Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“They’ll be the high duke’s men. No one else would dare.”
When the discordant voices fade into the distance, Nicostratus lets out a whooshing breath.
He takes my hand, his armband bumping against my wrist, and I glance down to fresh bruises. “Nicostratus . . .”
He pulls his sleeve over them with a pleading look not to ask, and urges me back through the hidden hole. I wouldn’t have minded the time to sneak into his rooms and see how he lives, but I can feel his unease. And there are other priorities.
He dusts my cloak on the other side. “Sorry. I’d have flown us over, but that—”
“Would’ve been a bit conspicuous?”
He chuckles, and whisks us through shadows to the wardrobe where the costumes are stored. The masquerade masks have an entire room to themselves. I turn slowly, taking in the vibrant feathers, shells, silks. There are hundreds.
But not enough.
Nicostratus plucks a bird mask off the wall and presses it to his face. “Explain?”
“How will he know who’s on the king’s side if no one can be recognised?”
The hand holding the mask drops to reveal an expression of comprehension. Like me, Nicostratus spins around the room, taking in the masks.
“A stand at every pier, every entrance to the gala. Encourage everyone to wear one.”
Nicostratus straightens. “I’ll have my men on it. We can use the royal collection, too.”
I glance inquiringly at him.
He smirks. “Want to take a trip to King’s Island with me and see for yourself?”
I jerk my gaze down.
Nicostratus laughs. “Don’t worry, he’s not there.”
The royal collection fills an entire attic in the stone house on King’s Island. Nicostratus sets a lantern on a corner shelf and lights the others spangling the room.
So many colours and soft and prickly textures. I sniff at the heady mix of dried flowers that have been worked into masks on one wall. Another wall displays animal masks, and yet another, monster-like creations.
“Constantinos’s mother used to love masquerades,” Nicostratus says. “She still makes masks every year. She made most of these.”
“They’re so intricate.” I finger a simple mask the colours of river-pearl, blues and greens that shimmer and change. “Beautiful. If they’re his mother’s, can we use them?”
Nicostratus is quiet for a long beat. “We won’t have time to craft enough from scratch. She would want him protected, no matter the cost.”
I swallow and pick up the pearl mask. The same shades of turquoise as the border on my soldad. “Will you tell your brother?”
A smile. “I tell my brother everything.”
“And if he’s against it?”
Nicostratus sidles up to me and whispers into my ear, like a secret. “I’ll fight him; I’ll win.”
“Because you’re stronger?”
“Because he always lets me.”
I shake my head, imagining them tussling in the garden or whipping magic about, clashing to make fireworks and ending their feuds breathless with laughter.
Nicostratus lifts the pearl-mask I’m holding. “You like this one?”
I lift my soldad for him to see. “It matches, don’t you think?” I swallow and meet his eye, speaking softly. “My favourite gift.”
His eyes spark with mischief, but as his face inches closer, the playful glint fades, replaced by something quieter, heavier. My chest pounds, heat pooling in my cheeks as the space between us narrows. His breath brushes my lips, and for one suspended moment, I forget where we are.
And then he murmurs, “I wish it had come from me.”
I rock back on my heels, clutching the soldad so tightly the hard edges even cut through my glove. But it is from you.
It’s supposed to be from you.
It’s . . .
The attic of masks swirls, closing in to crush me. I fix my stare on Nicostratus’s obliviously smiling eyes. He has no idea.
“I wish it had come from you too,” I say, thickly.
I slam my eyes shut. All the clues have been there.
I’m closer with his majesty, Evander said.
“Amuletos?”
I open my eyes.
Nicostratus settles the mask into my free hand. “You should take this one.”
“It’s . . . stuffy in here, I need to . . .” I head for the exit; Nicostratus kills the lights with a wave and descends with me.
“You look pale,” he says when we’re outside and I’m gulping air. “I’ll take you back.”
I wave a hand. “Give me a moment.”
“With company or . . .”
“Alone? Please?”
“Did I—I’m sorry.”
I reach up and touch his cheek. “It’s this day that’s got to me.”
He lets me go, a dark heroic figure watching after me, wind tossing his cloak eastward.
I walk the gardens, past the fountain to the rose pavilion with its stone chess set. I slump onto the cold bench and pick up the white king. My chest clenches, a mix of anger and something I can’t name burning my throat. How can I not have seen it?
Something flashes out the corner of my eye.
I set the king down on the board. Who would be working in the gardens this late? Leaves rustle and I follow the sounds all the way to the pear orchard, where the graceful figure of an akla emerges from a line of trees, carrying a basket of white petals. The slant of her shoulders, the line of her throat . . .