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

Beatriz

Even in Bessemia, heard rumors of the beauty of the Cellarian sea garden, a swath of shoreline along the southern coast of the country, just outside the palace walls. At high tide, there is nothing to see, just the sandy beach and rolling waves—a sight still new to , true, but nothing compared to what it becomes when the tide goesout.

It’s like the sea is a blanket, pulled back to reveal bright thatches of plants that look more like a child’s painting than any flowers has ever seen. From far away, the shore looks like a jewel box, brimming with gemstones of every color and shape, but as she walks closer, it becomes all the more extraordinary. Some of the flowers have tendrils that reach out, licking at the sand in long, languid motions; others pick up and move at their leisure, sprouting spiky claws that snap at anyone who gets too close.

’s favorites, though, are the clusters of red blooms that unfurl slowly as time passes, each petal rolling down to reveal a vivid violet center. It isn’t until she walks past the third one, though, that she notices the two black dots that seem to follow her every movement.

The flowers have eyes.

In Bessemia, her mother’s gardens were the stuff of legend, carefully curated arrangements of the most beautiful flowers from all over the world. It was, often thought as a child, like walking through a marzipan wonderland, beautiful and colorful and surreal, but static. Not sentient. Not like this.

She isn’t the only one walking through the garden this afternoon, her satin slippers held aloft in one hand and her bare feet sinking slightly in the damp sand. There are many other courtiers she recognizes vaguely from the palace, couples walking arm in arm, laughing and splashing and enjoying the bright, warm day. It makes her miss her sisters more than ever—Sophronia would be fascinated by the garden, Daphne by the people. tries to think of how she will describe it next time she writes to them but comes up short. It is utterly indescribable.

She casts an idle gaze around, scanning the faces of the others wandering through the sea garden, looking for one face in particular. She’s seen sketches of Lord Savelle by her mother’s spies but has yet to see anyone who matches them. She assumed he would be at the wedding, but she didn’t see him there, either.

Not that you paid much attention to anything but the contents of your wineglass, a voice in her mind chides. It sounds like Daphne. flinches. She knows she should be further along in her assignment by now, and she’s already had to confess her failures in a letter to her mother. But she won’t dwell on past mistakes—far better to fix them today. One of her servants mentioned, after a few carefully chosen, artfully blasé questions, that Lord Savelle enjoys strolling through the sea garden, so this seemed the best place to arrange their introduction.

has it all planned—she will wander close to Lord Savelle, then stumble over a stone and pretend to turn her ankle. She considered actually turning it for the sake of authenticity, but there is no stardust to heal her quickly here. Lord Savelle will be obligated to escort her back to the palace—maybe even carry her. It will be only too easy to bat her eyelashes and thank him profusely for his help. She’ll have him wrapped around her finger before they make it to the palace entrance, and it will be easy enough to use him to fuel a war with Temarin. The hardest part, it seems, is finding him.

But as she searches for Lord Savelle, she feels the gaze of the courtiers on her. The looks burn against her skin, but she tries to ignore them.

Are they wondering why she is here alone, and where her new husband is? She doesn’t blame them. She’s seen newlyweds before, how they are always at each other’s side for at least a few weeks after their wedding, how oftentimes they rarely leave their rooms. She supposes she, too, would be wondering if something was amiss.

Pasquale has been nothing but polite, though in the few days since they wed he has still insisted on sleeping on the sofa in their room, only climbing in beside her a moment before the servants arrive in the morning, to keep them from whispering. It can’t be comfortable—she always makes sure she stays awake later than him so she can put her drops in her eyes, and even in sleep he looks miserable. They don’t speak any more about it, or about their first morning together. She doesn’t mention the way she saw him looking at that boy.

