Snow Like Ashes(51)

“I’ll be just a moment,” Theron says as he shuts the door behind us and disappears into the bedroom on the right.

After a moment, the sounds of water splashing into a bowl drift out. I wander around the sitting room to distract myself from the fact that Theron’s bedroom door is open and he’s probably a bit more than shirtless now.

Sweet snow, I’ve never thought about a man being undressed so much in my life. Even at camp with Mather, I never thought about the fact that he’d be in the bathing tent after me, and he’d be, um … I mean, maybe I thought about it, but I never got quite so flustered. I press my hands to my cheeks and exhale.

I stop in the middle of the room, hands still on my face, and narrow my eyes. There’s a lot of stuff in here. A lot of stuff. More than furniture and decorations. I turn in a circle, surveying the tightly packed space. I was so distracted by thoughts of boy matters that I overlooked the slightly messy, slightly unkempt quality of Theron’s sitting room—all right, the very messy, very unkempt quality.

Framed paintings of every size and shape sit in haphazard stacks around the room, leaning against the bureau and the wall and the chairs, with smaller paintings spread across the tabletop on a thin cotton sheet. Elaborate masks covered in jewels and gold accents dangle from ribbons on the corners of paintings. Books in towering stacks lean against the fireplace and on small end tables, and crowd the bookshelves so tightly I fear the entire structure will burst in an explosion of paper and dust. They’re large books too, great archaic things that look so old, so fragile, that I worry I might disintegrate them just by breathing too hard.

I lean over the dining table, my eyes flitting across palm-sized paintings of oak trees and books with yellowed pages poking out of the covers. One rectangular tome with a gold-embossed title reads History of Trade on the Feni River. Another book next to it reads Fairy Stories of Mountain Dwellers in thick leather thread. Beside it sits a stack of fresh parchment, a few illegible lines scratched in the same frantic hand as the poem in the library. Theron’s work. I squint but can only make out a few words—true and could and some others—and turn to a collection of oval portraits in a small box, each painting encased in a thin silver frame. I run my hand over one of a woman with her hair done up in a taut bun, staring grimly at the painter as though he and he alone was responsible for pulling her hair so tight.

A cupboard door slams behind me and I flinch away from the table to peer into the room. All I can see is a canopy bed drenched in pale white light from an open window. The cupboard slams again from within and I step toward the door just as Theron steps out, pulling his now-wet hair back into a ponytail. He’s changed out of his training clothes and into something more princely, black pants with thin gold stripes running down the sides. A close-fitting white shirt buttons up to his neck under a black vest, hiding his bandaged chest.

He tightens his hair. “What would you like to see first? We have quite the menagerie in the forest, an art gallery in the north wing—”

I cock an eyebrow. “An art gallery? Are you sure there are any paintings left in it?” I wave my hand at the room. “From the looks of things, this prince business is just a front for your life of art thievery.”

Theron glances around the room and absently moves to the nearest stack of books, lifting one and running his fingers down the spine. He looks up at me, an expression of mock hurt on his face. “I rob libraries too, I’ll have you know. And I have two good reasons for this”—his eyes narrow as he considers—“collection.”

“You want to have a standby profession in case being king doesn’t work out?” I guess, smiling, even as I realize how truthful it might be.

Theron shrugs, setting the book back on the stack. “Partly that. But mostly it’s because my father thinks this obsession is wholly unbefitting of a future king, and as long as I keep my chambers clogged with relics, he refuses to come here.” He beams at me. “But also because many of these belonged to my mother.”

“Your mother?” I run my eyes over the bookshelf, remembering Sir’s lectures. Theron, half-Cordellan, half-Ventrallan, is probably expected to take after his father’s side more than his mother’s.

I reach out and touch the spines of the books on the shelf. It reminds me of the fire pit Finn brought back. Holding on to some part of your past even if it means also holding on to the pain of never again having it. That pain is less horrible than the pain of forgetting.

“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. I’m sorry your mother isn’t here anymore. I’m sorry your father uses you.