“Understood.”
“...I’m afraid I’ve no clue what you’re referencing as far as rules of engagement.”
Arcas rose from his seat, darting to the wall of bookshelves behind her.
“It’s somewhere here,” he whispered as he scanned dozens of bound spines. “Ah! Yes.” He tilted a deep amethyst volume from a shelf packed with Inner Court writings and handed it to her.
“A Delicate Dance: A Complete History of Lunarian Courtship Rituals,”Lunelle read as she thumbed through the pages. “Arcas, where in the Nether did you get this?”
Arcas shrugged, settling back into his chair. “It’s a commonly referenced text amongst the nobility here.”
Lunelle battled back an unbecoming laugh as she read the section headings, dozens of strange rules she’d never heard of before, documented in bold lettering.
“We don’t practice a single one of these,” Lunelle said through a stunned giggle.
Chaperones are required in any room in which a Lunarian woman is present. If a Lunarian woman is found to have touched a suitor with her bare hand, she must engage in ritualistic cleansing until her next completed cycle in the Lunar Temple. Lunarian women are docile in nature and easily frightened, one must always send a female attending into the room to signal your presence before following.
“None of this is even remotely true, Arcas.”
“I thought it was strange that you danced with me so willingly,” he admitted. “But I thought perhaps since we were outdoors and within view of others?—”
“Where is this from?” she asked, rotating the book in her hands. A gilded icon shimmered at the base of the spine. She held it close, rotating it to catch the light from the window. Lunelle snorted.
“Arcas, this was written by an Ellumian satirist.” She held the book up and flipped to the final page, where the author had included a brief biography and explanation. “This author must warn any readers of this handbook that attempting to abide by these rules will only result in one of the deepest wounds known to the Living Courts—a Lunarian woman’s pity.”
His pale blue complexion flushed violet as blood rushed to his cheeks.
“I am late for a meeting,” he mumbled, snatching the book from her hands and tossing it into a bronze basket beside the desk. He hadn’t been the subject of her pity before—but he certainly forced it from her as he stomped out of the room rather like a child.
ChapterEight
Gods, she was tired.
The only thing keeping her eyes open was finally receiving a letter from her sister after weeks of disconcerting silence. Lunelle knew her mother received a detailed report from the High Priestess and her many eyes and ears each morning, but she also knew her sister.
If eyes were watching her, Astra was well aware and acted accordingly.
It was a sparse communication at best, rife with complaints of the king’s commander, Luxuros, which was not the least bit surprising. She’d watched their few interactions closely, alarmed by the heat searing beneath the commander’s skin.
But if Astra hadn’t beheaded him upon entry into the palace, Lunelle trusted he wasn’t a threat.
Yet.
She’d just finished her final grievance in a lengthy list—the commander doesn’t even laugh at her jokes, for gods’ sakes—when the swift movement of a pale green cape caught her eye.
Mirquios rushed past the library, his boots shuffling against the slick marble of the Plutonian halls. Something in the way he held his shoulders raised the hair on the back of her neck, tickling that space in her soul reserved for truly emergent situations. She argued with herself as she attempted to drag the pen along her response, but an insistent tug within her chest drew her from her seat.
He was in a hurry, that much was clear. As she left the comfort of the library, she saw but a mere slip of his cape curl around the corner. Lunelle followed, her eyes scraping the halls as he darted from the safety of the palace through a side door.
“Princess!”
Lunelle jerked, a silent swear ramming against the side of her head as she found Lura’s wide eyes peering at her from the Divine Mother’s altar at the end of the hall. She stopped as Mirquios disappeared into the night air.
“You seem shaken,” Lura observed.
“I am… not. I was… where do you think the Mercurian king is off to in such a panic?”
Lura’s irises flashed toward the door. She’d heard a pair of boots scuffling by quite hurriedly as she prayed, but she hadn’t caught who they belonged to.
