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

Sophronia

’s first few days as Queen of Temarin pass in a blur. There are so many courtiers to meet, so many events to attend, so many tasks to oversee. She insists on interviewing her staff herself—she isn’t foolish enough to believe she can keep spies out of her household altogether, but she’s determined to at least be able to figure out who they work for. Then there are the dress fittings, where she is poked and prodded with needles and every last inch of her is measured.

has always hated dress fittings—they make her hyperconscious of her figure, how much fuller it is than her sisters’. Now, in Temarin, she feels the eyes of the dressmaker and her assistants as they assess and measure her while she stands on a pedestal in her underthings. The seamstress shouts out numbers to be jotted down, and feels each one like a dagger beneath her skin. She waits for the judgment, for the snide looks and the whispers, but instead, after what feels like an eternity, the seamstress fixes her with a frank look.

“You’re quite lucky,” she tells her. “Not many girls can pull off Temarin Yellow, but it will suit you quite well.”

blinks. “Are you certain?” she asks. Temarin Yellow is a bright shade, the color of a canary’s wing. “Perhaps something darker would be more slimming?”

The seamstress scoffs. “You wish to appear smaller?” she asks, shaking her head. “You are a queen. Why shouldn’t you take up every bit of space you deserve? No, I think you would thrive in color—Temarin Yellow, Varil Blue…I just got the most divine silk in from Cellaria the exact color of a pomegranate that would look spectacular on you. What do you think?”

bites her lip and glances away from the dressmaker so the woman can’t see how moved she is by a few words. Why shouldn’t you take up every bit of space you deserve? The words echo in her mind, as if her memory is trying to etch them in stone.

“Whatever you think is best,” she says.

—

The fitting takes most of the day, and when she returns to her room is exhausted from looking at fabrics and trying on countless muslin mock-ups of dress cuts. Her spirits lift at the sight of an envelope on her bed. She picks it up immediately and the wax seal tells her it’s from Beatriz. She breaks the seal and reads.

Dear ,

I write this to you as a married woman, and I hope you find yourself similarly wed. Cellaria is beautiful. Iwish Icould send you some of their decadent cakes, butIfearthey won’t last the journey north. Write back to me soon.

Your sister,

Beatriz

knows right away Beatriz’s message is in code, if only because it sounds nothing like her. Before she can begin to decode it, though, a maid bustles in to remind her she’s to have tea with the dowager queen and Duchess Bruna, who accompanied on her journey. With a touch of annoyance, she slides the letter into her desk drawer to get back to later before following the maid out the door.

She hasn’t seen much of Leopold in the three days since the wedding. With only a few weeks left before the weather begins to turn cold, he and his brothers and several of their friends have gone to the new royal hunting lodge in the Amivel Woods, the lodge her mother’s spies reported Leopold had built after razing the village that once stood in its place. They still haven’t consummated the marriage, and finds she is both anxious and relieved about that fact.

In Leopold’s absence, Queen Eugenia has taken under her wing, bringing her to afternoon teas, evening musicales, and daily strolls in the garden during what the dowager queen likes to call the gossip hour.

finds that her first impression of Queen Eugenia as unimpressive isn’t entirely accurate. Eugenia wields her power differently than ’s mother did, more quietly. She never raises her voice or loses her smile, and most of her battles are waged politely over tea, but they are battles she always wins. It’s true that the majority of the court doesn’t like her— has seen the glares and heard a few whispers even in just the last few days—but they rely on her goodwill and everyone seems to know it.

Queen Eugenia has no trouble keeping the court operating smoothly even without Leopold. Many of the luncheons and teas they attend are thin excuses for the lords and ladies hosting them to ask favors that suspects should be handled by the king. The Earl and Countess of Campary require a loan from the crown to rebuild the earl’s summer home after it was set on fire by ruffians from a nearby village. Lord Nieves and Lord Treval need a judgment on where the line between their lands sits. Lady Whittem would like her husband’s mistress banished from court.

No matter how large or small the grievance is, Queen Eugenia handles the matter, usually by throwing money at it.

is curious to see what Duchess Bruna will ask of the dowager when they sit down for tea, and she’s even more curious about how Queen Eugenia will handle it.

“Tell me, Your Majesty, how are you adjusting to life here in Temarin?” Duchess Bruna asks , settling back in her chair as her maid—Violie, the girl from Bessemia—pours tea into three delicate porcelain cups painted with gold suns, the sigil of the Temarin royal family. Duchess Bruna is the late king’s sister, a fact she enjoys reminding people of at every opportunity.

