Wren startled, turning around slowly to the tune of a soft chuckle. Lowry himself leaned in the doorway, wearing a gold brocade waistcoat and a maroon cravat. At the sight of the silk shining at his throat, she thought of her blood circling the drain. His eyes rested heavy on her, humorless and gleaming near-white in the shadows. That stare could cut clean through her.

“My lord,” she stammered. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I finished my work earlier than anticipated, so I came to find you,” Lowry said. “And here you are, in the graveyard of my childhood.”

“Please forgive my intrusion. I’m … ashamed this has happened twice now.”

“There’s nothing at all to forgive.” When he emerged from the darkness of the hallway, all his harshness burned away like an early morning mist. The brightness of the room softened his features into their usual, smiling placidity. “A curious mind is perhaps the most valuable trait in Cernos. I daresay you fit in perfectly.”

He wove through the exhibits until he stood beside her, and Wren swore he’d be able to hear the pounding of her heart as she tipped her chin up at him. With the sunlight threading its fingers into his dark hair, he was as radiant as ever. Had she imagined his annoyance?

Clearing her throat, she fumbled to find the gentlest way to voice her confusion. “Are you a student of history?”

“A dilettante, really.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in politics.”

“In politics? No.” Lowry crossed his arms behind his back as he gazed up at his younger self in the painting. “In war, certainly—at least when I was a lad about your age. It all seemed rather romantic.”

“Romantic?” she asked, unable to keep the bite out of her voice.

He laughed sheepishly, tilting his head toward her. “Well, I was sixteen. Full of ennui and eager to die for something bigger than myself. I’d hardly seen anything beyond these walls, much less past those damn mountains. I had everything I should have wanted. An education, fine food and wine, lavish balls, a staff who seemed to say nothing but yes, milord. My father kept me locked up while you lot were busy killing each other, and I was miserable.”

“But … everyone loves you, my lord. How could you be unhappy?”

“Everyone is amused by me,” he amended. “But no one respects me. I dreamed of commanding the respect—the admiration—of a military man. So I suppose suffering did seem romantic, young fool that I was.”

Wren couldn’t exactly sympathize with him, a lordling bored of his too-charmed life and hungry for admiration he’d never understand the price of. “So you … collected things?”