Ambrose is his name, she found out later. No title, just Ambrose. The nephew and heir of a minor lord and Pasquale’s favorite friend at court. From what she’s gathered, they’ve been close since they were children, all but inseparable.

tries to put it from her mind. After all, she doesn’t know what she saw—Pasquale smiling? Why shouldn’t he smile at his friend? In that moment, she thought she saw something pass between them, a look, an energy, but the more she thinks on it, the more she thinks she might have misinterpreted it. After all, a crown prince’s preference for other men would have emerged in a rumor or two at least, but her mother’s spies have never reported anything of the sort.

Perhaps it’s only her pride, latching on to an easy excuse as to why he’s shown so little interest in her. She knows there are men who prefer other men; in Bessemia there were a handful of lords and earls who were known to have male paramours. And it wasn’t only men—there were women, too, who preferred other women. Back home, it was commonplace enough, and couples could marry regardless of gender, but beneath the thick veneer of lushness and sensuality, Cellaria is deeply prudish, not just devoted to the stars, but fearful of them. The stars see all, her tutor told her , and Cellarians believe they judge and punish the sins they see. It was the opposite of what she’d grown up with in Bessemia, where the stars were not there to judge and punish, but to bless and reward. Yet she read Cellarian scriptures as part of her lessons, and she distantly remembers one of the many sins being something about men lying with men.

Of course, there were also proclamations against women showing their bare shoulders and people having affairs, and she’s seen both of those things happen often enough in the last week without any kind of consequence from the stars or anyone. A country of hypocrites, as her tutor used to call it.

“Your Highness!” a high-pitched voice calls out behind her, and turns toward it.

It takes her a moment to recognize the girl from her wedding—Pasquale’s cousin. The fruit wine really went to ’s head that night, and most of it is such a blur now. She can’t quite remember the girl’s name.

The girl is walking toward her, the train of her bright orange gown trailing over the wet sand, her slippers dangling from her fingertips. In the golden afternoon light, her blond hair almost glows, pulled into a long plait that dangles over her left shoulder.

A few steps behind her is her brother. ’s mind was too fuzzy before to see him properly, but now that she is sober, she sees that he’s handsome, with the same blond hair as his sister, though his face is far more angular, with a strong, square jaw, high cheekbones, and dark brown eyes. He’s rolled his trousers up to his knees, like most of the men in the sea garden, and he’s taken off his jacket as well, folding it over his arm, leaving him in a white tunic that is simple, though it looks well made.

“Hello,” says, lifting her hand to shield her eyes so that she can see them better. The other courtiers watch their approach, though they pretend not to. Many of the girls, in particular, let their gazes linger a little longer than necessary on the boy, not that can hold that against them.

Shameless, Daphne’s voice whispers through her mind.

“What brings the two of you out here?” asks, hoping they’ll call each other by name at some point so she doesn’t have to admit she’s forgotten them.

The girl shrugs. “It seemed a good day to get a bit of sun,” she says with a bright smile. “The castle gets so stuffy sometimes.”

“Not that it’s much different here,” the boy adds, glancing around at the courtiers milling about the sea garden. “But at least the air is a bit fresher.”

The girl lets out a snort that draws several more disapproving stares. “For now, at least,” she says. “We’ll have to head indoors soon. It’s a Burning Day.”

frowns. “Burning Day?”

The two exchange a look, but it’s the girl who eventually answers.

“For the heretics,” she says. “It happens once every fortnight. Anyone who’s been found to be practicing magic, or breaking any number of other laws, is put to death.”

And in Cellaria, burning is the preferred method of execution, remembers from her studies, feeling her stomach sour. It is not lost on her that she wears a wish around her wrist at this very moment.

“I didn’t realize it happened so often,” she says, trying not to look as unsettled as she feels. Every fortnight. How many must be sentenced to death to make that necessary? “After all, magic has been outlawed since King Cesare took the throne, hasn’t it? It isn’t a new law, and people do know the punishment.”

“Ah,” the boy says, the corner of his mouth hitching up in a droll smile. “But desperate people do desperate things, and there are always rebels who think the law unfair.”

