Frozen Tides (Falling Kingdoms #4)(63)
“How wonderful that you’ve chosen to be so talkative today, of all days.” He gripped the edges of the book, whose cover was stamped in gold with the name LUKAS and an outline of what looked like a small country or island.
“Lukas. Your middle name,” she said.
“Very good, princess. You’ve been paying attention.” He traced his index finger over the letters. “And this is where that name comes from. The Isle of Lukas.”
That’s right. The isle was familiar to her, a fifty-mile journey from the southwest tip of Auranos, but she hadn’t thought of it in ages. “I’ve heard of it. I wanted to visit some summers ago, but at the time my father was furious at me for sneaking some friends of mine into a royal ball and refused to send me as punishment.” She frowned. “They teach art lessons there, don’t they?”
“Among other things.”
She saw now that the book did not come from the library, but rather was a sketchbook, similar to the one her sister used to have. Emilia had attended art lessons on the island, the same summer she’d discovered that her archery skills far surpassed her talent for drawing trees and flowers. Cleo’s mother had also been a student there long ago. Elena Bellos’s sketchbook was one of the only mementos that Cleo had of the mother who’d tragically died giving birth to her.
“You were named after an island?” Cleo asked.
“The queen wanted to use my grandfather’s name, Davidus, as she believed I’d one day become a great king, like he had been. It was my father who insisted upon Lukas. He spent a season on the isle when he was young, just as I did only three summers ago. I suppose the fact that he named me after the place suggests that he valued his time there. Or perhaps he hated it and wanted a constant reminder. He’s never bothered to explain to me his reasons.”
Cleo couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re saying that both you and King Gaius are former fine arts pupils? Don’t Limerians frown upon such frivolous pursuits?”
“There’s something honorable in learning how to perfectly render something’s likeness—the kind of honor that makes my father think art can sometimes be a worthy pastime.”
“Perfectly, you say. Let me see for myself, then, how well you can render.” He remained still, his hands still grasping the sketchbook, so she leaned farther over the bench. “Come on, don’t be bashful.”
Feeling bold, she reached out and took it out of his hands, and he didn’t stop her.
Cleo expected to flip through the book and find nothing more than half-filled pages of abandoned, uninspired sketches from Magnus’s bored summer on Lukas. Instead, she found that the entire sketchbook was full, from beginning to end, with dozens of beautiful drawings, each one different and more impressive than the next. “These are incredible,” she said, unable to look away from her most surprising discovery yet.
The first half of the book was filled with drawings depicting various glimpses of the Isle of Lukas, from sprawling landscapes, to intricately detailed close-ups of small rodents with bushy tails, to portraits of young people Cleo assumed to be Magnus’s classmates. But when Cleo reached the second half, she noticed an abrupt change in subject matter. The rest of the sketchbook contained only portraits, and they were all of Lucia.
Lucia gazing out of a window, Lucia walking through the gardens, Lucia holding a flower, Lucia smiling, Lucia laughing.
Each one depicted her perfect likeness, no detail left uncared for. Only the portrait on the final page was unfinished. The only thing Magnus had sketched were two eyes that were unmistakably Lucia’s—drawn so vividly they seemed to pierce right through Cleo.
He’ll always be mine, Lucia seemed to be saying to her. This is the only proof you need.
Magnus pulled the book away from her and glanced down at the final picture of his adopted sister.
Cleo’s mouth had gone dry. “This is why you came here today, why you wanted to be alone. Not to honor this day of worship, but to look at your sketches. You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”
Magnus didn’t respond, but his jaw tightened. She moved to sit right next to him, and when she placed her hand on top of his, he tensed, but didn’t pull away.
“You love her,” she said.
“More than anything.”
She’d always known this to be true, no matter what had happened between her and Magnus. Still, something inside Cleo twisted unpleasantly at his easy admission. She pushed past it. “And she loves you too,” she said. “But she’s not herself right now. That man, Kyan . . . he’s manipulating her.”
“The man of fire. I’ve heard rumors of him in recent months. I used to think that’s all they were: rumors.” He looked down at Cleo’s hand. “You know, it doesn’t feel like all that long ago that we were sitting in a different temple, having another grave conversation.”
She remembered that night in the City of Gold far too clearly. Her need to align with him was so strong that she thought it might actually be a possibility.
“Rather than always fighting,” she’d said to him, “we could find a way to help each other.”
Since then, Cleo had learned a great deal about the dangers of just letting her true thoughts pour right out of her mouth. Those were the kinds of thoughts that could later be used against her as weapons. “You were drunk that night,” she said, trying to put on a dismissive tone.