He jogged up the shallow steps to the gallery entrance, then hauled open the heavy door and held it for Mireille. He certainly didnotbreathe in her sweet scent as she swept past him, her eyes widening as she took in the high-ceilinged room.
Rays of cold sunlight streamed in through the glass dome, illuminating the statues arranged throughout the hall. From this center gallery, four archways led off into what Ronin assumed were other galleries housing the paintings and more delicate artifacts that could be damaged by natural sunlight.
“Well,” he said, clenching his fists and trying to stop himself from putting his hands on her, “where should we start?”
Mireille didn’t acknowledge him as she approached the colossal statue greeting visitors just inside the entrance. It was, of course, another shrine to Stygios. This one depicted the High God embroiled in a battle with his famous pet, Nyctima.
The serpent was coiled around Stygios’s muscular—and very naked—frame, the High God’s wrathful face twisted toward the creature. He was holding something against his pursed lips.
Mireille bent down to read the plaque at the statue’s base, and Ronin crept up to peer over her shoulder.
“The Taming of Nyctima,” he read out loud. “I don’t recall that myth, do you?”
Mireille’s copper hair glistened in the sunshine as she nodded. “That flute.” She gestured to the instrument in Stygios’shand. “The story claims he used it to call her forth from the depths of the planet. To mesmerize her, turn her into his reaper.”
Ronin shivered as Mireille moved further into the hall. A few other guests were milling about, quietly appreciating the statuary.
Ronin hustled to follow, but she didn’t stop at any of the other pieces. “Where are you going?” he whisper-shouted.
She halted abruptly and he nearly slammed into her back, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady himself. The heat of her skin burned beneath his fingertips and he snatched them back. He hadn’t been worried about touching her before, but now every touch felt…loaded.
If she felt similarly, it didn’t show on her face as she turned to whisper, “Nothing in this hall is old enough. Everything’s in the post-war style. If Otto’s got any artifacts from Adelphinae in here, they’d be housed along with more ancient pieces.”
Her gaze caught on a small sculpture at the far end of the hall and she sucked in a shuddering breath. She stalked toward it, dipping her hand into the pocket of her long black cardigan.
If Ronin hadn’t known any better, he might have assumed Mireille herself had been the model for this particular sculpture. The lines of the ballerina’s limbs were just as shapely and elegant as her own, though the face was different.
Far less striking.
Mireille pulled something from her pocket, nestling it in her hands, her silver eyes glistening. He glanced toward the plaque on the wall. “Irina?—”
“Amiel,” Mireille finished for him, her voice tight.
“Who was she?”
“A famous prima ballerina who danced with the Imperial Ballet in Delos.” She turned to him, opening her palm. The tiny ballerina figurine held the same pose as the statue before him.“This must be a replica of…” Her voice broke, as she held up the figurine. The paint was rubbed off in several places, the face cracked with age. A well-worn, long-cherished treasure. “This is the only gift I ever received from my father. It was in a music box he left for me when I was a child.”
She’d never spoken to Ronin about her father before. At least not directly.
“He’s the reason I’m doing this,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes filled with tears and Ronin’s heart broke for her. “I never… He left the gift, but I never actually met him. My mother wouldn’t even tell me his name. I’ve been seeking information about him for centuries. The Empire claims to have learned his identity. Skanisse is going to reveal it to me when we complete the assignment.Ifwe complete the assignment.”
As if Ronin weren’t already determined enough, he now had an entirely new motivation to finish this job. To remove the centuries worth of grief he now beheld in his friend’s eyes.
“Wewill, Mireille. I promise you.”
She swiped a tear from her cheek, then donned a far more determined, and familiar, expression. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot more rooms to explore.”
He shook his head as he followed, muttering under his breath, though based on her sly grin, she’d heard him perfectly clearly.
“Taskmaster.”
The restof the galleries were much dimmer than the main hall, with cones of light spearing from small holes in the ceiling to illuminate glass-cased treasures and gilt-framed paintings.
A quiet peace settled over Mireille as she absorbed the curated beauty: sun-dappled landscapes painted by human artists before the war; burnished bronze masks with severe, animalistic expressions worn by the warrior women of Syvalle; blown-glass pieces by the masters in Nephes that were so thin and delicate it looked as if a shout might shatter them. All of it centuries old.