“Oh, quite well, I think,” tells her, lifting her cup to take a sip of tea. “Because I was betrothed to Leopold from infancy, my mother ensured I was raised in Temarinian customs as well as Bessemian ones. In a strange way, coming here almost feels like coming home. And please, you must call me Sophie. We are family now, aren’t we?” she asks, offering Duchess Bruna a smile that could be called guileless ifshe hadn’t spent countless hours before a mirror practicing it.

Duchess Bruna leans across the table to pat ’s hand. “What a sweet girl you are, Sophie,” she says. “And you must call me Aunt Bruna, just as Leopold does. You don’t have any aunts or uncles in Bessemia, do you?”

“I’m afraid not,” says. “Both of my parents were only children.”

“Well,” Duchess Bruna says with a smirk, leaning back and glancing at Queen Eugenia. “So your mother says, though from what I’ve heard, no one even knows who her parents were. She could have siblings all over the continent and be none the wiser.”

“Don’t be beastly, Bruna,” Queen Eugenia says. “Empress Margaraux is ’s mother and the grandmother of my future grandchildren. I won’t tolerate any rude remarks.”

Duchess Bruna rolls her eyes and Queen Eugenia pretends not to notice, instead offering a reassuring smile. has heard far worse things about her mother over the years, but she’s touched by the dowager queen’s effort to protect her from them. She remembers what Queen Eugenia told her at the wedding—that when she was a young queen bride in a strange court, people had been cruel. Now she is ensuring that has an easier time of it.

In sowing tensions, start with her. The empress’s words come back to , accompanied by a stab of guilt that she quickly pushes aside. Queen Eugenia has been kind to her, yes, but ’s loyalty is to Bessemia alone.

“These cakes look wonderful, Aunt Bruna,” says. She picks up one of the thimble-sized cakes from the painted porcelain plate, holding it up to examine. It is delicately frosted to resemble a pink rose midbloom. When she takes a bite, it tastes like rose as well, along with a hint of something else. Pistachio, perhaps? She stops that train of thought. As her mother said whenever she found hiding away in the kitchens with the pastry chef, baking is not a proper pastime for a princess. Even less so for a queen, she imagines.

“I had a letter from my sister Beatriz,” continues, thinking back on the letter she hasn’t yet decoded, looking at Queen Eugenia. “She says the cakes in Cellaria are absolutely decadent. Are they like these?”

“Not at all,” Queen Eugenia says without missing a beat. “Everything in Temarin is far superior to what one finds in Cellaria.”

Duchess Bruna laughs. “And besides, the Cellarians treat using stardust as the gravest sin, so I’m not inclined to trust their expertise on decadence.”

Queen Eugenia laughs as well, but notices a flicker of tension in her mouth.

“Aunt Bruna and I had quite the adventure on our way into the city,” says, changing the subject. “We were set upon by a band of thieves.”

“Yes, I heard,” Queen Eugenia says with a heavy sigh. “Sadly not an uncommon occurrence these days.”

“Ruffians,” Duchess Bruna scoffs. “Luckily, we were near enough to the meeting point that Leopold heard the commotion and came right away to have those horrid creatures taken away to prison.”

“He did,” says, and though she doesn’t mean to, her eyes dart to the side of the room where the servants stand and find Violie, only to see her own ambivalence mirrored in the maid’s expression. She forces her gaze back to the dowager queen.

“I urged Leopold to show them mercy,” she says carefully. “When the masks came off, they were only boys—around Gideon’s and Reid’s ages.”

“You’re very sweet, but they were thieves, Sophie,” Queen Eugenia says.

smiles softly. “Yes, that is what Leopold said as well. I’m sure you’re right. I’m just so new to these things,” she says, biting her lip before making her strike. “It does seem a bit…Cellarian, don’t you think? To jail children over something so trivial? No one was hurt, after all. You could practically view it as a badly thought-out prank, if you were so inclined.” She says it breezily, popping another tiny cake into her mouth and pretending not to notice the way Queen Eugenia’s neck flushes or the way Duchess Bruna’s eyes glint with gleeful malice. would bet that by lunch the entire palace will be whispering that Queen Eugenia’s policies are a bit Cellarian, aren’t they?

“I’m sure you had thieves in Bessemia, Sophie,” Queen Eugenia says, barely managing to hold on to her smile. “What is done with them there?”

has to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying that in Bessemia, they keep their taxes low enough that no thieves would be so desperate as to attack a royal carriage. Instead, she shrugs. “It depends entirely on the circumstances,” she says, which isn’t strictly true, but she doubts the other women know that. “And if the victim of the crime does not wish to press charges, the matter is dropped.”

She meets Queen Eugenia’s gaze and holds it for a moment, not letting her expression shift from a bright, vapid smile. They could be discussing the weather rather than crime and punishment.

