Castles in Their Bones (Castles in Their Bones #1)

Beatriz

For , the carriage ride to the Cellarian palace in the city of Vallon passes in a blur. The ladies in her carriage—tired from the first several legs of their journey—fall asleep soon after they depart the last inn, leaving to stare out the window, looking for hints of Vallon in the distance.

She knows she’s going to miss her sisters. She already feels the space left by them in her heart the way she used to feel the space in her mouth after losing a baby tooth. She can’t help but prod it and marvel at the loss, but she’s also hungry for Cellaria, hungry for change, hungry for a taste of the power her mother has always guarded so carefully, like a dragon in a children’s story.

While she has a moment’s peace, she turns her mind to the mission her mother set for her.

Charm the Temarinian ambassador, the empress told her. I want him so wrapped around your finger that he will leap from the cliffs of Alder if you ask it of him.

It will be easy enough—this is what she was raised for, after all. Raised to charm and seduce and curl people, men in particular, around her finger. She has an arsenal of courtesans’ tricks at her disposal: how to laugh and touch a man’s arm, letting her touch linger an extra second; how to smile in a way that shows the dimple in her cheek; and most importantly, how to deduce quickly and accurately what is desired of her and how to fulfill that desire. How to become the blushing innocent. The bold seductress. The shy romantic. The brazen wit.

Everyone has a fantasy, and has learned how to embody every last one. It is simply a matter of reading people.

Everything she knows about the Temarinian ambassador, Lord Savelle, indicates that he will be easily charmed. A widower in his forties, he’s spent half of his life in the Cellarian court, barred from using stardust for any purpose. Her mother’s spies say that he is disliked and distrusted by everyone at court, but by none more so than the king himself, who wastes no opportunity to insult him. For his part, Lord Savelle appears unruffled by the attitudes of the king and his court—he is in Cellaria to do a job, and by all appearances he has done it well. In the nearly two decades since the end of the Celestian War, peace between Cellaria and Temarin has been kept—a difficult task, given the rumors of King Cesare’s quick temper and rash impulsiveness. The Cellarian spies credit Lord Savelle with singlehandedly preventing the king from declaring war on what he viewed as the heathen Temarinians no fewer than a dozen times.

is sure Lord Savelle must be lonely.

You want me to flirt with an old man? asked her mother. He’s old enough to be my father.

The empress didn’t like that—didn’t like any sort of questioning of her instructions. But was never as good as her sisters at holding her tongue. If she were to be honest, she never really tried. I expect you to do whatever it takes to win him over, the empress said coldly. At ’s horrified look, she laughed. Oh, please, . Playing the part of the prude doesn’t suit you. You’ll do what needs to be done.

The other ladies in the carriage stir when they begin to cross over a bridge leading into a walled city with colorful spires peeking over the walls, and forgets her mother, forgets those instructions and how nauseated they make her.

“Ah, Vallon,” one of the ladies says, wistfulness in her voice. She’s the closest to ’s age, but still at least a decade older.

Bianca is her name, remembers, the Countess of Lavellia, who is insecure about the size of her ears and has a reputation for bullying the younger ladies at court. They haven’t even gotten to court yet and has already seen those rumors to be true—not in an overt way, the countess knows better than to be openly rude to her future queen, but there have been barbed compliments and withering looks and cutting laughs in her direction.

Each time, grits her teeth and pretends not to notice, even when the other ladies smirk and titter behind their hands. Her mother has taught her many things, most of them unpleasant, but chief among them is patience.

She leans closer to the window, trying to see as much of the city as she can, but even at this distance, it’s too big. Bessemia’s capital, Hapantoile, could fit inside it at least thrice over.

Suddenly, —always too loud, too bright, too boisterous—feels as small as a mouse in a cathedral.

They draw closer, over the bridge and through the city gate, a great, gilded thing set with a rainbow of jewels that glitter in the afternoon light, making it look like it’s alive. Then it’s through a labyrinth of winding streets, past brightly colored town houses and manors, gardens blooming with flowers can’t begin to name, people in fashions that in Bessemia would be considered gaudy and ostentatious. The whole city bustles and glows with a light never imagined possible. The cacophony of city sounds hits her ears like the sweetest music.

