“Oh, sorry, my lovely.” Meeren’s voice was a loud, oozing drawl as he interrupted. “Am I in your way?”
Sorrow whirled around to see Irris standing beyond the doorway, hidden behind Vine, her lips pressed together tightly. The captain of the Decorum Ward took a tiny step aside and held out an arm as though to welcome her, giving Irris no choice but to attempt slipping past him, or else remain outside. Irris appeared to consider her options, then pressed her body against the door frame and edged into the room. Meeren licked his lips as her arm brushed his stomach, meeting Sorrow’s eyes as he did.
“You need to go to your father,” Irris said on a breath once she’d reached Sorrow.
Her head gave a throb of agony that had nothing to do with Lamentia then, but everything to do with Harun. “Where’s his valet?” she whispered back.
“I’ve sent him to get some rest. Sorrow, the man was exhausted. I don’t think he’s slept in days.” There was a hint of reproval in her tone. “And Balthasar is with the chancellor.”
“Then surely your father should—”
“I went to him first.” Irris cut her off. “He told me to send you.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”
Sorrow had thought her spirits couldn’t sink any lower. “It’s fine. I’ll go right away.”
She didn’t mean it. And from the look on Irris’s face, her friend knew it. But she nodded, allowing Sorrow the lie.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you all to leave,” Sorrow announced to the room. “I have some urgent business to attend to. If you write down your complaints, I’ll do my best to get to them as soon as I can.”
The people began to file out, their expressions a mixture of bewilderment and disappointment, but none protested, meekly doing as she’d asked. Vine remained in the doorway until last.
“Are you OK?” Irris asked her once he’d gone. “What did Vine want?”
“Mostly a good smack,” Sorrow murmured, mindful he might be loitering to hear. “So, no, I’m not.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Arrange to have me kidnapped by the Svartans and kept there in luxury as a political prisoner until I die?”
“I’ll write to them now.” Amusement laced Irris’s whisper. “Do you want me to stay? Or come with you?”
“No; thank you, though.” Sorrow turned to her oldest friend. “I need a few moments alone before I deal with my father, that’s all. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“All right.” Irris gave her hand a squeeze and was gone, closing the door behind her.
Sorrow pulled at a loose thread on the hem of her sleeve. She watched as the embroidery began to unravel, feeling a spark of pleasure at the destruction, until a soft sound behind her made her turn.
Despite her command, someone had stayed behind.
Rasmus Corrigan stood by the window, his violet eyes fixed on her.
A New Layer of Guilt
He pushed his long pale hair behind gently tapered ears, carefully avoiding the row of silver rings that pierced them lobe to top, and offered Sorrow a faint smile. Like every other person at the palace – in the country – he was dressed in mourning: a long black coat, tight at the waist, flaring over his hips down to his knees; wide legged black trousers beneath; black boots on his feet. The uniform of Rhannon.
But Rasmus was Rhyllian. Where the black brought out the yellow tones in Rhannish skin, it complemented his paler complexion: shadow to moonlight, ink to paper. Even lovely Irris, with her wide eyes and heart-shaped face, could not make the mourning black look as good as Rasmus did.
He watched her, looking as cool and crisp as ever, despite the layers of clothing, and the heat, and Sorrow was painfully aware that by comparison she looked wilted, and more than a little frazzled.
Still, she returned his smile with the ghost of her own, and that was all it took to bring him across the room, moving with impossible grace, to pull her into his arms. She relaxed against him, pressing her face into his chest, instantly feeling calmer.
“I didn’t know you’d come back,” she said.
“Of course I did.”
“You don’t think my orders apply to you, then?” she murmured into his shirt.
“You’re not my queen.”
“I’m not anyone’s queen,” Sorrow replied.
“As near as, if the line of subjects here petitioning you is anything to go by. And as you said yourself, you will be the chancellor one day…” Rasmus said, an edge to his voice.
Sorrow looked up at him. But before she could reply, the pain in her head pulsed, threatening to return, and she grimaced.
“Headache?” he guessed.
Sorrow nodded. “I thought I could smell Lamentia earlier.”
He lifted his head, and inhaled. “I can’t smell anything.”
“No. It’s gone now. Or it was never there, and I’m losing my mind.”
“We can’t have that.” He pressed his fingertips lightly against her temples, and the pain faded. “Is that better?”
His touch made her feel lighter, less substantial. “You’re good to me,” she said quietly.
He traced along her brow bone to the top of her nose, then across her cheek, until his index finger brushed her ear. “What’s the point in being able to take away pain if I don’t use it?”
She’d joked once that if she’d had an ability it would be the opposite of his – destroying things, causing pain – and he’d grown quiet, brows drawn together.
“That’s not how it works, and you know it,” he’d said.
She’d tried to explain it was a joke, of sorts, but he’d shaken his head.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.” He’d been upset; he wouldn’t let her touch him, keeping her at arm’s length while he spoke. “You know that’s part of how the war began. Because there were stories that my people could use their abilities to hurt.”
“Ras, I know—”
“Then don’t say it, not even in jest. They’re a good thing. They’re only used for good. Besides –” his voice had softened then “– you could never hurt anyone.”
She’d been too ashamed to argue.
Sorrow was shaken from the memory as his hand moved into her hair, pushing it back, stroking gently. “So, why the need to clear the room? What news did Irris bring?”
“My father…” she said, not needing to explain further. Though Charon would have been furious if he’d known just how informed Rasmus was about the chancellor’s problems, Sorrow couldn’t keep it from him. “And Senator Balthasar has joined the party.”
Rasmus gave her a sympathetic look. “Does Lord Day know?”
Sorrow nodded. “Charon thinks I should deal with them. Like Charon thought I should be the one to speak to the people here, despite the fact I have no power, or authority.” She leant back and then forward again, resting her forehead on his chest. “Stars, I miss Grandmama. She’d know what to do.”