”
