“Where?”
“He’s right here in the palace, spending the day in the royal temple.” Cleo gave her a look of surprise—she hadn’t even known there was a royal temple on the palace grounds—and Nerissa smiled. “I’ve made very good friends with Enzo, the young palace guard. He’s full of useful information. Much gratitude for introducing us, princess.”
“Very good friends, are you?” Cleo knew all about Nerissa’s proficiency with manipulating willing and gullible men and couldn’t help but be amused. “I’m glad to see you’re already having fun so soon after your arrival.”
“Limeros is far more enticing than I’d previously guessed. And, frankly, so is Enzo.”
“Well, I’m just glad that one of is happy here.”
Nerissa’s smile widened. “Go and have that talk with the prince. I have great faith that you—more than anyone else—can summon words from Prince Magnus today.”
• • •
Cleo walked to the west side of the castle, flush against the high cliffs. She came to the end of a corridor and pushed open two tall ebony doors engraved with a twisting maze of snakes. Inside, she’d expected to find a small replica of the central temple near Ravencrest—dark and foreboding, so unlike the temples devoted to Cleo’s namesake goddess, which were adorned with mosaics, gold, and jewels.
Instead, while this small palace temple did have black stone floors and hard wooden pews in front of an obsidian altar, it had another feature so surprising to Cleo that she couldn’t hold back a gasp. Across the temple from its entrance were three floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the Silver Sea, giving her a full view of the setting sun, the sky alive with colors—red, orange, purple, and indigo.
She managed to tear her gaze away from the stunning sight, then scanned the room for worshippers. She saw only one figure, Prince Magnus, seated at the front, facing the windows with his back to her.
She walked slowly down the aisle and sat in a pew directly behind the prince.
“This view,” Cleo said after a few moments. “I can see why you’d choose to spend the day here. So beautiful—and, I must admit, so unexpected in a place like this.”
He didn’t reply, but Cleo wasn’t discouraged. She scooted over and leaned forward against the back of his pew. His dark brown hair had grown quite long in the last months, and he hadn’t bothered to trim it. He didn’t smell of warm leather, as he did when he went riding. Today, he smelled only of sandalwood, as usual, and of citrus. Was that a hint of lemon she caught?
Lemons were a delicacy here in frozen Limeros, very expensive to import.
“Do you put sugar on your lemons?” she asked. “I’ve never been able to eat them without sugar. I’ve always preferred to have my lemons squeezed and made into a sweet drink.”
Again, Magnus didn’t reply, but if nothing else, this was much more pleasant than arguing.
Her gaze settled on his scar—a jagged line that stretched from the top of his right ear to the corner of his mouth. The king had done this to Magnus, sliced his cheek for trying to steal a pretty dagger during a visit to the Auranian palace.
He’d been seven years old. To receive such a violent punishment at such a young age . . .
“Why are you here?” he finally asked, his deep voice just above a whisper.
The sound of his broken silence jarred her from her thoughts. “He speaks.”
“Only to ask why you’ve interrupted me at such an obviously inappropriate time.”
“I know about the traditions of the day, but even so, you spend far too much time alone, thinking. So much solitude isn’t good for the soul.” She glanced down and saw a leather-bound book balancing on his lap. “Are you doing some more research on magic?”
“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.