He doesn’t behave like someone who has the power to change his country.
As soon as he’s gone, Raelyn swings back to us. “We willsee you tonight.” She flips her hand in discharge and moves between the mirrored thrones as well, catching one of the courtiers by the arm, an older woman who scowls at Ceridwen before they disappear beyond the door Jesse exited.
I start forward when a hand grabs my arm. “I didn’t get a chance to—”
But it isn’t Dendera—it’s Theron.
He hooks my arm around his as everyone else walks back down the throne room, pulling me along like we’re doing what’s expected of us, like we’re normal again. Dendera talks with Conall and Garrigan, but she sees Theron holding me, and her brows rise, asking whether or not I want her to intercede.
I turn to Theron, making that my answer.
“We’ll both get chances to speak with them,” he says, his voice sinking on the way he divides us. “Give them time.”
But as he talks, his focus wanders to the head of our group. Ceridwen lifts her gown and sprints down the room, followed closely by Lekan. She reaches the doors and bursts out, the clacking of her shoes echoing back, her brother and his men chuckling in her wake. My grip tightens on Theron’s arm, an involuntary spasm as I fit together more missing pieces.
“You knew about them?” I whisper.
Theron looks down at me, his other hand rising to cupmy fingers. No, I didn’t mean to hold him like that, but he stares at me, and I can’t read his expression beyond these damn masks.
“Most people know,” he says. “No one speaks of it. It’s been the scandal of the Donati family for years, and Raelyn used to care—until little less than a year ago.”
My jaw goes slack as I think back. “She gave birth to Jesse’s son. She secured the Donati conduit line, and no one could threaten her station anymore.” My lungs deflate, my eyes going to the door we’re approaching. “And yet, Ceridwen still loves him.”
I can feel Theron’s eyes on me, anchors that used to ground me, that now feel more like restraints. “He still loves her too,” he whispers. “No matter how many people tell him it’s wrong. No matter how many courtiers despise him for it. He’ll always love her.”
It seems like a bold statement—how could he possibly know that? Then he runs his thumb up the back of my hand.
He isn’t talking about Jesse anymore.
Thank everything cold, Nessa comes hurrying into the throne room, meeting us as we leave. “Meira,” she says, taking my other arm. “I need to show you something.”
She doesn’t flinch or correct herself for using my name, and that alone makes me want to kiss her, but the exit she offers throws me willingly after her.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say to Theron, unwinding myselffrom his arm. Dendera, Conall, and Garrigan follow, and I let Nessa tug me out of the room, pretending the mask is enough to hide the pang that ricochets over Theron’s face.
Maybe the masks aren’t so bad, actually. They let us live in worlds as untouched as the forest throne room—controlled and glittering, unmarred and perfect. A world where I can focus on the things I need to focus on, not the fragile emotions of broken relationships.
“I have to go after Ceridwen,” I tell Nessa, voice low, the moment we leave the ballroom. The hall is already empty save for the departing Summerian dignitaries, who turn left and head toward the front of the palace.
“I know, but this will help!” Her grip on my arm tightens and she hauls me to the left, dipping down a hall that branches off this main one. “I wasn’t about to just unpack and wait for news—so I asked one of the servants what tapestries are in the palace.”
She beams back at me, veering us left, then right again.
“Tapestries?” I ask.
“Like the one you found in Putnam. I thought maybe it would be a good place to start too! The servant said there’s a whole guild dedicated to the art of tapestry making, but it’s deep in the city. In the palace, though, they have hundreds, which wasn’t a surprise. But he showed me the—”
“He?” Conall cuts in, angling forward as we all practically sprint down the hall.
Nessa blushes but tries to fight it with a roll of her eyes.“Yes,hewas a cheery seventy-year-old butler. Really, you don’t have to worry about me so much.”
Conall pulls back, grumbling to himself.
Nessa continues. “Anyway, he showed me some of the ones they’re most proud of and, well, look!”
She swings open a door to a gallery lined with tapestries: small ones depicting landscapes; large ones depicting battles; long tapestries depicting whole crowds. But none of them holds Nessa’s attention, and she drags me across the otherwise empty room to the far wall, where eight tapestries hang, identical in size and shape.
The four on the right I understand instantly.
