Even in the decadent chaos of his own party, Bastian Arceneaux somehow managed to look bored.
That sense of familiarity came again, looking at him. Almost like déjà vu. Like Bastian fit perfectly into a place in her head that she hadn’t even known was empty.
“Gabriel?” The woman’s voice coming from behind them was light and musical. And from the way the Presque Mort froze beside Lore, it seemed he recognized it.
“Gabriel Remaut?” A questioning lilt, a hint of nervousness. “I’m sorry, maybe I’m mistaken—”
Lore tugged on Gabriel’s arm and turned him around to face the person speaking.
A diminutive woman stood on the edge of the dance floor, with an anxious expression and hair the color of white marble in a cloud of airy curls. Pearlescent dust gleamed across warm copper-brown cheekbones scattered with freckles, sparkling like the wings attached to her white tulle gown, and her eyes matched the delicate dark-green embroidery across the sheer neckline. She looked like a flower fairy, straight from a children’s book, and the smile she broke into was nearly as bright as the rest of her.
His arm somehow tenser than before beneath Lore’s palm, Gabriel inclined his head. “Alienor.”
“It’s really you!” The sparkling woman laughed aloud, clapping her hands together. “Bastian told me you were coming back from the north for a while, to introduce your cousin to society, but I thought he had to be joking!”
“Bastian is less than trustworthy at the best of times, true.”
“Fourteen years of holy service and you still harbor the sin of jealousy.” Alienor mockingly shook her head, making glitter fall from her false wings.
“I was never jealous of him, Alie.”
“Of course you were; every time he’d tell me I looked pretty you’d tell him to watch his mouth around your betrothed. He only did it to get a rise out of you, you know.” Alienor said it lightly, like something funny, but there was a shadow around her eyes that dimmed the illusion.
Betrothed. It explained the tension in Gabriel’s stance. Only ten years old when his father’s betrayal and Anton’s vision pushed him to the Presque Mort, but people were betrothed early in the Court of the Citadel, their lives laid out practically from birth.
Gabe reached up and touched his eye patch self-consciously; Alienor’s gaze followed his hand, her mouth falling a fraction.
“It’s good to see you, Gabe,” she murmured, all teasing gone.
Gabriel lowered his hand. “And you.”
Lore shifted her weight, feeling very much like an intruder.
For the first time, the smaller woman seemed to notice her. Her smile brightened. “And this is your cousin, right? I didn’t know you had one.”
“Third cousin.” Lore offered her hand, reciting the backstory she and Gabriel had come up with in their apartments while he buttoned the back of her dress and tried not to faint at the sight of feminine shoulder blades. “Distant and obscure, social climbing by way of my esteemed relative.”
“Alie, meet Eldelore.” Gabe’s mouth twitched as he said the full name, almost a smirk.
“Just Lore, if you please.” The wide skirt of her dress gave her cover as Lore slipped her foot over Gabe’s and pressed the heel of her shoe into his toe, just enough to make him jerk.
Alienor smiled, taking Lore’s hand and giving her a tiny bow. “Lovely to meet you, Just Lore. And you must call me Alie, all my friends do.”
Alienor’s face was open and kind, with no trace of artifice. Lore found herself desperately hoping it was real, though everything about the Citadel called for caution. “Alie,” she repeated.
The three of them lapsed into uncomfortable silence. The music stopped, then swelled, going from a lively jig to something even more upbeat.
Gabriel frowned. “This music,” he said, twisting his head. “It’s Kirythean.”
“Is it?” Alie looked puzzled, but not disturbed. “Well. That’s interesting.”
“If by interesting you mean traitorous.”
“That seems a bit dramatic.” A new voice, from behind Lore—smooth, courtly, with an upturned edge like it was on the verge of a joke. “I prefer daring to traitorous,” the voice continued.
Gabriel’s one visible blue eye was stormy, teeth clenched tight in his jaw. But Alie grinned, waving a glitter-dusted hand. “Speak his name and he appears.”
Lore turned.
The Sun Prince of Auverraine stood behind her, one brow arched over his domino mask. He’d been handsome from far away, clothed in gleaming white at his Consecration and seen from behind roses in the garden. But up close, wearing all black to match his hair and eyes, he was near to devastating.
And the grin he gave her said he knew it.
“The return of the Remaut family to the Court of the Citadel is a momentous occasion indeed,” Bastian Arceneaux said, clapping Gabe on the back; Gabe stiffened and didn’t move, a tree refusing to bend to a gale. “My father is very excited to have you here, and suggested most strongly that I make you welcome, though I doubt a masquerade was what he had in mind. Technically, we’re all supposed to be at evening prayers, but since I was just Consecrated, I think the Bleeding God will give me the evening off from piety.”
“As if you’ve ever been pious,” Alie scoffed.
“You wound me.” Bastian pressed a hand to his chest, then looked back at Gabe. “I must say, I’m thrilled that I beat out Apollius for your attentions this evening. Sorry about the mask, old friend. I wasn’t sure how it would interfere with…” He waved a hand at his eyes. “All that.”
Lore had known it was Bastian behind the lack of a mask for Gabe, but hearing it still churned her middle. A flippant cruelty, making Gabe the center of attention for people he had no desire to be around. She tried to keep her eyes from narrowing.
Bastian’s lips curved in a mischievous smile that didn’t tell her if she was successful or not. His voice dropped low as he bent and took Lore’s hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance from up close this time. Believe me, had I not been otherwise occupied, I would have stopped to speak with you at the Consecration. It’s rare to get new blood in here.”
She was thankful for his leather gloves; they’d hide the clamminess of her palm. “I’m pleased to provide,” she said, giving him the best coquettish smile she could muster.
Apparently, it wasn’t a good one; she saw Gabe’s mouth twist before he looked away toward the wine table, like he was fighting back a laugh. Lore darted him a quick glare from the corner of her eye. She was supposed to get close to the prince, right? In her experience, this was how the game was played.
But there was something calculating in Bastian’s eyes, a spark of steel that his smile couldn’t hide. Something that said he was just as good at playing games as she was.
Alie crossed her arms, shedding more glitter from her dress. “You told everyone it was supposed to be a costume party, Bastian, but all you wore is black.”