“It’s beautiful,” she tells the ladies in Cellarian, her face pressed so close to the window that her breath fogs it every time she exhales.

But even the city is lackluster in the shadow of the palace. It looms over everything, a large white structure with too many windows and balconies to count and an arrangement of pillars along the entrance. In the sunlight, the white stone seems to glow with a light of its own.

has always thought the Bessemian palace is the grandest in the world, but when she steps out of the carriage and stands before the Cellarian palace, she realizes just how small her home is.

She tries not to gape openly and instead focuses her attention on the group of people gathered in a line, facing her. Each one is dressed more outrageously than the last. One woman wears a sweeping orange gown with sleeves the size of watermelons. Another wears a hat that resembles a monarch butterfly, dripping in more jewels than any chandelier has ever seen. Another man wears a suit of red-and-black-striped satin and boots with ruby-studded heels.

At the center of the line is King Cesare, recognizable by the gold crown atop his head and the bejeweled velvet cape around his shoulders. has heard stories from some of the Cellarian women in the Bessemian brothels about King Cesare, most of whom used a past dalliance with the king to advertise themselves—who wouldn’t want to bed a woman good enough for a king? In his youth he was said to be the handsomest man on the continent, and even now, in his fifties, she can see the shadow of that. They say he has so many bastards that a day has been set aside in the calendar to commemorate all of their birthdays at once.

can feel her heart speed up as she shifts her gaze to his right, where his only living legitimate child stands at his side, marked by his own golden crown, less ornate than his father’s but every bit as regal.

Prince Pasquale.

He looks like imagined, more or less, though the portrait she received of him some years back took some liberties. His shoulders aren’t quite so broad, his stature slighter. But the artist captured his eyes perfectly—the same wide hazel gaze that looks better suited to a child, curious and also somewhat terrified. When those eyes meet hers, he tries to smile, but it’s a close-lipped thing, tight and insincere.

A crowd lines the stairs that stretch up to the palace, shouting townspeople who cheer as begins her ascent. One of the ladies from the carriage hastens to lift the long train of her gown, which spills out behind her like a trail of fresh blood.

Her legs ache when she finally reaches the top, but she manages to dip into a deep curtsy before King Cesare.

“Welcome to Cellaria, Princess ,” the king says, his voice booming enough that even the crowd gathered at the base of the steps can hear. He reaches down, placing one smooth finger beneath her chin and tilting her face up toward him. meets his gaze as he looks her over, his expression critical. For an instant, her heart stops beating—what if he can see through the eye drops? She used them last night, careful to put them in just before she fell asleep so that the servants who woke her in the morning didn’t notice. The apothecary said the effect would last a full twenty-four hours, but what if something went wrong? Will the king have her killed on the spot? After what feels like an eternity, he smiles widely and lifts her back to her feet.

“A beauty!” he proclaims to the crowd, taking hold of ’s hand and holding it up. The crowd erupts again into cheers.

Cheers for her, cheers in her honor—but they feel hollow to .

“My son is a lucky man,” King Cesare continues, taking Prince Pasquale’s hand in his other one and joining it with ’s. The prince’s hand is clammy in hers, but he gives hers what she imagines is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Halfhearted as it might be, she appreciates the gesture, but when she tries to meet his eyes, he continues staring out at the crowd, sweat beading on his forehead though the weather is mild and breezy.

“I know we all had our worries that a Bessemian princess would be too corrupted by magic to make an appropriate future queen,” King Cesare continues, and feels a bolt of unease shoot through her, though she is careful not to lose her smile. She holds her breath and waits for him to continue.

“But Empress Margaraux has assured me that Princess has been raised Cellarian in both customs and faith and she follows the true path of the stars. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

opens her mouth to recite the line she’s been practicing for years, the denunciation of magic and Bessemia’s heathen ways. She is even ready to throw in some fist-shaking or dramatic swooning, depending on how the audience responds. But she never gets the chance.

“And why should we trust the word of that whore?” a man shouts from the crowd. “A woman who sleeps with a demon empyrea in exchange for her petty heart’s desires?”

has to stifle a laugh at the idea of her mother and Nigellus together. She knows her mother has had many lovers over the years, but the thought of Nigellus among them is absurd.

