Page 100 of A Game of Veils

“My apologies for interrupting,” Bastien says, and turns back to his book.

He must know his brief offer of regret is unlikely to be enough. His shoulders stay rigid.

Indeed, it’s only a moment before Emperor Tarquin makes a thoughtful sound as if something has just occurred to him. “Since you’re keen on ‘educating’ those around you today, Prince Bastien, why don’t you put your familiarity with my library to some use. In the botanical section, there’s a volume by Plinta Iviserra on the native flora of Dariu. Fetch it for me.”

His tone makes it clear this is an order, not a request. Bastien accepts his punishment in silence, leaving his own book on the bench and setting off for the palace.

I expect that’ll be the end of it. The ladies I’m sitting with paused their conversation to watch the altercation but now go back to their own concerns. Melisse comes by with a fresh glass of juice, and I accept it with a grateful smile.

It takes several minutes for Bastien to reach the palace, get up to the second floor, locate the book, and return. He offers the massive text to the emperor, who motions for him to set it on the edge of one of the planters.

Tarquin sounds only bored now. “Never mind that. I wonder if the weather might shift—go to my chambers and have one of my staff retrieve my crested jacket for me so you can bring it back.”

The request is obviously absurd. I doubt it’ll be cool enough out here to warrant another layer of clothing even in the middle of the night.

Bastien’s eyes flash, but he heads off again.

This trip takes him a little longer. When he arrives with the requested jacket heaped in his arms, his face is taut with tension. His voice carries a hint of a rasp when he displays the thick garment with its ornate detailing. “Your jacket, Your Imperial Majesty.”

My throat constricts. Emperor Tarquin isn’t simply giving him busy work and humbling him by treating him like a servant. He’s purposefully pushing the prince’s physical limits.

The imperial chambers are on the third floor of the palace. The vast staircases and heavy cargo of the two trips close together might have left me out of breath. For a man who’s relying on only one lung…

The emperor flicks his hand, and one of his pages who could have carried out the errand in the first place collects the jacket.

“I have a mind to take a closer look at the birds nesting in our trees,” he says. “Retrieve the spyglass from the observatory room for me. In its case with its various lenses. Quickly, please.”

Bastien ducks his head and strides off again. My heart sinks.

The observatory room is on the third floor too, and gods only know how big this case is.

Is Tarquin going to keep at the prince until he outright collapses?

A flicker of anger guides my tongue. I lean closer to the other ladies, pitching my voice low as if sharing a confidence. “How unfortunate for the prince that His Imperial Majesty is so changeable in his desires. Of course, he must only be pretending to be so unfocused.”

No one could accuse me of insulting the emperor. At face value, I’m applauding his sly strategy.

But as the ladies around me glance toward Tarquin, their expressions turn a bit curious.

I’ve also sown the idea that he is acting oddly unfocused.

No one else in the garden cares much about what happens to Bastien, though. I’ve gathered that Neven spends quite a bit of his days with tutors, and I haven’t seen Raul or Lorenzo since breakfast either.

I sit back on my hands and pretend to be enjoying the breeze passing by the fountain. My innards knot tighter with every passing minute.

Finally, trudging footsteps approach from the palace. A moment later, I make out breaths broken into ragged hitches.

Bastien composes himself as well as he must be able to before he comes around the hedges that circle the fountain, but his forehead shines with sweat and his skin has taken on a sickly cast. He inhales and exhales through parted lips with a trace of a wheeze he can’t suppress. His whole frame wobbles as he sets down the hefty wooden chest near the emperor.

Emperor Tarquin looks the prince up and down and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Your health seems to be particularly weak today, Prince Bastien. If you’re in such a state, you’d better retire to your room.”

I’d imagine the pointed comment strings, but Bastien simply bobs his head and stalks away. He’s probably grateful to be released.

I have to hold my fingers back from clenching, willing my agitation not to touch my posture or my face. My mind whirls, the threads of my gift tingling through it.

No potion in the world could regrow a lung or expand the one remaining to match the full capacity of two. But there are ingredients that can soothe results of straining one’s body that way. I have most of them in my tea box.

I asked Bastien for his help. The least I can do is offer my own in return.

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