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

Sophronia

wears her new violet riding habit to meet Leopold in the stables. It’s a gorgeous creation of sumptuous velvet with shiny gold buttons, yet she can’t help but hear her mother’s voice in her mind, telling her she looks like a grape. But when Leopold greets her with a broad grin and a quick kiss on the lips and tells her she looks beautiful, her mother’s voice gets a little bit quieter. Despite herself, a flutter goes through her and she has to give herself a mental shake.

“How was your hunting trip?” she asks, forcing herself to think about the village Leopold razed to build his new lodge. According to reports from her mother’s spies, the villagers were turned out of their homes without even the reimbursement necessary to relocate.

“Excellent, though I was sorry to abandon you so soon after our wedding,” he says. “I thought you might like to explore the grounds, since you’ve been cooped up in the castle so long.”

“You thought right,” says. “I don’t think I ever realized how exhausting teas and luncheons could be.”

“You were with my mother and her friends,” he points out. “I think exhausting might be an understatement.”

laughs. The groom retrieves a stool for to use to mount the horse, but Leopold waves him away, moving to stand behind her.

“Here, allow me,” he murmurs in her ear, bracing his hands on her waist and lifting her up and into the saddle.

feels herself flush—a trait her mother has long lamented her inability to control. As Leopold gets situated on his own horse, ’s thoughts linger on her mother and the message she sent. She isn’t surprised that her mother managed to rope the great Sir Diapollio into her plots, but she wonders if it has anything to do with Beatriz. Perhaps the singer will have word of her sister to share as well as whatever ominous gift he carries from the empress.

“Are you excited to see Sir Diapollio tonight?” she asks Leopold as they begin to walk their horses down the path, side by side.

He shrugs, giving her a bashful sideways glance. “His appeal is lost on me. He visits court to perform a few times a year, and I know most people—most women, I suppose—are enamored with him, but I don’t understand why. He’s a fine singer, I’ll admit, but…” He trails off.

“I’ve heard he’s quite handsome,” says, and Leopold laughs.

“Careful—there are those who would consider such faint praise a grievous insult to his beauty,” he tells her. “Truth be told, I invite him for my mother. Hearing him sing in Cellarian brings her great comfort.”

nods, wondering if this is part of her mother’s gift—another weapon to use to undermine Eugenia. A weak one, if so. Everyone loves Sir Diapollio, Eugenia isn’t alone in that. “Your mother has been very kind to me,” tells Leopold. “I know that she had a…difficult time when she arrived. She’s determined that my experience will be better.”

“Has it been?”

She gives a dramatic sigh. “Well, the palace is beautiful, and everyone I’ve met has been pleasant enough to me, and I’m told I have a handsome husband around here somewhere, though I must say I haven’t seen much of him.”

Leopold laughs. “Fair enough,” he says, then hesitates before adding, “I might have to leave again soon. There have been some…skirmishes on the Cellarian border—nothing major, nothing sanctioned by me or my uncle Cesare. Our truce holds officially, but…”

“But the people on the border need reminding?” guesses, her thoughts turning. The skirmishes are news to her, but they are hardly surprising. It’s possible her mother even had a hand in them, though just as likely they came about organically. Tensions between Cellaria and Temarin haven’t disappeared since the war’s end, and especially near the border they tend to run a little higher. At least once a year, her mother’s spies sent word that Temarinians had crossed into Cellaria to illegally sell stardust, or that Cellarians had crossed into Temarin to try to murder a local empyrea.

Leopold nods. “Nothing that would constitute breaking the truce with my uncle, but we’ll parade the bulk of our armies along the border—call it a celebration of Temarinian strength, a reminder to our people that they have my protection.”

“But it won’t just be a reminder to Temarin,” says, understanding. “It’ll serve to remind the Cellarians that you aren’t to be trifled with.”

“That we aren’t to be trifled with,” Leopold corrects with a crooked smile. “King Cesare got lucky in the Celestian War. He took my father by surprise and used the advantage he had by attacking by sea. We were unprepared—an embarrassing oversight, and my father spent years building up our naval forces to ensure that it wouldn’t happen again. Should Cesare decide to test his luck, he’ll be disappointed. But I’d rather it didn’t come to that. I’d like to protect the alliance my parents created through me, not watch my uncle ruin it.”

knows about the Celestian War, how King Cesare sought to rid not just Cellaria but the entire continent of the empyreas and stardust he viewed as abominations, how he believed it to be his stars-blessed mission as king. She also knows how Leopold’s father, King Carlisle, eventually agreed to a truce, arranged by ’s father, that included Carlisle’s marriage to Eugenia, Cesare’s sister.

“They say Cesare’s mad,” says. “Are you certain relying on his sense is the best course of action?”

