The passage behind the dais was narrow, lined with storage chests that still smelled of cedar and spilled powder. Hallen shuffled ahead, and Belle noticed anew how his boots didn't match—one polished to a mirror, the other scuffed at the toe, as if he'd dressed in panic. A splash of spilled wine marked the flagstones where his cup had sloshed; trembling hands? She filed the clue.
At the turn, lanternlight flared across a figure stepping from gloom: a woman taller than Belle by a head, shoulders clad in dove-grey velvet that caught the glow like soft moonlight. A silver mask shielded her face, its edges hammered to delicate filigree, but the eyes behind were sharp dark coals. A serpent brooch, twin to the fragment Josephine held, pinned her cloak.
Belle halted in shadow, breath feathering against the wall-hangings. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Even from here she read Hallen's fear—his knees nearly buckled as the woman inclined her head.
