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

Daphne

When she invited to go shopping, Lady Cliona described Wallfrost Street as the fashion district, and expected something akin to Hapantoile’s fashion district—entire blocks taken up by bright, clean storefronts and even more craftspeople selling wares from street carts, shouting their latest deals to lure customers over. Instead, Wallfrost Street is the length of a single Bessemian city block of stores, all neat and tidy but decidedly lacking in glamour.

“I don’t see why this couldn’t wait,” says from atop her horse, glancing up at the gray sky. “It looks ready to start pouring rain at any moment.”

Cliona lets out a snort beside her on her own horse. Four guards ride behind them, though they keep a polite distance. “You’d have better luck waiting for fire to freeze than for fine weather in Friv this time of year,” she says.

“Still,” says. “It isn’t as though shopping will do me much good—I’m in mourning for Cillian.”

“The king told my father that it would be appropriate for you to set aside mourning gowns,” Cliona says, shrugging. “You didn’t really know him, after all, and it’s better for Friv if you represent a bright future rather than a tragic past.”

sees the logic in that, but as she realized during their journey north, Cliona is a terrible liar. And as any terrible liar would know, it is easier to skirt the truth than to try to break it.

“Why today, Cliona?” she asks, glancing sideways at her companion.

Cliona’s ears turn red and she clears her throat.

“It’s the queen,” she says, her voice low, as if someone might overhear, though apart from the guards stationed three feet ahead of and behind them, there is no one else on the street. “She’s been a bit…unwell.”

hesitates, trying to decide just how much information to share in hopes of gaining some in return.

“She said something the other day, when Bairre and I were signing the new marriage contract,” she says carefully. “Something about a curse the king had brought down on them. She seemed to blame him for Cillian’s death. I don’t see how that’s possible. Prince Cillian died of illness. A mysterious one, certainly, but I don’t see how that could be the king’s fault.”

Cliona bites her lip. “There’s an old bit of gossip—poppycock, I assure you. They say that Bartholomew solicited the help of an empyrea during the last of the Clan Wars to win Friv for himself.”

can’t help but laugh. “Please,” she says. “Even Nigellus couldn’t manage a wish that large, and he’s the greatest empyrea on the continent.”

At that, Cliona’s eyebrows arch high. “Is he? Says who?”

opens her mouth to answer but quickly closes it again. Everyone said it in Bessemia, she supposes, but no one ever offered any proof of it. Nigellus is simply notorious. But it occurs to her that another empyrea could claim that title and no one could very well prove it false.

“Star magic in Friv is…wilder than what you’re used to,” Cliona continues when doesn’t respond. “Up in the north, when the aurora borealis is overhead, the power of empyreas goes erratic. Sometimes they get stronger, sometimes weaker, but it is impossible to predict.”

“I hadn’t heard that,” admits, though as she says it, it occurs to her that she doesn’t know much about empyreas at all. She knows about stardust, of course, and that empyreas are able to pull stars down from the sky to create bigger bursts of magic, but she understands it the same way she understands the sea—she knows what it is as a concept, but she’s never seen it firsthand. “They say that there are far more starshowers there than anywhere else on the continent,” she manages, desperate not to appear totally oblivious.

For a moment, Cliona looks wistful. “It’s truly a sight to behold,” she says. “Perhaps one day you’ll see it yourself.”

hopes not—if Friv is this cold in the south, she doesn’t know how she would survive the north.

“And the stardust they bring tends to be more potent than anything you’ve used—I’ve seen it used to cure serious illnesses and make seeds take root in barren ground. It’seven been used to get messages to people hundreds of miles away.”

That piques ’s interest. “Really?” she asks skeptically.

Cliona nods. “I’ve never seen that done myself, only heard about it. They say the messenger and the target both need to be star-touched themselves in order for it to work.”

files that bit of information away. She herself is star-touched, and so are her sisters. If she could talk to them…“So it’s possible, then,” she says, returning to the subject at hand. “The right empyrea, on the right night, making the right wish on the right star, could have won Friv for Bartholomew.”

“That’s the rumor,” Cliona says carefully. “People like looking for an excuse for their failures. And if they can blame a woman, all the better. The empyrea they lay the blame on is a woman. Aurelia. I don’t know about your Nigellus, but Aurelia is the greatest empyrea I’ve ever heard of, though no one’s seen her since the war ended.”

“Magic that big comes with a cost, depending on the size of the wish,” says. “The only time I saw Nigellus use his power like that, he wished for the drought in Bessemia to end. It rained that very day, but he couldn’t get out of bed for weeks afterward. A wish big enough to make Bartholomew king might well have killed her.”

