Two days passed. Curzon hadn’t brought up the subject of joining him since their encounter in the west garden. He simply accompanied her throughout The Bastion’s halls, telling her about the history of the palace or recounting stories of him and his younger brother.
“We stole two trays of meat pies from the kitchens and brought them up here. We ate so fast Atlas had to dart outside to throw it all up again in the north garden’s bushes.” Curzon laughed at the memory, a wistfulness stealing into his body. “That was the first season in years we had such bounty in the palace. Two little boys hardly knew what to do with it all.”
“Where is Atlas now?” Violet had asked.
“He died a year later when the crops failed. Many across Ipsit starved.”
Violet hadn’t been brave enough to ask any more questions about Atlas after that.