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

Daphne

expects it to only be the king and queen at tea the morning after her arrival, but when she steps into the parlor she finds Prince Bairre there as well, sitting across from his father at a small round table, Queen Darina between them, all of them dressed in black. The sight of Bairre glowering into a delicate porcelain teacup is almost enough to make her laugh, but he looks so adrift that all she feels is pity.

When steps into the sitting room, the king rises to his feet, followed belatedly by Bairre.

“,” King Bartholomew says. He tries to smile but fails as he gestures for her to join them.

“Thank you for thinking of me in this difficult time,” says.

“Of course,” the king says, taking his own teacup into his hands. “I wanted to let you know that the new marriage contract has arrived from Bessemia, ready for your signature, and Bairre’s. It’s happening quickly, I know. But it’s in Friv’s best interests to see this settled.”

And in Bessemia’s, thinks.

At the mention of the prince’s name, Queen Darina lets out a whimper, setting her teacup down with a clatter that echoes in the silent space. King Bartholomew sets his free hand over hers, holding it tightly. Queen Darina has covered her face with a black veil that falls to her collarbone, allowing her expression to be visible but casting it in shadow. can just make out sharp features, bone-white skin, and dark eyes that focus on nothing.

“I’m not sure we will ever stop reeling,” King Bartholomew continues. “But Friv depends on us, so we must carry on. Bairre, you’re my child by blood and the only one I have left.”

“According to a note, on the word of a whore,” Queen Darina bites out, her voice sharp-edged and brittle.

The king flinches, but he holds his ground. “It’s what Cillian would have wanted.”

might not know much about Bairre, but she knows this is a cruel card to play. Bairre goes a shade paler, though after a moment, he inclines his head in assent.

King Bartholomew gets to his feet and crosses the room to a writing desk in the corner, where he picks up a piece of parchment and a quill in an inkpot, bringing them back to the table and laying the document between and Bairre.

“After Cillian’s death, the country is holding its breath, waiting to see what will become of it,” King Bartholomew says. “I would like to reassure our people that we are still here, that we still have a plan to ensure that Friv remains secure not just for my lifetime but beyond.”

scans the document. Though it’s written in elaborate Frivian script, she understands it well enough. It appears identical to the contract her mother signed as her guardian when she was mere weeks old, betrothing her to Cillian. She’s seen it a few times in the years since, her mother bringing out her copy of it for to read once she was old enough to understand what it meant.

Don’t sign anything unless you know it forward and back, her mother’s voice whispers through her mind.

picks up the piece of parchment, reading it more closely, but it’s all there—the outline of the alliance, the trade route provisions, promises of support in the face of war.

When finishes reading, she takes the quill from the inkpot and touches it to the line awaiting her signature. It’s only then that she looks at Bairre, who is watching her every movement with wary eyes.

For just a second she hesitates. She doesn’t want to bind her life to his, doesn’t want to call him her husband.

But a prince is a prince, and she will do her duty.

She signs her name in jet-black ink before holding the quill out to Bairre.

He doesn’t take it right away, and for a moment she thinks he might refuse—and what would happen then? He looks at her and she tries to smile, to reassure him, to entice him, maybe, but his expression remains stony and closed off, a fog-draped thunderstorm.

Finally, he exhales and presses the tip of the quill to the parchment, signing his own name beside hers.

She looks at them together, the delicate looping letters of her full name, Therese Soluné, Princess of Bessemia, and there, beside it, a simply scrawled Bairre, with a Prince of Friv hastily added after it.

King Bartholomew takes the contract and draws something out of the pocket of his jacket. When he holds it up, a jolt goes through —his seal. It is a heavy gold thing the size of a lemon with a long handle and a flat end. She can’t see the design of the seal itself, so she watches as the king places a ball of wax below the signatures and holds the seal up to the flame of the candle for a moment, letting it grow hot. When he’s satisfied, he presses the seal into the wax. watches, rapt. She’s heard about the seal, but it is a different thing entirely to see it in action. King Bartholomew must feel her eyes on him, because he looks up at her.

