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

Daphne

is forced into a chair, her arms bound with rope, Mrs. Nattermore all the while keeping the knife pressed to her throat. She feels the bite of its edge, though it hasn’t broken the skin—not yet. She knows logically it is a likely outcome—this is not a situation any capable person would allow her to walk out of—but any fear that accompanies that knowledge feels far away, locked out of reach.

She won’t die, she decides. She simply won’t. She will do and say whatever it takes to walk out of this alive. After all, Bessemia needs her, and death doesn’t frighten her nearly as much as the prospect of failing.

“I’ll handle it,” Mrs. Nattermore says to Cliona and Diedre, though her eyes rest on . The woman doesn’t want to kill her, realizes, which isn’t to say she won’t, but the ambivalence is a tool to use. “Cliona and the guards will say they were attacked by rebels on the way back to the castle. Do we have all the guards?”

“Three out of four,” Cliona says quietly. “There’s a new one now; his family is loyal to the king.”

“Then you’ll say he valiantly gave his life trying to protect the princess.”

remembers how the guards looked at Cliona, that nod that seemed directed just at her, as if to communicate something. Now she knows three things about these rebels: they’re enemies of the king, Cliona’s family is involved, and they are very well connected. If she lives through this, she’ll have plenty of information for her mother.

Cliona falters, biting her lip before nodding. “Do it, then,” she says.

The knife presses harder against ’s neck.

“You’re operating under a flawed assumption,” says, her voice coming out calm and level, though inside, her mind is churning. Survive at any cost, she reminds herself.

“Oh?” Mrs. Nattermore asks.

licks her lips, choosing her next words very carefully. She can’t give away too much, but what will that matter if she’s dead? She’ll be no use to her mother or Bessemia then. Her mother has always said she could talk a snake into eating its own tail.

“That our desires don’t overlap,” she says carefully. It isn’t a lie. They’re working against the king, and so is she.

The three exchange looks. “There is no overlap,” Mrs. Nattermore says, her voice brusque. “You want Friv united, or else you have no land to rule. We want a Friv with no king or queen, which means no princess, either.”

smiles. Maybe the best way through this is honesty—as much honesty as she dares. Maybe she can make her way out of this not just with her life, but with a bit of progress to report to her mother. “I don’t care for Friv,” she tells them. “It’s cold and coarse and I hate it here.” The knife presses harder against her neck, and wonders if that was a little too much honesty. She changes course. “If you want it, you’re welcome to it. All I want is to go home. You want to overthrow the monarchy? Wonderful. If you can manage it before my wedding, all the better. My mother will pay handsomely for my safe return, I’ll go home, and Friv will be all yours. We can all get what we want.”

“Is that meant to convince us?” Diedre asks scathingly. “We’re here because we love our country. We are patriots.”

“Then I’m assuming you don’t want Friv and Bessemia to merge,” says, looking from one to the other of them. She’s shocked them, she can tell. Good. She was planning on waiting to sow that little lie until she had the king’s seal to lend credence to it, but her mother has always said the best-laid plans are the most flexible. “That is the king’s plan. My mother has no male heir. When Bairre and I marry, the integration of Bessemia and Friv will commence, and eventually, he and I will rule it together.”

It is half true. Friv will be absorbed into Bessemia, along with Temarin and Cellaria, and will one day rule it all, but King Bartholomew knows nothing of this. Though if the rebels want to make him their villain, all the better.

“More reason to kill you,” Cliona points out. “If you’re dead, the alliance with Bessemia dies with you.”

“If you kill me, you’ll have a mess on your hands. All it will take is one person on Wallfrost Street who remembers me coming here with you, one person who sees only Cliona leave. And if King Bartholomew bartered Friv away once, he’ll do it again. Killing me would be a short-term solution to a much larger problem. Perhaps, instead, I could be of some assistance.”

It’s a desperate ploy and she isn’t quite sure what, exactly, she’s getting into, but if she lives, what does it matter? There are few things wouldn’t give for her life—in fact, nothing immediately comes to mind.

“You think we need you?” Mrs. Nattermore laughs. “There are rebels everywhere you look, Princess, loyal Frivians who see this king as the fraud he is, a power-hungry warlord who reached too far. There are rebels all over the highlands, ready to bring the clans back, ready to declare our independence if it means burning down the castle and everyone in it.”

More information to file away in her next letter to her mother, though wonders how much the empress already knows. Their spies knew about rebellions in the highlands, noble families loyal to the king who were robbed in their carriages, threats that had been made against the crown, clandestine meetings held in basements not so different from this one. Child’s play, her mother scoffed. All words and bluster, no real action. But here is, surrounded by weapons and enough gunpowder to level the city. If this doesn’t count as real action, she can’t imagine what would.