“It’s really nothing to concern yourself with,” the girl adds, waving a hand. “But the smell does make the air rather unpleasant for a few hours afterward, so I would recommend heading indoors soon. Nicolo and I will escort you,” she says, shooting a grin at her brother. Nico for short, presumes, the name dimly familiar.

“Gisella is dramatic,” Nicolo says. “You get used to the smell before too long.”

can’t imagine she will ever get used to the smell of burning flesh, but she knows better than to say as much, lest she be thought sympathetic toward heretics. Instead, she forces a smile, looking from one of them to the other.

“Are you twins?” she asks.

“Technically, I’m five minutes older,” Nico says.

Gisella rolls her eyes, giving her brother a sharp elbow in the side. “A fact he never lets me forget,” she murmurs.

“I’m the same with my sisters,” admits, another pang of homesickness rippling through her. “We may be triplets, but I am still the eldest.” She pauses, as if a thought is only just occurring to her. “I was actually hoping for word of them—I know they’re heretics, but surely we should endeavor to keep our hearts open to all, even if we must prevent their rot from touching us. I sent a couple of letters, but it might take a while to hear back from them. I thought maybe I would ask the Temarinian ambassador for news—whether Sophronia’s married yet, how she is adjusting, that sort of thing. Have you seen him?”

“Lord Savelle?” Gisella asks with a snort. “Oh, you won’t find him here—he prefers his own company most days. I’ve heard he only visits the sea garden before dawn, when there is no one else around.”

’s heart sinks and she has to stifle a groan at the prospect of having to drag herself out of bed before the sun.

“How is Pasquale?” Gisella asks. “He’s been quite elusive, though I suppose most newlyweds are.”

Well, wherever he’s been hiding, it hasn’t been with me, thinks. Out loud, though, she takes a more neutral approach—perhaps this trip to the sea garden needn’t be wasted.

“We’re both finding marriage quite surreal,” she says. It’s the kind of truth she likes best, the kind that others can interpret however they like. “You must know Pasquale well, being cousins,” she says.

“Oh, there are many of us cousins running about—adozen, last I counted, not including King Leopold and his brothers in Temarin,” Nicolo says, shaking his head. “But the Cellarian court isn’t really a place for children—those of us raised here had no choice but to band together.”

“Of course, Pas wasn’t raised here at first,” Gisella says. “He came to live here when he was…what, thirteen or so? After…” She trails off, glancing at her brother, though has a good idea of what comes next.

“After?” prompts anyway, because though she knows the story, she doesn’t know their version, and her mother has always told her that when it’s repeated enough, gossip becomes its own truth.

“After Prince Pietro passed away,” Nicolo says. “Before that, Pasquale lived in the south with his mother.”

pretends this is new information, though whispers of Queen Valencia made their way even to the Bessemian court. The Mad Queen, they called her. heard a more factual telling of the queen’s tragic suicide as part of her lessons, but it’s the rumors that have stuck with her most over the years, even though most are too outrageous to be believed.

And as for Pietro’s death…well, she remembers when news of that reached Bessemia and how, even at the age of twelve, she was certain her mother had had a hand in it. was the only one of her sisters betrothed to a second son, but Pietro was already married and there was no help for that. Five stillborn children and a hunting accident later, though, and Pasquale was his father’s heir. The empress had been either lucky or diabolical, and has long understood things well enough to know it was the latter.

“Some people say they saw her walk into the sea one morning,” Gisella says, lowering her voice, though there is no one close enough to hear now. “They thought she was going for a swim, I suppose. Her body washed up some hours later, stones in the pockets of her dress. Pasquale was never quite the same.”

“I don’t imagine anyone would be,” says, chewing on her bottom lip. Though she knew the bare bones of the story of Queen Valencia’s death, hearing the more human details now digs beneath her skin. She thinks of her mysterious new husband, with his sad eyes and soft voice. She thought she knew him well, based on reports and gossip, but there are many things she doesn’t know about Prince Pasquale.