Under the chessboard, barely visible in the shadows, I add a folded piece of paper. Our notes, the thing that brought us together again.
Most will miss it, but Louis won’t. The judges—and anyone who looks at this painting for the next hundred years—will see a crown prince, handsome and composed, enjoying a game.
I glance over at the painting on the other easel, seeing him in golden light in the conservatory. In this one, he’s in darkness. Both paintings will be entered, and I will title themDayandNight—although, in both, I’ve captured the real man beneath the crown.
What I’m doing is dangerous. Anyone who studies it will know this wasn’t painted from a distance by a stranger. Painting our secrets exhilarates me, and honestly, I understand Henri maybe more than anyone else.
He waited a lifetime for his true love.
As I continue painting, I wonder if I’d do the same for Louis, if I’d choose that fate. The answer is yes, and I think he knows that.
15
LOUIS
Iskip dinner. Sitting through another meal with women I don’t want to marry while my parents watch me like hawks makes me want to throw something through a window. Instead, I pace my quarters until the walls start closing in, and then I grab the note I wrote for Addison and head to the one person who can deliver it to her.
Delphine’s room is at the end of the west corridor, and I don’t bother knocking. The double doors swing open, and I stop, taking in the chaos.
My sister is in bed wearing silk pajamas, propped against a mountain of pink pillows, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach, watching what looks like a terrible reality dating show. Her room is a disaster, with clothes draped over every surface, shoes scattered across the floor, empty wineglasses on the nightstand, and what might be three days’ worth of snack wrappers on the bed beside her.
“What the fuck is this?” I walk in and look around, shocked.
“Don’t you know how to knock? Damn. Also, shut up,” she says, pointing at her TV.
The doofus on the screen is crying. “But I love you. No matter what happened at the hotel.”
I move in her way.
“Dude! This is the season finale! I will lose my shit. I’ve beenbingeing this all day to find out who he chooses! The new girl or his fiancée!”
She’s livid, sitting up in bed. When she sets her popcorn down, I know she means business.
“Get out of the way. Your father wasn’t a glass maker,” she says, grabbing the remote and pausing it. “What? What do you want? You’re supposed to be at dinner right now.”
“I skipped it,” I tell her.
“Oh, so that’s why you’re being annoying. You’re hangry.”
“I need you to deliver this.” I hold out the note.
She finally glances at me, then at the paper in my hand. “No.”
“Delphine.”
“I’m not your carrier pigeon, Louis.” She climbs out of her bed and physically moves me from in front of the TV. “Figure out your own love life.”
“This isn’t a joke,” I tell her.
“Neither is my evening.”
She turns the TV back on, where a woman is sobbing in a hot tub. “Krystal, it was one night.”
I take the remote from her hand and turn off the TV.
“Hey!”
“I need your help.” The words come out rough with exhaustion and frustration. “Like, I really need it. Not only delivering notes. With everything.”