“You have support in the highlands,” says, remembering the spies’ reports. “But we aren’t in the highlands, are we? Oh, you’ll have support here as well, I’m sure. What would be the point of all these weapons if you didn’t? But not enough.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

“She isn’t wrong,” Cliona says, her voice quiet. “These weapons are all well and good, but they aren’t going to be of any use if we don’t have the manpower to get them into the castle, near the king.”

“What would you suggest, then?” Mrs. Nattermore asks.

shrugs. “The king seems to have taken a liking to me,” she says. “He’s grieving a child, and here fate’s delivered him a new one. I can use that. Not to mention the fact that I have unlimited access to the castle, including places even Cliona can’t get into.”

“Doubtful,” Cliona says.

smirks. “So you’ve been alone in the king’s study, then?”

Cliona’s jaw tightens. “It’s locked when he isn’t there.”

“Yes, I suppose that would stop some people,” says.

Mrs. Nattermore stares at her for a long moment. “Who exactly are you?” she asks.

shakes her head. “There is plenty you aren’t telling me,” she says. “It’s only fair I keep a few secrets for myself.”

“What do you want, then?” Diedre asks, eyes narrow.

“Well, for one thing, I’d like you to drop the knife, Mrs. Nattermore. If you were going to use it, you would have by now, but it’s terribly uncomfortable all the same.”

There’s a second of hesitation before Mrs. Nattermore drops her arm and the blade along with it. She crosses the room to stand with Diedre and Cliona, folding her arms over her chest.

“Any other terms?” Cliona asks.

holds her gaze and decides to press her luck. She thinks about the seal she’s meant to steal from the king without his noticing. The impossible task her mother set her. But maybe not impossible—not if she has a little assistance.

“Stardust. I’d like some,” says.

“Why not ask the king? He has plenty.”

“If I ask the king, he’ll ask questions. You won’t,” tells her.

The girl purses her lips before she nods. “Done.”

“You do not make deals, Cliona. Your father does,” Mrs. Nattermore says—another tidbit for to file away. She suspected Cliona’s father is involved, but from the sound of it, he’s their leader.

“When my father isn’t present, I act in his stead,” Cliona counters. “I’ll explain the situation. If he disagrees with me, we can address it then, but for now, this is the best course of action. She’s right—she’s valuable alive and a risk dead.”

“And if she tells the king about this the second she’s back in the castle?” Diedre asks. “It’s what I would do, if I were her.”

“Well, let’s hope she’s smarter than you are,” Cliona says, her eyes meeting ’s. “After all, we have our spies in the castle as well—including me. And she doesn’t know where they are. The king’s guards with their sharp swords, the chefs preparing her food, the royal empyrea who could make her life torture with the right wish. It could be anyone.”

swallows but forces herself to hold Cliona’s gaze. “We’re understood,” she says before smiling. “You see? There’s no reason we can’t get along.”

Cliona takes the dagger from Mrs. Nattermore and cuts the rope tying to the chair.

“We’ve got appointments with the goldsmith and the cobbler. We can’t have anyone getting suspicious, can we?”

gets to her feet, rubbing at her arms where the rope left red indents behind.

“Cliona,” Mrs. Nattermore says when they approach the stairs. “If this goes poorly, your father will be very disappointed.”

Mild as the words are, sees a real glint of fear in Cliona’s eyes, the first time she’s truly looked unnerved.

“It won’t,” she says through clenched teeth. She places a fist over her heart. “For Friv.”

“For Friv,” Mrs. Nattermore and Diedre echo, repeating the motion.

—

The rest of their shopping passes in a blur. As tries on dozens of necklaces and earrings and heeled slippers, she watches Cliona out of the corner of her eye. The spoiled socialite facade is back in place, but now can’t look at her without also seeing the cold-eyed girl from the basement, examining a musket with a shrewd and determined gaze.

She should have seen it sooner, should have noticed that Cliona wasn’t what she seemed. But then, Cliona didn’t see her for what she was either—there is some comfort in that. And was able to seed rumors about the king’s merging Friv and Bessemia—she thought she’d need the seal before she could manage that, but a whisper can travel even farther than a proclamation, and faster, too. A broken country is a vulnerable one, the empress likes to say. If Friv is fighting itself, it will be easier for Bessemia to overpower.

When they arrive back at the castle and pass their horses off to the stable hand, Cliona loops her arm through ’s, just as she did earlier, but this time the gesture feels more menacing. scans Cliona’s hands for some kind of hidden weapon—a poisoned ring, a dagger the width of a quill—but there is nothing.

“There will be a missive in a few days,” Cliona tells her. “Follow the instructions and you’ll have your stardust.”

“Instructions?” asks, dread pooling in her stomach.

At that, Cliona’s smile sharpens into something else entirely. “You wanted to join our game, Princess. Let’s see you play.”