His expression was entirely unreadable. “I don’t think so.”

She didn’t expect the sudden pang of disappointment. “Oh.”

He did not press her any further. After a few moments, he said, “I should feel well enough in a few days to continue the investigation.”

Right. The investigation. Wren cleared her throat. “Good. I have a plan. Lowry claims to abide by the curfew, so our best bet is waiting until midnight. I’ll confirm he’s in his quarters, and we’ll go from there.”

It occurred to her that Hal significantly outranked her. She had no business giving him orders. After the war, he’d been promoted to colonel. However, he only said, “As you command.”

She carried out her confused feelings with the laundry.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After the grandfather clock tolled midnight, Wren alighted on the ground floor of the grand hall and waited for Hal. She leaned against the wall opposite the massive tapestry covering the east wing, and in the darkness, it looked like a curtain of ink. The draft escaped past the bottom like a knife slipped between ribs, filling the entire hall with bitter cold.

Tonight, Wren had dressed practically in leather boots—the only part of her military uniform she’d kept—and a black wool coat lined at the collar with gray fur. Although her hands were warm tucked inside her thick sleeves, the glimpses of the east wing she caught beneath the tapestry’s fluttering edge chilled her.

Something brushed against her shoulder.

Wren gasped, whirling around to face Hal. He stood beside her in a dark jacket. She noticed he’d trimmed his hair since she’d last seen him, but it still nearly fell into his eyes and over the tops of his ears. “Don’t scare me like that,” she hissed.

“Sorry. I can manage this alone if you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” Over the past two days, under a steady regimen of healing and antitoxin, he had recovered considerably. He likely could manage it alone, but they’d agreed to do this together. “Besides, you can’t get rid of me so easily. I’m the one with the light.”

With a flourish, Wren pulled a metal vesta case from her pocket and struck a match. It sputtered and showered sparks onto the floor. As she lit the candelabra and shook the flame out, the air filled with the smell of sulfur.

The candles burned steadily, illuminating the tapestry before them. Wren had hardly paid it any mind the few times she’d passed it in the daylight. For the first time, she saw it. It was a scene from Danubian folklore. Queen Maeve, her golden hair unbound, stood before a Vesrian man kneeling at her feet, her red-tipped fingers pressed against his brow bone. It was pure anticipation captured in thread.

In the story, Maeve pulled out the man’s eyes.

Hal regarded it grimly. “A charming piece.”

“Indeed.”