“What’s the worst that happens if I assume it’s a suggestion?”
Luvian took a deep breath. “You lose the support of the Jedenvat for going against their clear wishes. Which, if you absolutely win the public vote, isn’t an immediate concern, but will make you the head of a council who don’t trust you. And if you don’t win the public vote, and it comes down to the Jedenvat making the final call, you’re, how should I phrase it … buggered. Utterly buggered.”
The word Sorrow uttered in response made Luvian grin widely. “My, my, Miss Ventaxis. Where did you learn such language?”
“Fine,” she fumed, ignoring him. “I’ll give them their presentations. I’ll give them the best ones in Rhannish history.”
But now the time for the first presentation was almost upon her, all her swagger had vanished, leaving her feeling desperately unready and unprepared.
“So, the presentation to the people.” Irris thumbed her way through her notes. They were in a small library, sitting at opposite ends of a plush dark-green sofa. “Stay away from anything controversial. Luvian says you should use this time to show the people you can be mature, calm and focused,” she read from the paper in her hand. “You need to show them you’re not like your father. Then the second one will be you in decisive, powerful mode for the Jedenvat. That’ll be interesting.” Irris looked up and grinned at Sorrow.
“Ha ha.”
“The important thing is to stay cool. Don’t get flustered.”
“Irri, it sounds like you’re expecting me to mess up,” Sorrow said, half joking.
Irris didn’t smile.
“Oh,” Sorrow said.
“You’re not used to speaking in front of crowds. And Mael is a consummate performer, currently playing the role of the prodigal son,” Irris added. “Who knows how long he’s been trained for this moment?”
“And if we’d found proof he was a performer, this would all be moot. We would be in Istevar, overseeing the renovations at the Winter Palace. Or finally enjoying the Summer Palace.”
“You’d still have to do some work,” Irris reminded her. “There would still be an election.”
“But I’d be the only name on the ballot.”
“We’ve found Corius, at least,” Irris said.
Sorrow snorted, remembering Luvian’s face when they’d learned the Rhyllian tailor, who’d made the suit Mael wore on the day he fell, was dead. “I’m only surprised Luvian didn’t demand him dug up and interrogated. He’s hardly dead at all, a mere matter of weeks,” Sorrow said, mimicking Luvian’s drawl with uncanny accuracy.
“If it helps, my father would probably have approved it.” Irris arched a brow. “He’s worried about how little we’ve been able to find, too.”
Sorrow began to smile, but it faded. “Someone, somewhere, preferably still alive, must know something. We need to know where Vespus is hiding this Beliss woman. And find the artist, Graxal…”
She and Irris had finally determined the signature on the portrait of Mael read Graxal, though that told them nothing. Sorrow had asked to bring it with her, but the request had been denied. Further questioning revealed the portraits were delivered to the Summer Palace on the eve of the bridge memorial every year, from an artist in Rhylla who wished that he, and the portrait’s commissioner, remain anonymous.
Sorrow had announced she had no intention of respecting his wishes and demanded an address, determined to prove a link between the artist and Vespus, only to be told the address had been mysteriously lost, and her best bet was to wait and see if the artist delivered a portrait the following year. Luvian had applauded her “inventive” use of language after that pronouncement, too.
“I wish it would happen a bit faster. I wish we didn’t have to be so secretive about it.”
“Well, it might be easier to find things once you’re in Rhylla,” Irris said. “Luvian certainly seems confident.”
“Luvian always seems confident,” Sorrow muttered darkly. “I wish you were coming.”
“Me too.” Irris smiled before adding carefully, “Rasmus will be at the Naming, won’t he?”
Sorrow had been trying not to think about it.
Rasmus had not attended Harun’s funeral. Caspar, prince consort, came in Melisia’s place, as Melisia had not long given birth to their much longed for second child. Sorrow had expected Rasmus to come too, given how many years he’d spent living in Rhannon, if for no other reason. But he hadn’t – Caspar had arrived with Vespus, and some other delegates whose names Sorrow had already forgotten. Sorrow was too proud to ask Vespus why his son hadn’t come, but afterwards, unable to stop thinking about him, she’d sent Rasmus a note, saying she was sad not to have seen him, and hoped he was well.
She’d waited every day since for a reply from him, and was finally beginning to accept it wasn’t coming. That he was gone from her life. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth; she still regretted how things had ended, and she hated him not being around.
All through her father’s funeral, the move to the North Marches, hiring Luvian – she’d missed him, used to him always being there, helping her, distracting her. Fixing her. His absence was a physical ache sometimes, driving every thought from her mind as she longed for him, miserable at the idea of never seeing him again. Now, six weeks after he’d left her standing in the library of the Summer Palace, the pain of missing him had faded, for the most part, but every now and then it flared again. Every now and then she would have moved worlds for one more selfish moment with him.
“Maybe he needs more time.” Irris knew what – or rather, who – she was thinking about.
“Maybe.” Sorrow didn’t believe it, and the thought of seeing him on his own territory, dressed up for glamourous events, made her feel ill.
Then something else occurred to her. “What on Laethea do you wear to a Naming? Or feasts? Irri, I don’t think I have any clothes for this kind of thing.”
She’d had new clothes made for campaigning, tunics and trousers in bright colours, and even a couple of dresses. But they wouldn’t do for something like this. Not if what Rasmus had told her of Rhyllian parties was true.
“Don’t worry. We’ll write to the Winter Palace today and see what they have,” Irris reassured her.
The following morning, a trunk of gowns arrived from Istevar, along with some other packages for Sorrow, and a young, timid-looking seamstress who could barely look her in the eye. Sorrow and Irris pulled the dresses out and lay them along the sofas in the library, looking at them with increasing dismay.
“Try that one.” Irris pointed to a silvery gown that was the least terrible of the lot.