“Oh, I wouldn’t call themlovers, since Alaric didn’tloveany of them. He supposedly doesn’t even remember half of their names, which is why his paramours will never admit to the affairs. Who wants to be known as forgettable? Especially inthatway?”
Elodie giggles before continuing, “According to my mother, the parade of girls in Alaric’s bed is nothing but a distraction. Something to take his mind off the pressure of filling his father’s shoes. And to forget the horrible accident, of course.”
I shiver from an unseen draft. “What horrible accident? Do you mean Rowenna’s death?”
“Oh, no. Long before that.” Elodie waves her hand. “When his older brother, Prince Besnik, died.”
Elodie doesn’t elaborate, as if dead princes are of little concern or interest. But it’s definitely of interest to me. Soren has never mentioned having another son, which seems an odd thing to keep from your allies. And how did the boy die? How must this tragedy have affected Alaric? Did it shatter him the way Ro’s death shattered me? Has it changed the very fabric of his being, driving him to do things he never thought he could—or would?
Reckless things.
Violent things.
Like attempting to bring down an entire kingdom.
If Alaric is anything like me, he could be even more dangerous and unpredictable than I feared.
We stop outside my chamber door, and Elodie beams at me like a proud parent. “I’m so glad you’re here. I promise you’ll love it intime. Now, I’ll leave you to rest, but I’ll be back to collect you for the stone-throwing contests tomorrow morning.”
My disinterest in watching Vanzadorian courtiers throw rocks must show on my face, because Elodie gives me another playful tap with her fan. “Don’t scrunch your nose like that. It’s a most amusing pastime. You’ll see.”
In a whirl of perfume and skirts, Elodie kisses my cheek and flounces down the hall. She’s nearly around the corner when I realize I forgot to ask about the young man in the blue robes.
“Wait!” I call after her. “Who was that man in the tasseled hat? The one who watched over our prayers in Queen Tessa’s salon?”
“Councilor Garitt Von Nevus?” Elodie turns, her face crinkled with distaste. “What do you want withhim?”
It’s not the reaction I expected from a social climber like Elodie, especially considering the boy’s prominent position and good looks.
“I’m just curious about your prayers and customs,” I lie. “That was an interesting ritual, and he seemed to be in charge of it.”
“Hewisheshe were in charge,” Elodie scoffs. “According to my mother, Von Nevus is always attempting to weasel his way through the ranks by any means necessary—many of which areunsavory. I make a point to keep my distance from him. You should too. It’s unfortunate he oversaw your first prayer. I hope it didn’t ruin the experience entirely.”
I don’t give a fig about their prayers, but I look down at my lap thoughtfully because I need time to unpick all of these tangled threads. Every time I think I’ve found the end of one problem, it loops back around and I’m ensnared in another.
If Von Nevus is as horrible as Elodie claims, why did Rowenna confide in him?
And why would he help me?
“Was my sister close with Councilor Von Nevus?” I ask.
Elodie raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Why would you think he and Rowenna were close?”
“Because he knew about the flower-fairy party Ro and I planned forour mother when we were young.”
Elodie slowly shakes her head. “What are you talking about? I don’t recall anything about a fairy party….”
“Von Nevus mentioned it just before dinner, in the queen’s salon,” I say, trying not to lose my patience. “When I asked about Rowenna’s most memorable quality.”
Elodie shrugs, clearly just to appease me. “I must have missed it.”
You didn’t. You were right there!
I want to shake her. Shake all of them. The Vanzadorian nobles are so caught up in their frilly fashions and mindless gossip, there isn’t room in their heads for anything else.
Or maybe this is a side effect of their not-so-innocuous bagrava tea.
I think back to the blithe, vacant look in Queen Tessa’s eyes when she asked about my most memorable quality a second time—as if the first had never happened—and disquiet crawls across my skin.