Cliona fixes with a meaningful look. “The stars exact a cost, yes, but Aurelia might not have been the one to pay it.”

inhales sharply. “You think that’s what killed Cillian? He wasn’t even born yet—not even conceived yet.”

Cliona shrugs. “But you could say Bartholomew paid a price all the same. That’s the rumor. The queen seems to believe it, and the king thinks it best if she goes to visit her sister in the north for a few weeks. He thinks it will be easier to get her to leave the castle without you and Bairre about.”

They pause in front of a sign that proclaims the shop to be Nattermore Dressmakers, and two of the guards disappear inside to inspect the space.

“Where is Bairre, then?” asks Cliona while they wait. “I assume he didn’t get roped into a shopping expedition.”

“No, he’s hunting with my father and some other noblemen. He has a lot of favor to earn now that he’s the heir,” Cliona says.

The guards reemerge, one giving a nod that seems directed more at Cliona than at .

“Come on,” Cliona says, pulling her toward the door. “I heard they just got lace in from Cellaria.”

—

The tailor’s shop is cramped but bright, lit by the storm-tinged sunlight shining through the large picture window and a half dozen oil lamps set on shelves and tables to lend light to the bolts of fabric that cover every available space. They line the walls, lean upright in corners—a few even rest on the single overstuffed sofa, yards of steel-gray velvet pouring onto the carpet below.

It is the opposite of the tailors in Bessemia, with their immaculate studios and plush chaises, their neatly organized catalogues of fabric samples, and the waifish, sharp-featured shopgirls who can sell you a new wardrobe or destroy your self-esteem with only a few loaded words. has a hard time imagining that anyone will be offering them champagne during their appointment today.

A petite, gray-haired woman with a wool shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders emerges from the back room, a cup of tea in one hand and a measuring tape in the other. When she sees Cliona and , her eyes narrow.

“You’re late,” she tells them.

“Apologies, Mrs. Nattermore,” Cliona says, dipping into something that might be described as a curtsy, though the woman has no title and Cliona is the daughter of a duke.

Mrs. Nattermore barely spares Cliona a glance, instead turning her attention to , though as soon as she does, desperately wishes she would look anywhere else. Her scrutinizing gaze is so heavy that finds it difficult to breathe, though she forces herself to keep her back straight and her chin raised. She is a princess of Bessemia, the future queen of Friv—the future empress of this entire continent—and she refuses to cower before a dressmaker.

“So,” Mrs. Nattermore says, the weight of an empire resting behind that single syllable. “You’re our new princess, are you? You don’t look like you’ll last the winter.”

opens her mouth to protest but quickly closes it again, forcing it into what she hopes is a pleasant smile.

“I’m in need of new dresses,” she tells the woman.

“And a wedding gown,” Cliona adds.

“I have a wedding gown,” says, frowning. It’s been hanging in her wardrobe since she arrived, deep green velvet with gold beaded flowers.

“You can’t very well wear that now,” Mrs. Nattermore says. “Everyone will say it’s cursed, bad luck. A shame, too—my fingers are still numb from all that beadwork.”

“I’m…sorry?” says. She doesn’t mean to apologize—knows there is nothing for her to apologize for. But the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, the woman’s steely eyes drawing them out of her practically against her will.

“No help for it now, I suppose. Cliona, draw the blinds. I have a few fabrics set aside. Diedre! Where is that girl?”

As Cliona draws the blinds, another girl slips into the room, this one close to ’s age, with coils of dark brown hair framing her pale face. In her arms she carries a stack of fabric bolts in varying shades of green, though none of them is the pure emerald of ’s original wedding gown.

Mrs. Nattermore ushers onto the platform and strips off her riding habit so quickly she doesn’t even register it until she’s standing in her chemise and Mrs. Nattermore’s tape measure is wrapped around her shoulders, then her waist, her arm, her hips, measuring the distance from her shoulders to her waistline, from her waistline to her ankles. As the tailor goes, she shouts out numbers, and Diedre jots them down on a pad of paper with a stick of charcoal.

“Give me the first,” Mrs. Nattermore says, and Diedre hurries to grab the top bolt off her pile, rushing it over to Mrs. Nattermore, who holds the free end of the fabric up to ’s face, her eyes narrowing.

“Too pale,” she says, shaking her head. “It will wash her out. The bottle-green one, where is that?”

Diedre rushes to find another bolt, this one still light green, but a richer hue.

