Page 80 of The Shadows Between Us
“What does that tell you?” Kallias asks.
“The assassin is from here, but someone wanted to make it look as though the killer was a foreigner. He didn’t shoot me. Only you. He was supposed to be seen before he got away.”
“Very good,” Kallias says.
“Why are you praising me like I’m some daft schoolgirl?”
“You’re in shock, Alessandra. I’m trying to keep your mind busy.”
I realize then that my hands are shaking. Kallias looks down at them as I do. He takes one of my hands within his own, not missing a step.
Kallias is like a specter as he moves through the palace, all flickering shadows floating from place to place. Though his feet still make the imitation of steps, I wonder if they need to. It looks as though his feet hardly touch the floor. The potted flowers sitting on tables in the corridors don’t rustle as he walks by. The black carpet doesn’t indent with his steps. The drapes around the windows don’t whisper with movement as he brushes past them.
I follow beside him, fascinated by everything about him. From the way the muscles in his back flex as he walks, still visible through the shadows, to the way servants press themselves flush against the walls to let us pass. Everything about him exudes power.
We stride down a corridor leading… somewhere. I’ve never been in this part of the palace before.
Wait, what was it Kallias had ordered to the guard? Something about sending a healer to the queen’s suite?
A couple floors up, Kallias stops in front of a door. A potted ivy plant rests upon each of two tables placed on either side of the doorway, the vines growing up the walls and connecting at the space above the doorway. It’s easy to imagine a magical garden lying hidden on the other side.
Kallias, seeing me stare at the beautiful plants in wonder, says, “My mother loved plants. Roses were her favorite. I’m sure you’ve noticed them detailing all the woodwork throughout the palace. She’d grow them in her garden and paint them black.”
“Black? Why?” I breathe.
“Because then they reminded her of my father. Of the shadows.”
“Is this—?” I start, unable to finish.
Kallias walks through the solid door, leaving me alone in the dark corridor for a moment. Then I hear a latch clicking, and he opens the now unlocked door from the inside for me.
“These were my mother’s rooms,” he says. Though his hand must have become corporeal to open the door for me, it is already encased in shadow once more as I brush past him.
In the greeting chamber, a large table rests, fresh roses blooming in a vase. A grand piano sits against the far wall. And the wall behind me, next to the door I just stepped through? Stained glass covers every inch of it, little pieces of color forming together to make the picture of a flourishing forest. A deer drinks from a flowing lake. Butterflies hover below the leaves of a tree. And everywhere along the bottom, flowers bloom. The door was made to look like the trunk of a large tree, not detracting from the opulence in the least. Candles throughout the room cast the whole magnificence of the design aglow, the inner facets smoldering as though the flames live within the individual glass pieces.
“The whole palace has been fitted with electricity, but my mother preferred the way the candlelight made the glass shimmer. I still have servants light these. I think she would have liked that.”
Kallias opens another door, which leads into the bedchamber. The bed sits high off the floor, so heaped with downy blankets and plump pillows, I wonder if I’d have to jump to reach into the expansiveness of it. Red bed hangings have been tied to each of the four posts around the bed, and I suspect they perfectly block out the light when let loose.
Red rugs cover the black carpet, making each step even softer. The wardrobe is massive, a design of rose thorns cut through the wooden sides. A vanity takes up nearly half the wall, an assortment of jewels and cosmetics heaped upon it.
Seeing where my eyes have landed, Kallias says, “They belonged to my mother. Use what you will. Anything else, you can have the servants remove.”
“What?” My mind tries to wrap around everything. Assassin. Kallias’s blood. The queen’s rooms. “Why are we here?”
“These are your new rooms.”
“What?” I ask again stupidly. “Why?”
“You saved my life by distracting the assassin and giving me time to heal. And I have never feared so much for your safety. You’ll be sleeping right next to me now.” And then he adds, as though it pains him to say it, “Unless you find that disagreeable?”
I’m speechless for a moment. “No,” I say at last, my face softening. “No, I’ll stay here. And I’d be honored to use your mother’s things. Don’t have them removed from the room.”
Though his face doesn’t change, I can tell he’s pleased. Perhaps by the way the shadows about his face lighten.
“That door at the end of the room leads to the washroom. And this one”—he points to a door I hadn’t noticed near the bed—“leads to my chambers.”
My throat feels a little tight, and I can’t quite think why. Because I’m so pleased? Humbled by this gesture? Perhaps even a little afraid by the intimacy of it?
