“Please, Harlow?”

I gasp in mock shock. “The beast has manners.”

Henry flops back on the bed with a growl of frustration, and I dash into the washroom, laughing.

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28HARLOW

The large, dark wood double doors to the art gallery stretch all the way to the ceiling. They’re much plainer than the doors in my family’s manor—than those in all of the great houses in Lunameade.

It makes sense. The fort is set with several fallback strongholds, just like the city, but the threat of a Drained attack here is ever-present. They don’t need pretty doors. They need something that will hold against an onslaught of beasts.

Even though I know Gaven has made himself scarce so that we will eventually be able to make eye contact again, I keep expecting to see him there like a grumpy shadow. Instead, Henry is standing behind me, waiting to show off the gallery. He didn’t comment on the fact that my bodyguard hasn’t made an appearance this morning, and I hope he will assume that he’s taking time off, instead of the more likely scenario that he’s discreetly snooping around the house. Hopefully, he’s busying himself figuring out why we haven’t received any correspondence from my parents yet.

My body buzzes with restless energy. I want fresh air and the burn in my legs from a hard run, not a walk through a stuffy art gallery.

I reach for the handle to the gallery doors, but Henry snatches my hand back.

“Hold up.” He gestures to the enchanted lock next to the door.

It’s just like the one in the armory. I’m not a thief, but I’m curious what type of art requires a locked door. Even if someone here could steal it, it’s not as if they could sell it.

“Always with the blood,” I say. “Can I do it now?”

“I wouldn’t be a very doting husband if I let you—but yes. Now that we’re married, you can unlock this door.” He presses his finger to the sharp point of the lock, and a moment later, the bolt clicks. “Art takes blood.”

I wrinkle my nose, but I tuck away this new knowledge. Perhaps this explains why he won’t let me out of his sight. If I can unlock any door in the fort now, there’s no telling what secrets I could uncover, and the sooner I do, the sooner I can go home and get Aidia out.

“I mean it metaphorically, Harlow. Now, if you’ll indulge me.” He holds up a blindfold.

“You must be joking.”

He sighs. “Come on, Harlow. Don’t fight me. You’ll just turn me on.”

It’s against everything in me to just give in, but I’m walking a delicate line. I need him to think he can get to me. If I give in too easily, he won’t believe he’s won me over, but if I fight him too hard, he will never trust me.

I nod, and he ties the silk blindfold around my eyes, blotting out the world. He curls an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against his side. He smells like juniper and fresh snow, and I don’t hate it.

The door creaks open and Henry ushers me inside. He pulls the door closed, and a second later, the lock clicks into place.

Even with the blindfold and my eyes closed, I can see his aura grow wider as he steps into the space. It pulses lightly, probably along with his heartbeat.

He nudges me forward, and I awkwardly let him lead me into the room. I can tell by the echo of his footsteps that the floor is some kind of stone and the ceilings must be high.

I wonder if I’m about to see more haunting sculptures breaking free of marble like out in the hallway, or if there is more than one artist in their family line.

“I don’t like this sensory deprivation,” I whisper. “I don’t know if it’s supposed to be sexy, but I’m not a fan of stumbling around like an idiot.”

Henry hushes me, his breath ghosting over the back of my neck as he pulls me to a stop and turns me to the right.

His body is warm and solid, and I can’t stop thinking about how that body was naked and on top of me last night. The last thing I want to think about is the way my thighs wouldn’t stop shaking, or the way he knew he could get to me if he was gentle.

It’s unnerving to be known by your enemy. I’m supposed to be the one working him. Luring men is what I do.

“Are you ready?” Henry whispers into the shell of my ear.

I nod.

He removes the blindfold with deft fingers, and I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust.

Gray sunlight pours in from skylights, forming perfect rectangles on the white marble floor. The wall in front of us is also white and adorned with three large paintings. I walk toward the square one on the far left. The gilded frame looks old and a bit worn by time, or perhaps the hard trip through the mountains or Drained Wood.

I take a step forward, focusing on what looks vaguely like a field of wildflowers. Then, the colors of the painting begin to move.

I squint. Surely it’s a trick of the light, but now the aquas, blues, whites, and greens are moving rapidly, blending together and forming new patterns.

“What in the Divine is that?” I rasp, my mouth suddenly dry.

It’s like no magic I’ve ever seen, and as startling as that is, I don’t want to look away. The colors morph and blend, and the texture changes from soft to something jagged.

Henry steps up behind me, his chest brushing my back. “It’s called mirror art. It shows how you’re feeling. Which looks like—” He casts a glance at the painting. “Prickly.”

The painting has indeed formed a more violent-looking pattern. The texture has shifted to something spiky as opposed to the smooth, sweeping strokes that it started with. It looks like a colorful exploding star.

The impulse to run is so strong that I take a step toward the door. The last thing I need is a room full of art that will reveal to Henry everything that’s tucked safely in my heart.

Henry seems content in here. Normally, there is a controlled rigidness to his body. His movements are purposeful and swift, and when he’s at rest, he’s always preternaturally still.

As I relax, the painting starts to morph again. Henry brushes his fingers over my hip. The silk is so thin, I can feel the heat of his skin.

“Who painted them?” I ask, watching the painting shift again.

“My sister.”

I stop breathing for a second and crane my neck to look at him. “How did she make these if her magic was protection?”

Henry hesitates, but there’s pride in his eyes as he watches the paintings in front of us shift. “Holly was twice-blessed. Once by Vardek and once by Polm.”

My mouth falls open from the sheer shock. I’ve witnessed years of Divine baptisms, but never once have I seen someone blessed by more than one Divine. I know it’s possible, because my parents drilled into us to be very vigilant that we didn’t miss any more subtle blessings. But if the well here is more powerful, perhaps it bestows more frequent double blessings—ones that we have no records of.

He hums low. “Holly had an incredibly inventive mind. She understood how to blend her magics in very creative ways. The way she described it was that she wanted to turn her art into protection, and what could protect my family better than having art around the house that would let us know if our allies were still our allies? That would give us insights into how they are feeling. She channeled the gift of reading emotions—the base of manipulation magic—into each piece so that it would display a feeling.”

I’m stunned. My magic has always been a burden, and while I found a way to transform it into something useful, I’ve never been able to imagine uses beyond just varying the different types of poisons based on plants I learned about.

This art is brilliant not just in its practicality, but in the tremendous skill and creativity that it requires to learn to channel the Divine’s gifts in a new way. Most blessed by Polm think only about how to use it to manipulate other people, but that manipulation comes from a deep understanding of someone’s emotions and how to read them. She would have had to weave half of that magic into the painting at the same time she channeled in the protection magic.