“Well, we are not in Bessemia,” Queen Eugenia says, her voice sharpening at the edges in a way that makes feel like a small child again, facing her mother’s scolding. “And we are not in Cellaria, for that matter. We are in Temarin, where criminals are punished.”

“Of course,” says easily. “As I said, I am so new to all of this. I hope you don’t mind my asking questions.”

“Not at all,” Queen Eugenia says, though her tone makes it clear she minds ’s questions a great deal, and even Duchess Bruna looks from one to the other of them uncomfortably.

“More tea?” she asks, motioning to Violie, who rushes forward to refill their cups. In her haste, some hot tea dribbles out of the teapot and onto Duchess Bruna’s lap.

“Idiot!” Duchess Bruna screeches, leaping to her feet and slapping Violie so hard across the face that the sound echoes in the quiet room. Violie rears back, her hand flying up to her red cheek, but otherwise looks unsurprised.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” she mumbles.

“This gown is silk imported from the Alder mountains. Do you have any idea what it costs?”

“No, Your Grace,” Violie says quietly. “But I’m certain I will be able to get the stain out.”

“You’d better hope so—if not, the cost will come out of your pay!” the woman yells.

doesn’t know how much Violie’s pay is, but she would guess it would take years for her to pay off the cost of the dress. When she catches Violie’s gaze again, the girl’s eyes are wide with fear and brimming with unshed tears as she hurries back to her corner, carrying the teapot in shaking hands.

knows that look—she wore it often enough in Bessemia when she was the target of her mother’s tempers, though her mother never struck her daughters. forces herself back into conversation with Duchess Bruna and Queen Eugenia—the topic of which has turned to gossip about which noblewoman’s husband was caught in a compromising position with his valet—but her mind is elsewhere.

—

As and Queen Eugenia make their way back to the royal wing after tea, Queen Eugenia links their arms together and draws close.

“I would appreciate it if you spoke more carefully,” she says, her voice softer than expects. She was dreading a thorough dressing down, which her mother would surely have given. Instead, Queen Eugenia sounds only concerned, not angry. “Duchess Bruna has always hated me. She tolerates me now because she relies on her proximity to the crown and the allowance that comes with it, but she is always looking for ammunition to use against me.”

frowns as if this hadn’t occurred to her, as if she hadn’t studied Duchess Bruna extensively over the years. “Oh, I didn’t realize,” she says. “What ammunition could she possibly have against you?”

Queen Eugenia smiles and pats ’s arm. “Against us, ” she amends. “Temarin does not like outsiders. Oh, they like you more because they haven’t been at war with Bessemia since they won their independence from the Bessemian Empire, but make no mistake—they will always see you as an outsider.”

Her words make sense. So much so that suddenly feels ashamed of trying to undermine her. Bessemia above all else, she reminds herself, before changing tactics.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just keep thinking about those boys—”

“Those thieves,” Queen Eugenia corrects.

makes a show of hesitating before she nods.

“You are too kind,” Queen Eugenia says again. “But there’s no need for your worry—I’m sure by now those boys are out on the streets once more, back to their families.” She laughs at ’s surprised expression. “What were you expecting, my dear? That we would put them to death? As you said, they were children, even if they were criminals.”

That is exactly what was expecting, and she manages a relieved smile. But all of her worries haven’t abated. She can’t forget the sound of Duchess Bruna’s hand connecting with Violie’s cheek, the red mark that was left in its wake, the tears in the girl’s eyes.

“I’m beginning to understand what you meant when you spoke of your homesickness,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Not that I’m not enjoying Temarin—truly, I’m so happy here—but there are things I miss from Bessemia. I don’t think I realized until I was speaking with Duchess Bruna’s lady’s maid. Did you know she’s from Bessemia as well?”

“I thought I detected an accent,” Queen Eugenia says, glancing sideways at her.

shakes her head. “I know I’m far luckier than you were—I heard it said that you didn’t even speak the language when you arrived. I learned Temarinian right alongside Bessemian growing up, so it’s second nature for me. But still, it was nice to speak my mother tongue for a few moments with Violie. Especially since, as you said, I should try to distance myself from my homeland publicly. Do you think…Oh no, I couldn’t ask.” She glances away, the very picture of demure.

“Ask, Sophie,” Queen Eugenia says.

“Just how angry do you think Bruna would be if I hired her lady’s maid as my own?” she asks. “It’s just…it would be nice, to have a bit of home around.”

Queen Eugenia fixes her with a frank look. “You cannot save every maid with a cruel mistress.”

“I know,” she says quickly.

Queen Eugenia lets out a long exhale. “I imagine she’ll be a bit piqued, though I’d wager she only hired a Bessemian maid to endear herself to you, so she has no one to blame but herself. And, to be honest, I am petty enough to revel a bit in her irritation. Send her a gift—I know my sister-in-law is particularly fond of rubies—and I’m sure she’ll forgive you fast enough.”

nods. “Thank you, Queen Eugenia.”

