Page 16 of A Game of Veils

Every Accasian knows half a glass of creekvine wine is enough, meant to be savored slowly.

The servants pass around slivers of fresh-baked bread dipped in pungent oil, then collect our plates before bringing the first full course. Each plate arrives covered in a silver dome.

Rochelle receives her food first: a roll of crisp pastry stuffed with herb-speckled cheese and drizzled with crimson sauce. As the server deposits mine, my eyes drop to the plate—and my heart skips a beat.

There at the base of the roll, small enough that no one would notice it except at the angle of my seat, the sauce appears to have congealed into the blurred but readable shapes of seven letters. They burn into my vision like a message written in blood.

TRAITOR.

Chapter Six

Aurelia

Iwalk down the hall with brisk but careful steps, my hands gripping the edges of the small silver tray. My gaze darts from side to side toward the doorways I pass.

The strange accusation on my plate lingers in the back of my mind. How can I not be unnerved?

No one made any overtly hostile comments to me during dinner. Lady Fausta and her friend Bianca aimed a few elegant sneers my way, but it’s obvious they simply see me as Fausta’s rival. And I don’t know how they could have gotten access to my plate before it was served anyway.

Who in the palace would feel I’ve betrayed someone?

Who would they think I’ve betrayed? Have I let a comment slip that hinted at my true feelings about my betrothal—and the trials I’m now facing to see it through?

Was my gasp at Lady Cadenza’s death enough for one of the emperor’s people to consider me a traitor?

I have no way of answering any of those questions. My only comfort lies in the fact that no guards have brought their blades to my throat.

Emperor Tarquin indicated that many members of his court resented his bringing a bride for his heir from elsewhere in the empire. The simplest explanation is that it wasn’t a literal accusation at all, only an attempt to shake my nerve however they could.

I can’t let that happen. So I’m going forward as I best know how, as if that blood-red word never appeared before me.

The footman I probed said that His Imperial Highness Marclinus retired to his private office after dinner. This could be my first chance to speak to my supposed fiancé alone, away from his father’s hawkish gaze.

I can make an appeal with both my words and the gift I’m carrying.

The footman told me I couldn’t miss the office door. Half again as tall as my five foot six in height, it gleams with gold panels depicting a mass of armored stallions charging around a depiction of Sabrelle, the godlen of war. Apparently most of what the imperial heir works on is how to conquer even more.

I suppose that fits the family motto.

A guard stands outside the door, looking vaguely bored. I offer him a humble smile. “I’d like to see His Imperial Highness. I hoped we could take tea together.”

The flick of the guard’s eyes tells me I don’t need to introduce myself. “A moment,” he says impassively, and slips into the room to announce my request.

It is only a moment before he returns and waves me inside.

As I step past the door, the guard pulls it shut behind me, staying in the hall. I pause just past the threshold, taking stock.

The office is unexpectedly modest in size as imperial grandeur goes, only half as large as my sprawling guest bedroom. No inch of the space is used frivolously. Built-in shelves cover two of the walls from floor to high ceiling, packed with books and record boxes. Two ornate armchairs and a small reading table stand next to the hearth, which is framed by glossy marble and currently unlit.

A massive desk of fine marlwood stands in the middle of the space, gleaming in the lantern light as if it’s just been polished. One end rises up in an arch of dark wood containing a plethora of compartments and drawers.

At the other end sits the imperial heir.

Marclinus glances up from the paper he was considering—a letter, I think, from the format of the handwriting I’m too far away to read. He swipes his golden hair back from his forehead and leans his elbow on the desk.

His smile feels more calculating than the cocky smirks he offered me in the audience room. My skin prickles with sudden apprehension about the fact that I’ve put myself in this enclosed space with him alone.

There’s nothing so improper about this visit when if all had gone according to plan, we might already be married. But I’m not sure I’d like whatever ideas might be passing through his head.

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