“An invention of Fergal, our court empyrea,” he tells her, releasing the seal and holding up the contract so she can see. “I understand your mother has one as well.”

“Yes, but she’s never let me see it up close,” lies.

“No? Here, take a look, it’s quite impressive.”

The seal is still warm, the yellow wax glistening, pressed into the crest he designed for himself when he took control of Friv—the Northern Star. The star looks easy enough to replicate, but that isn’t what gives pause. At the center of the seal, a few drops of crimson have mixed in with the wax, blossoming over the yellow.

“For authenticity’s sake. See the barrel here?” He motions to the handle of the seal. “It holds a store of my blood mixed with a pinch of stardust.”

He passes the contract to so that she can see the seal up close. What looked like a drop of crimson from afar is, in fact, an incandescent violet shimmer that reminds of a bruise.

“How will anyone know it is your blood?” asks. “It could be anyone’s, no?”

“As of now, the only three people who own seals like this are me, King Leopold, and, of course, your mother. If one of us needs verification, an empyrea can provide it with a bit of stardust. Now it is official,” he continues, looking from to Bairre. “We will declare Bairre a prince of the realm tomorrow evening, and the two of you will be wed in a month’s time.”

A month. Not ideal, but can’t exactly protest. Not that she gets the chance. The queen stands up so suddenly her teacup topples over, spilling the weak tea all over the white tablecloth.

“You brought this curse on all of us,” she tells King Bartholomew, each word laced with poison. “This was your doing. You might as well have killed our boy with your own two hands.”

She doesn’t give Bartholomew a chance to reply—though he doesn’t look like he has a response anyhow. Instead, she turns and stalks out of the room, mourning veil streaming behind her like smoke.

—

When King Bartholomew chases after the queen, is left alone with Prince Bairre, an uncomfortable silence settling so heavily over them it’s smothering.

“I’m sure Queen Darina is hurting worse than anyone,” she says finally. “She didn’t mean it.”

“She did,” Bairre says, not looking at her. “She’s been saying the same thing for months, ever since Cillian got sick. My father says she’s distraught.”

frowns, filing that away in her mind. Friv is a more superstitious country than Bessemia, but she isn’t sure what kind of curse Queen Darina referred to. But as Bairre said, she’s distraught. pushes the thought away and focuses on him instead.

“It isn’t every day a bastard becomes a prince,” she says, taking a sip of her tea, which has gone cold.

Bairre doesn’t say anything for a moment, instead staring at her like she’s suddenly grown horns.

“My brother is dead,” he says slowly. “And suddenly I’ve had his life forced upon me, his title, his betrothed, his position.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says quickly. “I have two sisters, and I cannot imagine what hell I would go through if anything happened to them. But you’ll be king one day—something that was impossible before today—”

“Something I never wanted,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “Not all of our lives revolve around a crown. Difficult as it might be for you to believe, I have no desire to be king. I was quite happy to be the bastard brother of a real prince.”

It is difficult for to believe, but she knows better than to say as much. He already thinks her a snob; she isn’t about to prove him right.

“And what would you rather do, then?” she asks, unable to keep a touch of derision out of her voice.

He blinks at her, silver eyes unreadable. He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, does it? My father’s right—this is my duty; it’s what Cillian would have wanted me to do. It doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

He gets up to leave, but she finds her voice before he reaches the door. If he wants to sulk about his lot in life, she has plenty of ammunition to join him.

“Did it ever occur to you that this is my duty as well?” she asks, stopping him short. “Difficult as it may be for you to believe, I’m not exactly keen on marrying you—Cillian, either, for that matter. It has been my duty since I was only weeks old, so I will see it through. But it would be an awful lot easier if you didn’t treat me like your enemy.”

He pauses, one hand on the doorknob, though he doesn’t look back at her. She waits for him to reply, but after a moment, he merely gives a grunt and continues through the door, closing it firmly behind him and leaving her alone.

leans back in her seat. She got under his skin—that’s a start.