The Night Court

Chapter Eight

Madame Kubas had a painting in one of her front halls. It was large, it took up nearly the whole width and stretched out about as long as Hugo when he laid down. It showed the mountains as he remembered them. Snow painted so delicately, covering every surface. Mikolaj shivered every time he walked past it.

Small, intricate details is what made it such a prize. He could see the frost in the cracks of the tree bark, the ribbon hanging from the branches flowed in the wind. The sharp, razor-leaf flowers that burst out of the snow floating around the mouth of a dark cave. And the blood, the blood looked real. It flowed in rivers, snapping from the mouths of angry wolves, easing between frozen limbs and fingers. Ulra packed tightly in their furs, fighting with crude spears or whatever the artist believed they were like.

No one ever paid as close attention to the painting as Mikolaj did.

Justyna's hand was soft in his. He knew she was speaking, the sound of her voice floated over him like a warm breeze, but none of the words stuck out to him. He just liked that she sounded happy. Such a contrast from Lady Wiech's sour attitude, Aleksja's melancholy, and Lord Wiech's play at being flirtatious.

And much better than Marian's piercing gaze.

They passed the painting.

Mikolaj squeezed Justyna's hand and fell in step beside her. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tired. You'll have to be slow with me."

She nodded, her large eyes filled with concerned understanding. "How was your weekend?"

Mikolaj sighed. "Lord Wiech didn't buy me anything expensive so I'm a bit disappointed. I could use a new coat for the season."

She laughed. "You're so lucky. No one buys me anything."

"They will." He took her by the chin and gave her a playful shake. "You're prettier than me."

"Stop it." But her smile widened and cheeks darkened as she flushed. Justyna was too sweet.

She took him to the tea room, a usually dusty circular room that might have been used as a breakfast nook in a time when the Night Court might have been a normal home. The curtains were thick and old, moth-bitten and smelled dewey. Most of the tables lined the perimeter and each couch filled with cobwebs.

Stefan and Hugo bent over a long board on the faded rug. Hugo smoothed out the framed edges with his meaty hands as Stefan carefully placed pretty bits of paper and lace over the board. Klaudia stood behind them, hands eclipsed in the pockets of her trousers and her long hair slicked away from her face.

She greeted him by raising her eyebrows. "You're back."

Hugo grunted, flicking her a coin. "We laid bets on whether or not you would. Lord Wiech's been spreading the news about the room he finished for you."

There it was. A pang in the back of his brain. The beginning echo of a headache. Saints, if they knew Madame Kubas must know. Worse, she'd know he was here and not making her brag-worthy by moving in with his Keeper.

"As if I could stay away from you lovely people."

Klaudia chuckled as she counted her winnings.

He let go of Justyna's hand to lean against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.

There were few reasons to go into the tea room. It's not like they had tea parties, or anyone ever wanted to be entertained in here. The windows only faced a dreary street corner and sunlight barely reached them.

He let out a long, withdrawn sigh that filled up the entire space. "What scheme are you up to now, Stefan?"

Stefan beamed. "Madame Kubas wants to go to Kruva."