Leopold shrugs. “My mother says it’s our only course of action, apart from another war, which I don’t want. She offered to go to Cellaria to reason with her brother, but given her personal connection, it didn’t seem a wise idea.” He winces. “It’s a bit of a mess, really. Like trying to play chess with a toddler and just hoping he doesn’t overturn the board in a tantrum. I’m sure my father would have known what to do, but I haven’t the slightest idea.”

bites her lip. “Your father died suddenly, Leo. You became the youngest king in Temarin’s history.” She pauses, realizing he’s given her the perfect opportunity. “Perhaps I could help,” she adds. “I’ve never even set foot in Cellaria, and I’ve been studying my whole life to be queen of Temarin—I’m sure your mother is more than ready to enjoy a life of leisure as dowager queen.”

He looks a little surprised but smiles. “I think that’s a brilliant idea,” he tells her.

smiles back, a jolt of pleasure running through her. She realizes that part of her thought he would turn down her offer, that he might laugh at the thought of her being capable enough to do anything. It’s what her mother would have done. But Leopold, for all of his many flaws, believes in her.

It shouldn’t matter what he believes in, it shouldn’t make her heart beat faster, it shouldn’t let her forget, even for a second, who she is and why she is here. But it does, and that makes it dangerous.

She urges her horse to go faster, as if she can outpace her thoughts. “Come on,” she says over her shoulder. “Let’s race.”

She hears Leopold make a noise that is half shock and half indignation before he presses his horse into a faster pace as well and the thunderous hoofbeats grow louder behind her.

The castle grounds blur past her, and she’s aware that courtiers are milling about the gardens, watching them. She’s riding too fast to make out much, but she can tell that the palace grounds are immaculately maintained, full of impossibly green grass, artfully pruned trees, and more flowers than she can possibly count. And when they leave the gardens behind and enter the sprawling woods, she’s surprised that even the trees here look like they were designed by artists. There is nothing wild about the woods here—the setting could be plucked straight from an idyllic watercolor painting.

“Sophie!” Leopold calls behind her, closer than she expected.

“Catch me if you can!” she yells back, urging her horse to go faster.

“Sophie, wait!” Leopold calls, but is enjoying herself too much to heed his words.

She can see a cliff’s edge up ahead and decides that will be the finish line. As she approaches, she pulls her horse to astop, looking out over the cliffside and realizing where theyare.

The city of Kavelle is spread out below like a dirty blanket. After the splendor of the palace grounds, it’s jarring to see it—crooked stone streets covered in grime, houses and shops that look like they might fall over in the face of a mild breeze, and more people than has ever seen in one place. Surely too many people to fit in the city.

“Sophie,” Leopold says behind her. “Come on, let’s go home.”

But doesn’t move. They’re too far up to see any details, but she can tell even from this distance that Kavelle—Temarin’s capital city—is struggling even more than she’d thought.

“What’s going on there?” she asks, pointing to a particularly thick crowd of people in the middle of a city square.

“I don’t know.” He says it so quickly that she doesn’t believe him.

“Then perhaps we should go see,” she says, urging her horse along the cliffside until she sees a path that leads down to the city, blocked by an imposing gate and two guards.

“Sophie,” he says again, following her. “Fine. It’s an execution.”

She stops her horse short and looks back at him. “An execution,” she repeats. “Whose?”

He doesn’t answer, and she urges her horse forward again until Leopold gives a sigh. “Just criminals.”

That might have been answer enough, might have let her imagine he was talking about murderers or rapists, those whose crimes are punishable by death even in Bessemia. But he won’t look at her, so knows there is more he hasn’t said.

“Criminals,” she repeats. “What sort of criminals?”

He looks even more uncomfortable. “I believe most of them are thieves,” he says, and something clicks into place.

“Would they include the thieves who attempted to rob my carriage?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I assume so,” he says. “Executions are held once a week for anyone arrested in that time.”

shakes her head. “Your mother said they’d been released, that they were home with their families.”

As soon as she says it, she feels like the greatest fool. Eugenia told her a pleasant lie to soothe her, the way a parent would tell a child that a dead pet has been sent away to live in the country. The lie ruffles her that much more—she isn’t a child to be condescended to, she is a queen.

“I discussed it with her,” Leopold says. “We decided against making an exception.”

The we doesn’t fool . Leopold would have spared the boys to make her happy, she’s sure of this. Eugenia made this decision, and Leopold didn’t have the strength to go against her.

can’t stand to look at him; instead she turns her gaze back toward the city and the gathered crowd. Now that he’s said it, she can make out the vague outline of a scaffold, of ten figures standing below a beam, ropes around their necks.

“They’re children,” she says.

“They knew that what they were doing was wrong,” Leopold says. “They knew the consequences. They did it anyway. If I showed mercy, it would only lead to more thievery—and the next victims might not be as lucky as you were.”

More of his mother’s words, she imagined. She thinks about the reports from the spies, how things have changed in Temarin in the year since Leopold took the throne. Raising taxes, removing people from their homes, executing every level of criminal— thought them the actions of a careless, cruel king. She’s had trouble reconciling that with the Leopold she knew, but now she suddenly understands. Leopold is none of those things—not careless, not cruel, not a king. Not really. He is a puppet, content to let his mother pull his strings, never questioning what she does with them.

In the distance, she hears the sound of the scaffold floor falling away, the shouts of horror and glee from the spectators, but she doesn’t hear the thieves at all—they die quietly, but they die all the same.

