Memories of the court come back to Raffaele, flashes of nights and mornings filled with the scent of rich soaps. As much as he despised being a helpless consort, he still finds himself thinking about the court with nostalgia, missing the golden afternoons and the musk of night lilies.
Finally, the servants dress him in a velvet robe. The Inquisitors lead him on. The halls grow more intricate as they go, until they finally reach a set of double doors blocked by four guards. The doors are painted with an image of Pulchritas emerging from the sea in all her pristine beauty. Raffaele trembles as the guards push them open now, ushering him inside the royal bedchamber. The doors close behind him with the finality of a coffin.
High, intricately carved ceilings. A canopy bed draped with sheer silks. Candlelight illuminates the entire space as Raffaele looks around the walls of the bedroom. Inquisitors stand shoulder to shoulder along each wall, their white cloaks blending into one another’s. All of them have swords at their belts and crossbows hoisted in Raffaele’s direction. As he steps slowly into the chamber, the arrowheads follow his every movement.
His gaze pauses on the Inquisitor standing at the head of them all, closest to the canopied bed. Teren. The Lead Inquisitor’s face tightens as he meets his eyes. Raffaele lowers his lashes, but he still notices Teren’s energy stir with anger, and the way his hand grips the hilt of his sword so strongly that his knuckles turn white.
An uneasy tingling runs down Raffaele’s spine. Will these soldiers stay in here all night? Will Teren stand by and watch his queen?
“You look well.” Giulietta’s voice comes from where she sits at a small writing desk. She rises, then walks over and stops before him. The fabric of her robes glide behind her in smooth trains of silk. She is paler than Enzo, Raffaele thinks.
She looks him up and down. Then she makes a spinning gesture with one finger. “Turn around,” she commands. “Let me see you.”
Raffaele lets a faint blush touch his cheeks, and does as she says. His velvet robe sweeps the floor, the candlelight revealing swirls and slashings of gold. His hair flows over one shoulder, straight and glossy, tied past his shoulder with a thin gold chain. A few of his sapphire strands glitter in the low light. He looks at her through eyes rimmed with black lines and shimmering silver powder.
Raffaele feels the queen’s energy stir. He reaches out to tug gently on her heartstrings. He studies the shift of her emotions. He can sense her distrust and suspicion of him … but underneath it, he also senses something else. A note of something calculating. And beyond that … a small, singular touch of desire.
“Is Her Majesty pleased with me?” he says when he turns back to her again. His eyes stay downcast.
Giulietta smiles. Her eyes roam over him. She touches his chin with one cool hand. “Hard to say. You haven’t done anything yet.”
He holds his breath, drawing on his familiar exercises to block out a client’s unwanted advances, to escape from his body and do his duties as if he were someone else. Numbing his mind. He goes by the motions, returning Giulietta’s smile with his own trained one, leaning into her touch as if he ached for more, tugging gently on her energy until her pupils dilate. He can almost fool himself.
Beside the bed, Teren looks away.
“You had quite the reputation at the Fortunata Court,” Giulietta says, retracting her hand abruptly and stepping away again. She gives him a curious look. “I can see why. Rumor has it that when my brother was alive, he visited you frequently. He was fond of you, wasn’t he?”
She is baiting him, toying with his emotions. Careful. Raffaele keeps his lashes down and his grief tightly at bay. “He enjoyed my singing and wit,” he replies in a calm, humble voice.
“Your singing and wit,” she echoes, a small smile on her lips. “Is that what the pleasure courts call it now?” A brief pause follows before she continues, “I’ve heard about your power, Messenger. That you can find other Elites like yourself. Is this true?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“What else can you do?”
She fears me, Raffaele thinks. He lowers his eyes and his voice. “I bring comfort and calm,” he replies simply. “I soothe.”
“Then give me some peace of mind, Messenger, and answer me this,” she says. Her eyes harden. “Where are the other Daggers?”
Raffaele doesn’t hesitate. “In Beldain.”
At that, a spark of pleasure lights in Giulietta. She smiles a little and makes a sympathetic sound in her throat. “Ran away after your prince died, didn’t you? If I spared your life, would you betray your fellow Daggers and lure them here?”
Raffaele keeps his eyes downcast, and doesn’t answer.
Giulietta gives him a cold smile. “I didn’t think so,” she murmurs. She nods at her Inquisitors, and they hoist their crossbows higher. Raffaele stays very still, careful not to make a move that will set off one of the Inquisitors. His heart pounds. The queen tilts her head at him. “Are you afraid of death, Messenger?”