The woman waves her words away. “We can’t keep calling one another Queen, Sophie. It’s dreadfully confusing. Call me Genia.”

—

When comes back to her room after dinner that evening, she finds Violie sitting beside the fire, one of ’s new gowns laid over her lap and a needle in hand, though she isn’t sewing. Her eyes are far away, staring into the fire, but when she hears come in, she hurries to her feet and dips into a curtsy.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” she says.

“Good evening,” says, somewhat surprised. She had a maid deliver her request, along with a ruby bracelet from the royal jeweler, just after tea, but she didn’t expect Violie to be switched into her household so quickly. ’s eyes fall to the gown Violie is holding. She switches to Bessemian, not realizing until she begins speaking just how much she’s missed it. “Was something wrong with it?”

Violie glances down at the dress and flushes. “No, not at all,” she says. “I just…the maid who was demoted to make room for me keeps fluttering in and out, giving me dirty looks, and I wanted to stay busy but there was nothing to be done, so…” She trails off, and smiles.

“So you’re pretending to mend a brand-new gown?” she supplies. “Clever.”

“Thank you,” Violie says before hesitating. “For hiring me, I mean.”

nods. “It’s nice to have someone from Bessemia about. It makes me feel a little less homesick. You must feel a little homesick too.”

“A bit,” Violie admits. “Mostly, I just miss my mother.”

wonders what that must be like. She thought she might miss the empress, but mostly, she just feels relieved not to see her every day.

“Oh,” Violie says, laying the gown down over the arm of the chair. “King Leopold returned just a few moments ago and asked me to ask you to accompany him on a ride tomorrow afternoon. You have time, after lunch with Lady Enid and Countess Francesca and before the banquet to welcome Sir Diapollio.”

“The Cellarian singer?” asks, surprised, before she remembers he’s arriving to sing a concert. “Oh yes, I’m quite looking forward to that. They say his voice is a gift from the stars. Tell Leopold I would love to join him for a ride. Was there anything else?”

“A letter and a package arrived for you,” Violie says. “I left them on your desk—the package is from your sister in Friv and the letter is from your mother.”

smiles her thanks as she moves toward her desk, where Beatriz’s letter is waiting as well, just out of sight. Both the box and the letter appear to have been tampered with already—apparently, her mother was right to be so concerned about codes and hidden messages.

“That will be all for now,” tells Violie as she takes a seat at her desk. “I’ll ring if I need you.”

Violie bobs a quick curtsy before slipping from the room, closing the door behind her. glances from the box to the letter before deciding on the box first.

As she unties the ribbon and lifts the box up, a worry seizes her—Daphne couldn’t have managed to steal King Bartholomew’s seal already, could she have? has barely begun to sow tensions between Cellaria and Temarin! Of course, Daphne very well could be that far ahead of her. She likely isn’t losing time lobbying for mercy for thieves.

Still, when she lifts the box’s lid and finds a book she lets out a sigh of relief. Even Daphne couldn’t conceal something the size of a seal in a book so small. She opens the letter that accompanies it, scanning her sister’s words.

Prince Cillian, dead. Not so surprising, really, given reports of his health, but feels the shock of it all the same. Though Daphne, at least, seems to have recovered and kept her part of things in motion by betrothing herself to Prince Bairre.

picks the book up, turning it over in her hands. She spots her sister’s stitches on the spine immediately. She takes the letter opener and rips through them, finding another letter hidden there, this one sounding so much more like Daphne that it makes her heart ache and she thinks she might give anything to be with her sister now.

Her mother’s letter looms far larger than its size, and can’t bring herself to open it yet. Instead, she reaches into her desk and draws out Beatriz’s letter, deciding to decode that first. The code work is a bit sloppy—coding has never been Beatriz’s strong suit—but knows her sister well enough to piece the message together. Apparently Beatriz hasn’t yet consummated her marriage either, a fact that makes feel a bit better about her own failure in that area.

She forces herself to set both letters and the book aside, picking up the envelope bearing her mother’s seal and tearing it open. She scans the brief letter, knowing it is a farce from the salutation— My dearest daughter. Surely has never been that. The rest is bland nonsense, congratulations on her nuptials, fond wishes for her future, tender words. But ’s eyes catch on the last line. Never doubt that my love for you is brighter than the burning sun.

The burning sun is the clue. lets out a long breath before lifting the letter to the lit candle on her desk, holding it just out of reach of the flame. The paper’s surface darkens next to the heat and another message appears in the top margin, the letters a pale white.

Find Sir Diapollio to receive a little gift from me.