State of Sorrow (Untitled #1)(40)

Gone by Sunrise

She opened every door, stepped into every room. She didn’t linger in her parents’ old quarters, barely sparing a glance for the portraits that hung on the walls. She closed the door to Mael’s old room the moment she realized what it was, deciding she’d had more than enough of him that day.

Every time she saw a guard, she did as she had done earlier, asking for their silence with a gesture, and it was granted, with a bow, or a nod, or sometimes no acknowledgement at all, as though they hadn’t seen her. Sorrow met no one else on her travels. The Summer Palace kept a minimal staff; those who did work there would be fast asleep by now. The palace was hers.

Thanks to the glass ceilings, the pale walls, and the bright light of the moon, she needed no lamp, perfectly able to see as she pushed open the doors to the rooms beneath her own. She found the breakfast room. Beyond it was a patio, and she realized what she’d thought were windows were glass doors, every panel able to open out so breakfast could be enjoyed beside the gardens. Further still she found small salons, candy-striped chairs and games tables hidden beneath dust sheets, an old harp with warped strings that sounded like tiny screams when she plucked them. A gentleman’s room, a pot-a-ball table at the centre, a small bar in the corner, which, when she opened it, still had bottles inside, sticky residue coating the bottoms.

Behind the grand hallway she found a ballroom with a huge floor for dancing, five chandeliers suspended above it, sconces at the wall to make it as bright or as dark as it needed to be. There were spiral staircases in each corner, leading to a balcony level with boxes where observers could sit and watch the dancing below, or secret themselves away for other pursuits. Sorrow’s stomach twisted, and she left the ballroom swiftly, heading for the part of the palace she did know; beneath the swallow wing, where the walking gallery, main drawing room, and library were.

Her feet carried her to the main drawing room, and the handle felt cool beneath her palm as she opened the door. The room was day-bright from the full moon, and, as if it had been planned, a shaft of moonlight fell directly on to the covered easel that contained the latest portrait of Mael, as he would have been at twenty-one.

Sorrow crossed the room in three steps and ripped the covering away, unable to stop herself from gasping at the picture. He’d been painted standing, dressed in black, as always, a large vase of white lilies in the background. It was him. It was the boy Vespus had brought to the bridge. He could have been the model for it, the likeness was so exact.

Even the small details, she saw, things she’d never noticed before. One side of his lip curled up a little more than the other, giving him a faint but permanent smirk. His nose wasn’t quite straight, listing a fraction to the left. The boy had been the same. Lacking in the symmetry that Rhyllians had – the thing that made them look so other, at first glance. Because they were perfect. Mael wasn’t perfect. She’d thought he was, but no. Not quite.

There was a signature scrawled in the corner, dark paint against a dark background, and she tried to make it out. Cr… No, Gr…

The sound of footsteps jolted her from her staring, and feeling suddenly guilty, she tried to cover the picture, managing to get the sheet half over as the owner of the tread paused in the doorway.

Rasmus looked at her. “I went to your rooms,” he said, a strange quality to his voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Sorrow was about to walk towards him, to throw herself into his arms, suddenly needing him, when she stopped, disturbed by the blank expression on his face. Had Vespus said something after she’d left? Did he know something about Mael?

“What is it?” she asked, trying to brace herself.

“There’s a balcony in my room,” Rasmus continued, his tone flat and deliberate. “If it were the Winter Palace I’d never have opened the doors, but here it felt different. Like they wanted to be open. Bayrum Mizil is in the rooms next to mine, and he must have thought the same, because he opened the windows when he got back from meeting with you and the Jedenvat. He and Tuva Marchant had a lot to discuss.” He stopped speaking and looked Sorrow straight in the eye. “When were you going to tell me you were deposing your father?”

Sorrow faltered, as though the floor beneath her had vanished. “I was going to tell you,” she began. “I meant to tell you…”

“Don’t,” he barked, and Sorrow fell silent.

For once there was colour in his cheeks; a hint of rose lit his face. The set of his jaw was hard, jutting, teeth clenched behind pursed lips. His breathing was slow, too slow, she realized. It was controlled. He wasn’t just angry, he was furious. And barely containing it. “When?” he ground out from between his teeth.

“As soon as I sign the papers,” Sorrow whispered.

“No. When was this decided? Because I seem to recall seeing you last night. Spending much of it with you. So I assume it was after that? Because otherwise, you would have told me, right? You wouldn’t have come to my room, to my bed, and not told me?”

Sorrow hung her head and spoke in a hushed monotone. “Last night, Charon told me it was going to happen. But it didn’t become official until this morning, before the bridge. The Jedenvat met at dawn and voted.”

“So when we … this was already in motion? By the time you came to me this was a done deal. And you said nothing.” His violet eyes were cold as they met hers. “So last night was, what? Something to remember you by?”