“This is the new healer, Mademoiselle Trépas,” the valet informed them, and I felt the weight of their eyes fall upon me. Some glanced away quickly, gazing back into the distance, as if readying for an attack, but one of them offered me a smile of encouragement. Hemoved to open the door for us, but Aloysius held up his finger, stalling him.
“This is the royal family’s private wing,” the valet began. He raised one waxed brow with a look of warning.
How poorly did he think of me? My clothes might be creased and well-traveled, but that didn’t mean I planned to sprint through the palace like a feral child.
I held his gaze and dared to raise one of my own eyebrows at him. When it was clear neither of us was going to look away, he nodded to the guards, who pulled opened the doors, allowing us access.
I wanted to remain unaffected, but my mouth dropped open as we walked into the grandeur of the royal wing.
The hall alone was wide enough to serve as a ballroom, and three massive chandeliers hung spaced along its length. Crystal baubles bigger than my splayed hands cast shimmering rainbows across a ceiling of black and gold. Two walls were made entirely of mirrors, amplifying the candlelight and making the space as bright as noon.
Aloysius allowed me to take in the room’s glory, hiding a twist of his lips as I turned in a circle to gape at the oil paintings, the marble columns, the gilding, and the sheer brilliance of this moment. My feet sank into the plush black carpet. I longed to run my fingers through its thick wefts but doubted the valet would appreciate my common gawking.
Aloysius beckoned me to a monumentally large portrait. I’d never felt so singularly small as I gazed up at the crowned figure. Forget-me-not-blue eyes stared out, surveying the room and somehow finding it wanting. There was a slight sneer along his nasal fold, drawing down one corner of his thin lips. A scepter rested across his lap. Iwondered if he truly hadn’t wanted to hold it while being painted or if the artist had hoped to imply something deeper by leaving it forgotten.
“King Marnaigne,” Aloysius clarified unnecessarily. “Just months after he took the throne.”
“He’s very handsome,” I murmured, studying the carefully rendered golden hair, his proud nose.
“He was a fine young man.”
I turned back to the valet. “You’ve been with him long?”
He nodded. “Since he was a boy. It makes this…harder.”
A dark seed of unease sprouted in my chest. What was I about to walk into?
“Shall we?” he asked.
His voice was softer now, almost gentle. How many healers had they gone through? How many had waltzed into the palace, claiming to have healing potions and cures, only to be cast out when their medicines failed? How many times had Aloysius performed thistour?
It was no wonder he was so clipped and abrupt.
I glanced back at the portrait for one last look, then nodded.
As Aloysius escorted me down the hall, I noticed he now walked at my side rather than five steps ahead. We stopped outside a set of ebony doors. An elaborate pastoral scene was carved so deeply within them, the villagers looked like three-dimensional dolls. There were trees, weeping willows with individual branches hanging down, tall pines with woodpeckers clinging to their trunks. There was a mill, with a waterwheel so intricately rendered, I had the urge to reach out and see if it spun. It was the only part of the door where the varnish was less than pristine. Clearly I wasn’t the first to have such an idea.
Aloysius knocked once, drawing a muffled response from inside.
The doors swung open, revealing more guards, more livery, more halberds.
Before I could move to enter, Aloysius’s fingers fell atop my forearm, stopping me. “If you would, Mademoiselle Trépas,” he said, his voice tight, “remember him as he was in the painting.”
I swallowed as dread bloomed within my gut. There was such naked pleading in the valet’s eyes, such stark worry, it nearly took away my breath.
“I will,” I said, wanting to wipe that horrible expression from his face, wanting to reassure him that I was talented and competent, wanting to promise that I would be able to save the king.
I stepped inside and promptly forgot every aspect of the portrait.
Chapter 24
King Marnaigne sat at theside of an oversized sleigh bed in a long damask robe, looking surprisingly small against the suite’s sheer sumptuousness.
Like the rest of the palace, the king’s chambers were done up in black and gold, with so much gilding along the walls and ceiling, I had to squint against its luster. A canopy draped over the bed and down the back wall. Heavy silk cords drew the dark satin up into decadent scallops. The Marnaigne emblem—a great bull—topped the frame, standing straight and proud, chest puffed against the world. Rubies the size of robins’ eggs winked from its eyes, and it appeared to be made of solid gold.
I absently wondered if the king ever worried the weight of it might split the bed timbers and come crashing down on him in the middle of the night.
“Curtsy,” Aloysius hissed, jerking my attention back to the present as he performed a deep bow himself. “Your Majesty.”
