Page 78 of The Court of Venus

We began at the end.

In his latest portrait, Philippe stood more formidable than he did in person, wearing pointed slippers, a thick pelt. He grasped a golden scepter hammered with the badge of Venus. “Dated the year before last, by a famed portraitist named … Sebastián, I think?” Roland straightened, hand falling to his side. “The signature is hard to make out. Let’s go this way.”

In every frame, Philippe was regal, mighty—until we came to the end of the gallery, to a portrait painted twenty-five years ago. He stood with his hand on Queen Charlotte’s shoulder. This younger Philippe had a goatee, silver rings in his ears, and he held no object other than a sword. The deep etchings in his forehead, and around his mouth, were absent in every painting but this one.

Roland stood before it for a long while. “This must have been before Marguerite became his mistress.” He circled the room, retracing his steps. “In all the more recent portraits, he has some ode to Venus, whether in the sky or the instruments he holds in his hands. Some are more subtle. This quadrant points toward Venus rising on the horizon. And there she is, shining above his shoulder. And here, the glyph on his scepter.”

“I’m not sure this is strong enough evidence,” I said. “He looks the same, or perhaps even younger, than he did twenty-five years ago, but any portraitist would skim years and flaws off their subject. No king wants to be remembered as an old man. We need to find records. You lived here. Where would they be?”

“The library. But I assure you, the Lionesse are not very meticulous recordkeepers.”

“What are they doing instead?”

A grin spread slowly across his face. “I’ve been a rather bad influence on you, I think.”

“In Prospero’s letter, he said the king’s birth date had been altered. I’d like to cross-check others to be sure. The library would have documents of Queen Charlotte’s birth year, and their wedding year, and the birth years of their children, wouldn’t it? Why are they hidden up north, as you said? Is it truly because of Marguerite’s wrath—or are they visibly aging, while Philippe isn’t?”

“No one has laid eyes on them in many years.” He hummed to himself, considering. “I shall have to accompany you to the library. The boundaries in this palace are particular. Whichever Saturn designed them had a twisted mind. They are not like Redhall’s, with their petty requirements of coin or rank.”

“Tell me how to get through, then. You should rest.” I sensed he was exhausted from the journey, could barely keep his eyes open, but I was wide awake.

His grin turned feral. “Oh, no. I’m far too curious to let you go by yourself.”

The library was on the third floor of the palace, tucked far from the royal apartments. All the braziers in the corridor were cold, so we could only see by tapered candle.

Roland caressed the door. It was a rich mahogany, towering above our heads. “The Great Library of Lionesse is a very beloved spot for courting. Let me tell you a story.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned my hip against the wall.

With dramatic flair, Roland began. “When Montmarre was built—” A wave of his hand. “—however many hundreds of years ago, the Lionessian king had an unfaithful queen. She loved the king’s own Venusborn magician, Fabian, desperately. So the king had a Saturn design this door with Fabian in mind. Fabian was a scholar, you see, who spent long hours in the stacks here. The door would open only when the person named something or someone they lusted for. The door must feel it within them, too. And so each day, the king would test his queen. They stood before this door, and each day, she said, ‘My husband,’ and the door would still open, obedient as ever. Until one day, the door did not open. She did not desire the king anymore—she was thinking only of her Venus lover.”

“What happened?”

“To the queen? She was executed.” He flashed a smile. “So go on. Offer it your pleasure.”

I muttered how I detested Lionesse.

“We can always turn back,” he offered.

I bit my lip. Breathed in and out, trying to remember the last time I felt any kind of pleasure. It had been years since sun-kissed warmth, our eyes meeting through swaying blades of grass. A lifetime. I wouldn’t step inside such precious memories, not now.

There had been a handsome groom in the Stafford household, Peter, but that was nothing. Only to feel something other than grief. I wanted to feel nothing when our bodies met, because then I was shielded. Love could send a dagger clean through the thickest, most plated armor, and I had lost so much, all of my blood. No more. So, I’d let Peter have me in a stall behind the Stafford manor, and the entire time I’d stared at the trough where the pigs were fed and watched the water sway inside of it.

How much passion did the boundary require? I set the silver candleholder on the ground and let myself imagine things that had not yet happened, things that never would. I ran my fingers slowly across my mouth, closing my eyes. Because Roland was beside me, I knew I had to say something as abstract as possible, otherwise he’d be able to sense it all. Against my lids, I saw flashing eyes and thick bow lips. A hand threaded through wavy, pink hair. I heard a voice, whispering sweet things in my ear. It all turned a lock in me, and I knew it would do the same for the door. “Endearments,” I admitted softly.

Roland was leaning against the stone wall. Watching raptly as I spoke my desire aloud. Our chests heaved in opposite rhythm.

“Satisfied?”

He nodded, his lips parting. Quietly, even quieter than I had, he murmured, “Giving praise.”

We pushed on the heavy doors, and they opened for us without any protest. Once we were inside, I nearly laughed—we both must have looked crazed. Red in the face and unable to look each other in the eye.

I set off for the library stacks with my candle outstretched, then realized he wasn’t following me. I turned back.

With a slight groan, Roland ran a hand across his face. His eyes were wild, so dilated there was barely any rose-colored iris left. When I took a step toward him, they slid shut, long lashes resting softly against his cheeks. “Go on ahead. I need a moment, all right? Just a moment. That was—visceral for my magic, is all.” One eye opened. He peered at me with it. “You like to be called darling and sweetheart, truly? I never imagined you would be so soft.”

I gasped. “What else did you see?”