Page 173 of Between Despair and Hope

I watched her, itching to put my hand on her shoulder in comfort. My tone had been too harsh for her, I realized. Her mother had lived here and raised her here, and she never got to say goodbye. It was something I had to keep reminding myself. This couldn’t have been easy for her. I nearly kicked myself for softening to this woman. She didn’t move as I glanced over at her, eyes drawn to a single strand of shorter hair she hadn’t gathered into her bun. Angular cheekbones swept up to delicate, slightly pointed ears, and I noticed a rough red mark on the tip of the one facing me, and I wondered if it was a burn to match her arm.

“Turns out none of us do; don’t scold yourself over it,” I said, voice more soothing than I intended to be.

When I heard a sniffle from her, I turned away, allowing myself to be distracted by a glint of gold resting atop the dresser. Taking a step forward, I froze when I saw the portrait inside the tiny gilded frame.

“Lu,” I breathed, unable to stop myself as I reached my fingertip out. It was a miniature, but unmistakably her. Long hair hung down straight on either side of her face, a light smirk playing about her mouth. It matched the one given to me all those years ago, and I wondered how many copies were made. The artist had mastered Lucia’s expression with very few lines, but the effect of seeing her was immediate. “Why did she have this?” I demanded.

“Ah, she—skies, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Why did she have this?” I repeated.

“I don’t know. It was a recent addition. I think she found it in storage somewhere. I remember her saying she felt a kinship with her, which, frankly, I didn’t understand. But I didn’t argue with her.” She hesitated, looking at me with something like panic. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. My mother was strange, I don’t know why she—”

“Do you want it?” I asked.

“The portrait?”

“Yes. Do you want it?”

“I—no, I suppose not.”

“May I?” I asked, picking up the miniature and holding it between my fingertips before she could respond.

“Sure, yes. Good, take it.”

I said nothing, just looked down ather. My old copy had fallen apart years ago, and I hadn’t looked upon an image of her since. There were likenesses of Lucia displayed at the temples, but considering I didn’t make it a habit of going to them, I hadn’t been able to look upon her in years. Unless one counted Emma, which I tried not to, it had been over a decade since I’d seen her face. I only allowed myself a moment before shoving her portrait in my pocket. It helped ease some of the guilt of being here.

“I’m finished. I got what I came for, and I want nothing else.”

“Not even the tapestry?”

“Where would I put it?”

“Your room at the dormitory?” I realized the suggestion was foolish as soon as I said it. She did me the favor of not calling me brainless, merely giving me a look with a raised brow instead.

“A tapestry like this deserves a home, and I don’t have one of those. Never really have. A place to rest my head doesn’t count.”

“You’re right.” It shocked me we had something in common. Ever since I joined Rainier’s guard, I’d gone from the barracks to the home belonging to Lavenia to the room I slept in at Rainier’s estate. None of it was mine. None of it was permanent.

We left the room then, and I watched her pat her cloak over her chest, ensuring whatever she’d grabbed from her pallet was safe, and I nearly took the stairs two at a time to get out faster.

“Turn right,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, and I followed her command without question. I knew it was something I’d ponder later as I tried to sleep—the why of it—but I listened all the same. She took a few steps past me down a dark hall, peering over her shoulder a few times as she picked up her speed.

“Where are we going?”

Instead of answering, she reached back and grabbed my hand, and I only had a moment to prepare before she spoke in my mind. “Filenti’s study. He obviously had connections—with Declan, other temples, the men who helped move us. I want to see if I can find anything useful. I want them to pay.”

Not even bothering to reply, I let her tug me down the corridor. The idea was a good one, and clearly she needed me to be quiet. Lit by a solitary torch at the end of the hall, I could barely make out anything other than her lean silhouette in front of me. She was tall for a woman—nearing Thyra in height, but not quite.

Peeking over her shoulder one last time, she knelt in front of the last door on the left, fumbling with the lock.

“Here, let—”

The quiet creak of the door swinging open cut me off, and she stood, holding her finger to her lips before pulling me in and shutting the door behind us. The room was small and plain. Cold and stark, it matched the man who I’d beheaded only weeks prior. Nothing adorned the walls, and a threadbare carpet stretched out beneath my feet, the only comfort in the room the empty fireplace. The oak desk was cleared off, and everything on the bookshelf behind it was tidy and organized.

“Where should I—”

With rounded eyes, she shook her head and moved behind the desk. Clearly, she expected me to shut my mouth and let her work. She dropped to the ground and started picking at the lock on the bottom-most drawer. Rolling my shoulders, I strolled over and leaned across the desk, chin propped on my fist.

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