State of Sorrow (Untitled #1)(55)
“I can tell the loss of your father has devastated you.” Luvian raised an eyebrow, and Sorrow glared at him. He knew perfectly well how things had been between her and Harun. Undaunted, he continued. “As I keep reminding you, you don’t need to prove Mael is an imposter to win the election. That’s why you hired me. You said, and I paraphrase, ‘I will automatically win if I can prove he’s an imposter, but I want to win because I love Rhannon and he doesn’t.’ Then I said, ‘You will win, because I am brilliant.’ ” Luvian smiled widely and went back to his breakfast. Sorrow had to stop herself from throwing the marmalade at him.
“Good morning, team.” Irris swept cheerily into the room, carrying a small pile of papers and envelopes, and a large package, which she deposited in front of Luvian. “Your records arrived. And I have an exciting piece of news.”
“Thank the Graces,” Luvian muttered. “Someone needs it.”
Irris turned immediately to Sorrow. “What’s wrong?”
Sorrow shot Luvian a dark look as she replied, “The news circular is reporting today that Mael plans to introduce a judge and jury of peers system to Rhannon if he wins.”
Irris’s eyes narrowed. “But that’s our…”
“Yes, yes,” Luvian interrupted, seeing where the line of conversation was heading. “We’ve dealt with it. What’s your news?”
Irris smiled, something that Sorrow, after four weeks of increasing smiles, was still not used to seeing so often. “You’ve been invited to a party.” She handed an envelope to Sorrow.
As she opened it, Luvian came to stand behind her, reading over her shoulder.
“A Naming celebration for new princess Aralie, in Rhylla. How lovely.”
“Well, I can’t go,” Sorrow said.
“Why not?”
“I…” Sorrow stopped, frowning.
Over the years, Queen Melisia had invited Harun, Sorrow and her grandmother to many festivals in Rhylla, and the dowager had always sent back polite refusals, knowing Harun would react badly to the idea of any celebrations, anywhere. But now…
“Can I go?” Sorrow twisted to look up at Luvian, hope swelling in her chest. “Shouldn’t I be here, doing election stuff?”
Luvian raised an eyebrow. “‘Election stuff’,” he repeated.
Sorrow’s cheeks heated. “I meant…” She trailed off.
“Please don’t say ‘election stuff’ in front of anyone in Rhylla. Not to mention, my politically ignorant darling, that the queen will have invited leaders and representatives from every country on Laethea. Leaders you’ll need to work with once you’re chancellor. So, technically this is ‘election stuff’.”
“You can stop saying it now,” Sorrow muttered.
“It also gives us a chance to be in Rhylla. In the castle. Where Mael spent the last two years. Where he will have been seen and heard. So it ties into both of your interests nicely: beating Mael, and uncovering his true identity. This couldn’t be better if I’d planned it myself.” He patted her shoulder and returned to his seat, a sleek smile on his lips.
“Wait, ‘us’?” Sorrow glanced back at the invitation. “Plus guest,” she read.
“Obviously me,” Luvian said instantly.
Sorrow looked at Irris, who was staring at Luvian too.
“It has to be me,” he said.
“Why does it?” Sorrow asked. “I want Irris to come.”
“Ouch.” Luvian raised a hand to his heart. “But in all seriousness, it has to be me. It’s going to be a hotbed of tension, with all the world leaders, and Mael and Vespus, there. This is what you pay me for. To help steer you. To be the captain of your ship.”
Irris sighed. “He might be right. Not about the captain part.”
Sorrow couldn’t say why she wanted Irris there – needed her there – to face the one person she didn’t think she could face alone now.
“Anyway,” Luvian said, as though the matter was settled, “enough party chatter. You have a presentation to prepare for.”
Sorrow groaned.
“You’ll thank me after.” He winked.
The look Sorrow gave him would have soured cream, but she let Irris lead her from the room.
“Have fun,” Luvian called after them, pushing his spectacles back up his nose and picking up the bundle Irris had given him.
Sorrow hadn’t known what to make of Luvian Fen when they’d first met. He was barely out of his teens, though he had the sharp, shrewd eyes of a man who’d already seen and done a lifetime of deeds. He was dressed in grey – deliberately choosing the same shade she’d worn to her father’s funeral, she realized later – his clothes all sharp lines: slim-cut trousers, a frock coat that flared over his narrow hips, a paler grey shirt beneath, only revealing itself at the starched cuffs and collar. His dark hair was longer on top, shorter at the sides, the longer part constantly bearing the trails of fingers passing through it as he brushed it back off his face. He didn’t look how she’d pictured a political advisor when Charon had suggested she employ one.
Luvian had completed his diploma at the Institute in the East Marches, one of Rhannon’s two universities, passing not only with honours in politics but with the highest grade in the college’s history. But when Sorrow, impressed by his credentials, had written to his tutors for a reference, all of them told her he had a reputation for being cocky and arrogant.