The White Sheep's Disguise ✓

Chapter 13

My father used to tell tales about the royal palace. The gold edgings and carvings, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, elegant ballrooms constantly filled with dancers and musicians. I used to imagine the palace to be a wondrous, exotic place to visit and a mystery to all. Those with only a few coppers in the clutches of a tight fist could never walk through the gates that lead to the Raven Queen's perch.

After my father's stories, I had dreams about what the palace would be like. The endless diamond and crystal necklaces, wide gowns swishing around the hips of young courtiers, and the clattering of teacups in private residences—shared by a prince and a princess. The luxuries of Rivian's palace originated years ago, long before I was born and long before the land twisted itself into the full moon's shape.

Generations of royals called this palace their home for their entire lives, and I expected more.

The halls aren't crafted of diamond, neither are the floors. The marble is slick and clean, brown and muddled in deeper parts of the corridors, but underwhelming all the same. I expected the walls to be clean white, portraits of past royals looming over every corner. Again, I'm disappointed to discover that this palace is as ordinary as any other.

If my father were here today, walking into Cloak Terravale's chambers, he'd stop in his tracks. Not in awe at the ruby red, velvet curtains draped over a long wall of arched windows looking out to the courtyard, or the long bench underneath them. Cushions and pillows scatter the ledge, as well as books. Their pages spill open onto the floor, spines bent and cracked.

My father would stop and stare at the broken bottles littering every surface. The desk, that cushioned ledge under the windows, the sofas, the low table, even the bed. Outside those large, hidden transoms, the sun can't shine on the rest of the carnage that took place in here at one point or another. And the smell...I don't have to force myself to sniff to taste what lingers. Even a tavern in the slums doesn't have a cloud of stale ale lingering in the air. At least not this strong.

Tunics, trousers, wool socks, doublets—every item of clothing hasn't been returned to the armoire in the corner of the room, placed crookedly against the cutout of a faded tapestry. The clothes are strewn over the sofas in front of the fireplace and mostly covering the rumpled sheets and black duvet on the four-poster bed. Sheer drapes hang over the posts and swim down to the mattress after someone tugged on them.

This room is a mess. My body doesn't know where to move or where to go, the only considerably clean place is the desk shoved against the wall and covered in more paperwork than I've seen in a library. No organization whatsoever.

I step carefully around the broken bottles on the floor and pull back the dusty curtains, coughing when a puff slithers up my nose and clogs my throat. The light shining into the room reveals a door I hadn't seen before, open and leading to a separate dining room.

The long, oak table meant to seat twenty or so guests is completely empty. Not a centerpiece, porcelain plate, or silver fork waits to see use or attention. Even the chairs are shoved in tight against the table, so much that I wonder when the last time someone pulled one out.

Cloak Terravale is a mess in more ways than one. And his lack of company proves to extend farther than the door from the hallway but stops at the bed.

His bathing chamber, connected to the dining area, is as cluttered and misused as the rest of his chambers. I shut the door before searching what doesn't belong to me and I return to his desk, easing myself down in the cushioned chair. Everything is quiet. The guards outside the door don't utter a word, and I can do nothing other than shove his paperwork aside to make room for a small clutter of my own. If I'm to take notes, I require a solid surface.