Nocturna (A Forgery of Magic #1)(28)

Finally, she found herself in the passage to the prince’s quarters. She opened the slat. The room was empty, but certainly lived in. Clothes were strewn on the bed. Books were left open on a redwood desk. Finn opened the passage door and slid in, pushing it closed behind her.

The room smelled like what Finn guessed was the cologne the prince wore. Or maybe the soap he used. Something clean and soft that lay on the nose, subtle as a feather.

Her brow furrowed. She’d smelled it before.

The sound of servants talking in the hall outside jarred her back to the present. She opened the prince’s drawers and carefully fingered through rows of fine clothes with fabric that slid over her fingertips like water. She searched the pockets for the key and found none. She opened his tall armoire and even crawled in to search for hidden compartments. Still nothing.

She moved to the drawers of his bedside table, where a corked bottle of pale, cloudy liquid sat. She looked through the drawers, knocking on them quietly with her fist. She heard a hollow thud. Finn’s heart jumped. She pressed on the wood and the panel gave to reveal a hidden compartment beneath. She reached in and her fingers closed around something narrow and cold. She pulled a golden key as long as her hand out of the drawer. This had to be it! Then there was a noise, the quiet twist of the doorknob. Someone was coming.

She pushed the drawer closed, not bothering to close the hidden compartment, and rolled soundlessly beneath the bed. Someone walked into the room. Their steps were quick, almost harried. Finn watched as a simple cream skirt moved quickly around the bed and came to a stop in front of the bedside table, right before Finn’s nose. The skirt’s hem was torn, the fabric rougher than any noble would deign to wear. Whoever this was, they had to be a servant.

Finn heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked. Then there was sniffling and the telltale swishing of a bottle being shaken. Was the servant crying?

The feet dashed out the door.





9


The Dinner Party


The palace’s banquet room was full of mingling nobles.

Servants moved through the room seamlessly with trays of finger foods and goblets of chilled sangria. The hall felt strangely empty, and Alfie knew he wasn’t the only one thinking it. This was the first dinner they’d had since Dezmin had been taken. Not only was Dez gone, but everyone who had been discovered to be connected to the assassination and the failed coup was absent as well—they were either in prison or they’d taken their own lives in shame.

Alfie had nearly been driven mad with suspicion in the first months after Dez’s disappearance. There had been no sign of rebellion or tension to signal the attempt on the royal family’s lives that ended with the loss of Dez. Alfie had drilled everyone who had questioned the families involved, his parents included. Each one came to the same conclusion—the coup had been attempted by a small group of nobles who wanted more power and were willing to kill for it. That girl with the monstrous propio who had disappeared Dez into that dark hole could do nothing but name the ones who had pulled her into the operation—Marco Zelas, Alonso Marquez, and Maria Villanueva. She knew little else about the larger meaning behind it all, but from those names the king had ferreted out the rest of the betrayers.

If there had been a revolt by the poor, the mistreated, then Alfie could more easily rationalize it. But nobles putting their lives on the line for more power when they already held so much? And if those noble families had been willing to spill royal blood, how many more in this room were willing to do the same? A chill rolled up his spine.

Alfie could feel the nobles in the room whispering about it even when their lips were still or when they bowed to him in deference. The echoes of what had happened and what was to come for the kingdom were everywhere. Alfie would give anything to have Luka distract him from it all, but that wasn’t an option today.

Luka moved through the party expertly, engaging all he met with sparkling conversation, but whenever Alfie came near him he would find a polite, subtle way to pull away. Luka had been raised in the palace and knew how to put on a good face during important occasions. But Alfie could feel the anger rolling off him in waves each time they made eye contact.

“Prince Alfehr.” A soft voice spoke, startling Alfie where he stood.

He was so distracted by wanting to get a chance to speak with Luka that he hadn’t noticed Aurora approach him. She’d had to cough lightly to get his attention.

“Aurora!” Alfie said before bowing low. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been so long since we’ve spoken.”

To say Aurora was beautiful was a terrible understatement. Her skin was dark and rich, but her eyes were a nearly translucent gray that shone against her complexion like stars against the night sky. But her beauty wasn’t why Alfie was so unnerved by her. His heart sputtered whenever he saw her because Aurora might become his wife in a few years’ time.

Aurora curtsied, the fabric of her silver gown whispering against the floor. “Yes, we haven’t spoken since . . .” Her voice petered out.

“Since the funeral,” Alfie said, finishing her sentence. He felt a heavy weight on his chest at the mere thought of that day. Of watching the due?o perform the service, speaking words of Dez’s spirit moving on to a place of peace—words that did nothing but rub salt into Alfie’s grief. Aurora had been Dez’s betrothed before he died. Now her future was up in the air. The king and queen had yet to decide if she was to become Alfie’s betrothed or if Alfie should marry a royal from an allying kingdom to strengthen foreign relations in the aftermath of Dez’s death. Alfie himself didn’t know which option made the most sense, but he didn’t think it was right just to pass Aurora from prince to prince as if she were an object. Maybe she’d truly loved Dezmin and wouldn’t consider any other; Alfie couldn’t say.