“Better,” Diedre says with a nod before her eyes find ’s. “What do you think?” she asks.

glances at the three-paneled mirror, at her three reflections looking back at her.

This green is the color of grass in springtime. It makes her eyes look a bit brighter. She nods her approval.

“Cliona mentioned you had some Cellarian lace in? If we laid it over the bodice, in white perhaps?”

The words are barely out of her mouth before Cliona lets out a horrified cry and gives a warning look. is about to ask her what’s wrong when Mrs. Nattermore speaks.

“Are you telling me how to do my job, Princess?” she asks, her voice icy.

“Oh no,” says quickly. “Not at all, it was merely a suggestion. I do love Cellarian lace, after all.”

“White is the color of death in Friv, Princess,” Mrs. Nattermore continues. “We have one doomed prince already; would you doom another by wearing it on your wedding day?”

“No, of course not,” says, startled. She’s learned so many things about Friv, how could she have forgotten that? “I only thought—”

“Perhaps you’d best leave the thinking to me,” the woman says curtly before turning to Diedre. “Take Cliona down to the cellar to show her the new velvets we got in—they should do nicely for the rest of the princess’s wardrobe.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nattermore,” Diedre says, leading Cliona through the back door. As Cliona passes, she shoots a warning look. When the door closes behind Cliona, Mrs. Nattermore turns back to face .

The older woman sucks on her teeth, looking over from head to toe. “You want lace,” she says slowly. “ Cellarian lace. On your wedding day. Beyond the color, do you know what people will say? That your loyalty is not to Friv.”

“It’s only lace,” says.

“Only lace,” the dressmaker repeats, her voice dripping with disdain. “Most people in this country will never meet you, Princess. They will never hear you speak, never hear your wit—they say you’re witty, though I can’t say I believe it. All most people will know of you is what they see. What you think of as only lace, they will read as a message. What message would you like to send?”

The words work themselves under ’s skin, itching with shame. If her mother were here, she would be so disappointed. She raised better than this; she raised her to be thoughtful and deliberate, not to be swayed by something as useless as a scrap of lace.

“The original wedding dress you made,” says, pushing the shame aside and forcing herself to meet Mrs. Nattermore’s gaze. “It looked like armor—heavy, strong.”

Mrs. Nattermore lifts an eyebrow and inclines her head in a nod. “A dress fit for the future queen of Friv,” she says. “Not the delicate, frilly nonsense that is popular in Bessemia. Friv is not a delicate country, Princess. We have a bloody history—one that’s barely history at all. We don’t need a delicate princess. We need a princess who can survive the winter.”

nods slowly. “Ermine, perhaps,” she says after a moment. “As a trim.”

Mrs. Nattermore considers it, her mouth pursing, though thinks she might be suppressing a smile. “Perhaps,” she says. “Get dressed. I’ll put the kettle on. You should warm your bones with a cup of tea before setting foot in that cold again.”

—

When is dressed, she starts for the door the others went through, the one, she imagines, that leads to the kitchen, maybe the connection to Mrs. Nattermore’s house. There she finds a kettle whistling on the stove but no sign of Mrs. Nattermore, Cliona, or Diedre, though the door to a set of stairs is slightly ajar, presumably leading down to the cellar the dressmaker mentioned.

They must be down there looking at the velvets still. pauses at the entrance, wondering if she should wait for them here, but she does want to see the velvets and make sure they don’t pick out anything too drab for her.

She makes her way down the rickety stairs, following the sound of muffled voices, but when she reaches the basement, she can’t stifle a gasp.

There are no velvets in the storeroom. Instead, every inch of space is stacked high with boxes and barrels, a few of them open, revealing their contents—rifles and pistols, all shining and new, and barrels upon barrels of what she can only guess is gunpowder. Enough weaponry to arm hundreds of people.

“Princess!” a voice cries out, startled, and turns to see Cliona, standing over one of the barrels, lid in hand, while behind her, Diedre holds a rifle in both hands, inspecting it.

Before can move, there is a creak on the stairs behind her and a cold, sharp knife comes to rest against her throat, just firmly enough that she feels the edge of it dig into her skin. All it would take is a bit of pressure and the blade would slice through her carotid artery, causing her to bleed out quickly. The thought of death looming so close should frighten , but instead she wonders if the placement of the knife is a lucky accident, or if this isn’t the first time Mrs. Nattermore has held a knife to someone’s throat.

“Well,” Mrs. Nattermore says in ’s ear, her voice level. “I suppose the tea will have to wait.”