Alie watched him line up his shot, her lip between her teeth. Lore picked up her mallet and came to stand next to her. “Sorry I’m making you lose.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Alie waved a hand. “Last week, I beat Olivier in all three rounds we played on singles, so now he’s just trying to save face and show off for Bastian.”
Her words were light, but her eyes still tracked Gabe. Lore couldn’t quite read the other woman’s expression. It was too complicated to be longing, too soft to really be regret.
Gabe, for his part, had hardly spoken to his former betrothed beyond what was courteous. Lore had seen Alie try more than once to strike up a conversation, and while Gabe wasn’t rude, he didn’t do much more than nod. When Alie was near him, he itched at his eye patch, as if her presence reminded him it was there.
“Well,” Lore said, “maybe you and I and Gabe can have a few practice rounds before next time.”
A sunny smile broke over the other woman’s face. “That sounds lovely. And it reminds me: I sent you that tea invitation for later this week, but I wanted you to know it was a standing invite—my friends and I meet every Sixth Day, and we’d love to have you join us whenever you’re able.”
Unfamiliar warmth suffused Lore’s chest. This offer of friendship was probably more about Gabe than it was about her—the way Alie watched him made it clear she wanted to know the man her former betrothed had become—but she’d take it. She hadn’t had friends in a while.
And being friends with Alie might help her find more information about who in the court could be working with Kirythea.
“Thank you,” Lore said.
Alie took her hand and squeezed.
On the field, Cecelia took her turn—an easy point—and then sauntered over to Alie and Lore. As she walked, she pulled a thin flask from a pocket within her skirt and took a quick nip. The herbal scent of belladonna knifed at Lore’s nose.
“Where do you get that?” she asked.
She expected Cecelia’s eyes to widen, expected her to act like the caught criminal she technically was. But Cecelia just gave her a coquettish smile and took another sip. “The same place everyone here gets their poison,” she said, primly capping the flask and tucking it away. “The storage rooms where the bloodcoats put it once it’s confiscated.”
Every muscle in Lore’s body stiffened. Next to her, Alie pulled her bottom lip worriedly between her teeth.
Apparently, Cecelia didn’t notice. “I can show you where it is, if you want,” she said breezily. “It’s not hard to find—”
“Cecelia.” Though her friend didn’t notice Lore’s discomfort, Alie did. She shook her head, slightly, near-white curls ruffling.
The other woman gave a showy shrug. “Suit yourself.” She wandered over to the rest of her team, offering both Bastian and Olivier a sip of her flask. Olivier accepted, but Bastian declined, the dark glitter of his eyes arcing to Lore across the green.
The game ended quickly, with Bastian taking the winning hoop. Cecelia and Olivier excused themselves quickly, saying they had a dinner to attend. As they were leaving, Cecelia glanced over her shoulder at Lore. “If you change your mind,” she said with a wave, “let me know! We can make a party of it!”
Lore’s hand pulled into a fist at her side, hidden in the billowing lavender skirts of her gown.
Bastian walked over with his mallet swung across his shoulders, frowning after Cecelia and her brother. “What would you be changing your mind about, Lore?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She focused on releasing her fists. On taking in deep breaths and letting them out. “I won’t be changing my mind.”
He arched a dark brow. “It wouldn’t be about poison, would it?”
Lore said nothing.
“I wish she wouldn’t,” Alie said softly. She’d crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers picking anxiously at the embroidery on her sleeves. “I know she has a good reason—as much as one can—but I still wish she wouldn’t.”
“There’s no good reason to poison yourself.” Gabe stood dour and looming at the edge of the group, mallet held in his hand like a cudgel. “Intentionally altering the balance of Spiritum and Mortem within a human body goes against the Tracts.”
“There’s more to right and wrong than what’s in the Tracts, Gabe.” Alie didn’t snap, not really, but her voice had an edge in it that Lore hadn’t heard before.
Gabe noticed. Surprise flickered across his face.
“I was unaware Cecelia was partial to poisoning until the night of the masque,” Bastian said, taking hold of the conversation and steering it back in the direction he wanted.
“She just started.” Alie sighed. “And she has her reasons.”
“The high being first among them, I assume,” Bastian said drily.
“It’s not that. Or not just that, anyway.” Alie shook her head. “She’s sick. It’s not hugely aggressive, the physicians say, but enough that her life expectancy is… lessened. Cecelia started taking the belladonna in the hope it would add some years.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Now, she certainly shouldn’t be taking as much as she did the night of your masquerade, Bastian, but she’s scared.”
Angry heat raised color in Lore’s cheeks; she glanced away so none of them would see. Regardless of Cecelia’s reasons, it was still true that her noble privilege kept her from facing the same consequences as someone outside the Citadel. Lore had known more than one person who’d taken poison because of illness, needing it to extend their lives so they could take care of loved ones. There were some deathdealers who only served such clients—Val and Mari did their running for free, charging the other deathdealers more to make up for it.
But when those clients were caught, no one cared about their reasons. It was the Burnt Isles for them all.
And apparently, the poison they paid so dearly for went into noble cups instead.
The hard shine in Gabe’s eye said he followed Lore’s thoughts. He dropped his mallet and crossed his arms. “There’s many people outside the Citadel who are scared for the same reason,” he said. “But they certainly can’t walk around with a flask of belladonna tea.”
“I’m not saying it’s right,” Alie said softly. “How she gets it certainly isn’t right. But I understand why she takes it. I understand being afraid of death, wanting to do whatever you can to make sure it doesn’t find you before you’re ready.”
Bastian said nothing, leaning on his mallet, a thoughtful crease to his brow.
“I should go, too,” Alie said after a moment. She pointed at Lore as she walked backward, toward the Citadel. “You promised to practice, don’t forget! I’ll see you at tea, if not before!”
“See you then.” Lore waved and managed a smile.