“I would not,” the king says. “My ambassador has confirmed it, as have the spies we have in the Bessemian court. All have described Princess as a pious and devout girl. While her heathen sisters used stardust to wish for ponies and jewels, Princess refused every bit of stardust ever offered to her.”

It’s a lie—almost as laughable as the thought of her mother and Nigellus—but knows that those ambassadors and spies are all hypocrites, all willing to tell the king whatever ’s mother ordered in exchange for a few vials of stardust of their own. Those who did refuse were met with horribly unfortunate accidents.

“It is true,” says, looking out at the crowd from lowered eyelashes. “I have counted the days, waiting to be rid of that horrid place. I feel truly blessed to be here, before you, in a far more civilized country, and I am infinitely grateful to King Cesare and Prince Pasquale for rescuing me from such a nightmare. If I never see a mite of stardust again, I will thank the stars every moment of the rest of my life.”

It might be a tad overdramatic, but it does the trick. Even the man who shouted looks placated.

“A true treasure! If you aren’t careful, Pasquale,” King Cesare says, leaning close to his son’s ear, though everyone within fifty feet can hear him, “I might have to steal her away from you.”

Before can process his words, the king places a hand on her backside in plain view of the thousands gathered and squeezes. She can barely feel his touch through the layers of petticoats and the bustle, but heat still rises to her face.

She shouldn’t be surprised—she’s heard more stories of his lasciviousness than she can count, stories about noblemen’s wives and scullery maids and seemingly every type of woman in between. Yet shock freezes her in place and for an instant, she feels like a doe before a hunter. But her mother didn’t raise does, she reminds herself, swallowing down the bile in her throat. She raised vipers.

“Your Majesty,” says, forcing her mouth into a coquettish smile when all she wants to do is slap his hand away. “You ought to know that if you have to resort to stealing a girl, you’re doing something wrong.”

For a second, there is silence, and worries that hermouth has gotten her into trouble, that she has shown her fangs and claws too early. Patience, her mother has always cautioned. Before she can apologize, though, King Cesare throws back his head and laughs loudly, dropping his hand.

“And a spitfire, too,” he says with an approving smile before his eyes shift to his petrified son. He lowers his voice, speaking this time only for and the prince. “Perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two from her, my boy.”

The term of endearment doesn’t soften the words, and Prince Pasquale flinches like he’s been physically struck. King Cesare doesn’t see it—his attention is already focused once again on the crowd.

“These two lovebirds won’t have to wait too long—as planned, their wedding will take place tomorrow evening….” He trails off, glancing back at them with mischief in his eyes.“But for now, I don’t suppose a kiss would hurt anyone.”

This time when Prince Pasquale looks at her, fear is plain in his eyes. His hand trembles in hers.

Stars above, thinks. He’s never kissed a girl before.

In all of her training for this, she has been led to believe that Cellaria is a land of pleasure and loose morals—completely at odds with its strict attitude about magic—and she expected to find a prince who was his father’s son, a confident debaucher with a string of broken hearts in his wake. Instead, Prince Pasquale is a nervous boy, looking at her like she’s some sort of dragon come to swallow him whole.

The crowd is waiting and watching them, excited for a show, and is nothing if not a performer.

“Pull me close to you,” she whispers to Prince Pasquale, who stares at her, alarmed.

“Wh…What?” he asks.

“Just do it,” she replies.

Prince Pasquale swallows, eyes shifting to his father, to the crowd, then back to her. His hand still in hers, he pulls her toward him, and presses her lips to his.

In the eruption of cheers and whistles, no one notices how uncomfortable a kiss it is, but does. It isn’t just that it’s clumsy the way most first kisses are with a new person, it’s the fact that it’s cold—only lips touching, his hand dutifully placed on her back just so. There is no spark to it, no warmth, no romance at all.

But the crowd wants to see a great love story unfolding before their eyes, and isn’t about to disappoint them. When they break apart, she smiles, biting her lip and summoning a blush to her cheeks just as she learned to do from the best courtesans in Bessemia.

You’re a toy to them, one of them, Sabine, told her. If you can become what they want you to be, they’ll burn the world down in your name.

She knows what Cellaria wants her to be, the passionate beauty, the blushing bride, the princess madly in love with her prince. Looking sideways at Prince Pasquale, she realizes she doesn’t have the slightest idea what he wants her to be. But she’s determined to find out.