“What do you mean, the stone does not await?” Vladimir narrows his eyes on Bronwen, which makes Cian pull her in closer.
“I mean it’s no longer in its case.” She levels her attention on Vladimir as though she knows exactly where he is. “What Imean, Vizosh, is that it’s been stolen.”
Konstantin gasps a muted, “What?”
My eardrums start ringing so loudly that I can barely hear anything over the harsh thrash of my pulse.
Oh, for focá’s sake. . .Lore unwraps himself from around my torso, and I think he may make his presence known, which will only rile the Glacins up further.
Lore.
I need to find her. Stay with your father.
Her?I shiver as though I’m adrift in the Glacin sea.Who?
My father steps in front of me, barking something at the Glacins that I cannot make out. His shoulders seem to spill outward, as though he were growing his wings, except he isn’t growing wings; merely heaving smoke.
Aoife slinks against my back, murmuring, “This must be reason she dies.”
I pinch myself, and then I do it again, desperate to snap out of my daze. When the world bangs back into focus, I finally make out the conversations booming around me.
Every single one is about Alyona.
About how, soon after her return from Luce, she started visiting the gallery every day, animated by a newfangled appetite for art.
“She sketched. I saw her sketch!” Izolda exclaims, cheeks reddened by how quickly she spins her head to follow conversations. “How could you accuse her of stealing, Atsa?”
“Was she ever alone in the gallery?” Konstantin asks one of the guards.
The general, perhaps? Unlike the other soldiers, his lapel is embellished by several lines of snowflake pins and his ears drip with pale-blue stones.
The blond man tosses the question out at the soldiers that have encircled us. I wait for their answers with bated breath.
“These people have motive, Atsa.” She slings her gaze over my people. Over me. “What’s Alyona’s?”
“Her love for Dante Regio.” Though quiet, my voice must reach the princess’s tall ears for I become the sole recipient of her glower.
“What does my sister’s crush have to do with the Shabbin wards?”
“The first Shabbin Queen, Queen Mara—or Mórrígan, as she was known by the Crows—bestowed upon Lore and his clan the power to shift into birds so they could unite Luce under one banner. You can imagine on whose side the Shabbins will be once freed.” In case anyone’s imagination is limited, I add, “Not the Regios.”
I’m suddenly back in Costa’s castle of doom, back in that vault with Meriam, hearing the history of my people recounted in detail to me for the very first time.
“I was just informed Olena took the princess to the ice floe market yesterday evening, Vizosh,” the man with all the pins proclaims.
Vlad’s eyes darken with fury. “Fetch Olena!”
A minute ticks by, then another, and then an elderly halfling servant is dragged out of the castle, gray, shoulder-length hair swinging beside her round ears like steel blades.
“Olena!” Izolda elbows her way through the heavy throng of soldiers. “Don’t hurt her!”
“Izolda, stay back.” Her father’s voice is as sharp as the icicles dripping from the pavilion ceiling.
The young girl skids to a halt beside her brother, her chest lifting and falling as she gawps in horror at the halfling’s puffing cheeks. I hear her whisper what sounds like a plea inside her brother’s broad ear.
Vlad switches to Glacin as he addresses Olena. I take it she must not speak our tongue.
“He’s asking her why she took the princess to the human marketplace,” Justus murmurs, sidling in nearer to me. Olena speaks again. “The nursemaid says Alyona wanted to purchase fabric to surprise her sisters’ with new gowns for their birthday.” He listens to the next question and then to the next answer. “He reminded her that they have a royal tailor. Apparently, the princess claimed the gift wouldn’t be from her if she were to use the family seamster.”
