Page 17 of Heir of Illusion

Six white candles burn on the candelabra before us, while a lonely maroon one sits in the center unlit. Della reaches for it, lighting it on one of the open flames. Instead of placing it back where it belongs, she holds it in her hand, letting the hot wax trickle down the sides and drip over her fingers like blood. If it burns her skin, she doesn’t show any reaction.

“Was there cause for concern?” I ask.

She shrugs, but her eyes dance with secret knowledge. “One of our patrons thought so.”

It’s not hard to guess who she’s referring to.

I recognize the candle she’s holding as one of Darrow’s creations. As long as the wick burns, anyone touching it can’t be overheard. You could be shouting across a crowded room, yet no one would hear you except your intended audience.

This is where he ran off to last night?

“Do me a favor, let him go on thinking that.” I grin at the thought of his distress.

“Always one for the dramatics.” She rolls her eyes, handing me the note she took from her desk.

Unfolding the parchment, I quickly scan the first few lines to find the name of a familiar pub I frequent in the Dockside District. But as I read what’s underneath, my blood begins to boil within my veins.

“I’ve got people working on the girl already,” she tells me. “But I’m leaving the father to you.”

“It will be handled before sunrise,” I promise her.

I don’t bother asking if she’s double-checked the information. Della always authenticates her leads before giving them to me.

She nods, taking the paper and tossing it into the fire. She blows out the candle, signaling the conclusion of our business. A faint trail of smoke dissipates into the air while I work up the courage to give her what I brought.

Usually, I don’t linger once she’s relayed her information. The less time I spend here, the better. It would cause problems for me if our association got back to the king. Given the rumors that used to swirl through the city, he’s always had a certain distaste for Della. I should already be on my way out the door, but today is different.

“I have something for you.”

I barely hear my whispered confession over the sound of rain gently pattering against the window, such soft accompaniment to such a heavy scene.

Della narrows her eyes, appraising my strange behavior. Unable to bear her gaze, I pull the contraband from my satchel, desperate to rid myself of the terrible memories it carries. She takes it hesitantly, as if it will explode in her hands.

Her mouth falls open with a gasp as she unwraps the parcel, revealing the porcelain plates I stole from the palace earlier. Her body goes limp with shock, causing the plates to nearly tumble from her lap. I lean forward to help, but she pulls them close to her chest, shoulders curling inward in a protective stance.

“Don’t,” she whispers sharply.

My calf twinges as I rise from the sofa, but I relish the pain as I put space between us. Della gazes down at the plates reverently. Her fingers tremble as she softly brushes them against the painted lilacs, as if she can feel their petals against her skin. Is she remembering how much her lover treasured the gift?

“How?” Her voice is small, barely audible.

“Someone in the kitchens must have thought they belonged to the palace by mistake,” I explain, my voice small. “They were on Baylor’s breakfast table this morning. He didn’t recognize them.”

She looks up at me, her expression darkening the way it always does when someone mentions the king.

“But you did?” Pain and accusation are heavy in her tone.

She carefully sets the plates down on her desk before moving to the back wall and lifting the portrait with care, placing it on the desk. I notice her gaze lingering on the face of her lost lover before she tears herself away.

With the painting gone, a hidden safe has been revealed in its place. Taking a knife from her boot, she lightly pricks her finger and smears her own blood against the metal. There’s a dull thud as it unlocks and swings open.

Inside is a teacup, the same pattern as the plates I’ve just given her, as well as a few pieces of jewelry, folded garments, drawings, letters, and a bottle of perfume.

All belonging to the late queen.

Della’s hands shake as she places the plates inside. Taking a step back, she gazes upon her shrine to Leona. She makes no move to wipe the tears that run down her face, unashamed of this physical display of her pain.

Della’s grief is a palpable presence, one she holds onto with both hands. Sometimes we curate our own hauntings, desperately crafting ghosts from faded memories as we beg our dear ones not to depart. As if our desperation alone could pull them back from the veil.

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