She turns back toward the scene in time to see several men dressed in black removing the bodies from the nooses and carrying them away. Seconds later, another ten figures are brought out, and feels sick all over again.

“How many are there?” she asks.

Leopold doesn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admits. He reaches out to touch her arm, drawing her gaze toward his. It takes all of her self-control not to jerk away from him.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

smiles, but she doesn’t feel it. She smiles because she knows she should, because she knows that if her mother were here beside her, she would tell to smile and flirt with her husband and wrap him as tightly around her finger as she can. She would tell that the surest way to loosen Queen Eugenia’s hold on Leopold is to establish her own.

And she needs that hold, she realizes. Not because of her mother’s plans, not even for Bessemia’s sake. For Temarin’s.

—

That night, at Sir Diapollio’s concert, can’t focus enough to enjoy the singer’s talents. She knows he sings well and she can appreciate his good looks, even though he’s several decades her senior. She can’t enjoy Leopold’s hand in hers, either, or the way he leans close to whisper in her ear as the night goes on. She has to force herself to laugh when he points out how all the ladies of the court hang on Sir Diapollio’s every note. She has to force herself not to flinch away when he tells her she looks beautiful.

After what feels like an eternity, Sir Diapollio performs his final song and takes a great sweeping bow while , Leopold, and the entire court applaud him.

“Can we go meet him?” asks Leopold, offering him a bright smile that feels hollow, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I should have known better than to invite him—even my own wife isn’t safe from the famous Diapollio charms,” he says, shaking his head. “Why don’t you go on ahead—I need to have a quick word with Lord Fauntas first. But Diapollio should be recovering in the parlor on the left before the banquet,” he adds, pointing the way for her.

They go their separate ways, and hurries past the mingling crowd toward the door Leopold indicated, having to stop several times to gush over the concert with courtiers who pull her aside. When she finally reaches the door, it’s ajar and she pushes it open, stepping into the dimly lit room.

“Sir Diapollio?” she asks.

There’s a bit of mumbled Cellarian that is fairly sure is a curse, then the rustling of silk and hasty footsteps. As her eyes adjust to the dark, she can make out two figures hurrying to distance themselves—little good that it does. may still be an innocent, but she’s spent enough time among the Bessemian courtesans to know exactly what she’s interrupted.

“You didn’t lock the door?” a familiar voice snaps at SirDiapollio, and ’s body goes rigid. Eugenia steps out of the shadows, smoothing her hands over her wrinkled skirts. When she sees , she stops short, her eyes going wide and her mouth gaping open, making her look, thinks, a bit like a dying fish. She opens her mouth once, twice, three times, but words don’t come out. Finally, she draws herself up a little straighter and walks past , keeping her gaze leveled straight ahead and her chin high.

turns her attention to Sir Diapollio, who doesn’t look surprised at all at her interruption. Instead, he looks at her with knowing eyes and gives a small, mocking bow, and she understands.

“My mother’s gift?” she asks, stepping farther into the room and closing the door behind her.

Sir Diapollio inclines his head. “She said you would know what to do with it.”

nods. She imagines herself going to Duchess Bruna, biting her lip, and confessing that she witnessed something but isn’t sure whether she should say. That would pique Duchess Bruna’s interest, and she would surely worm the whole encounter out of before their tea had cooled. The entire castle would know in less than an hour’s time, and Queen Eugenia would be ruined. Leopold would have no choice but to send her away from court, leaving a gaping wound in Temarin’s power structure that could quickly fill.

Still, is disappointed that her mother’s gift has nothing to do with Beatriz after all.

“Do you have any word of my sister Beatriz?” she asks.

Sir Diapollio’s smile grows more lecherous. “A beauty, isn’t she? I sang at her wedding. Everyone was enchanted by her—except the prince, of course.”

“I’ve had letters from my sister that have told me far more than that,” says.

Sir Diapollio’s expression shifts, the smile sliding off his face as he leans toward , his voice dropping to a whisper even though they are the only ones in the room. “Of course. Siblings would exchange letters, wouldn’t they? I know King Cesare and Queen Eugenia exchange plenty—Ideliver them myself during our encounters.”

steps back from Sir Diapollio in surprise. “Letters?” she asks. “Another gift of my mother’s?”

He shakes his head. “This gift, Your Majesty, is all mine, though it does come with a price.”

“So not a gift, then,” says, though she knows that no matter the price, she’ll pay it. Secret letters between King Cesare and Eugenia. Her mind is already a whirl of possibilities. Whatever they contain, she’s sure her mother would tell her to do whatever necessary to secure them. But that thought raises a question.

“I’m surprised my mother wasn’t interested in these letters as well,” she says. It’s possible he is trying to double-charge her, or perhaps the letters are forgeries and he thinks her more gullible than the empress.

Sir Diapollio smiles. “A man with my talent is limited by time, my dear. Already, my…charms are fading, and with them my audience. I decided long ago to accumulate secrets to sustain me. I sold your mother one, but now I find myself willing to part with another. For the right price. You see, Eugenia left in such a hurry, she forgot to ask me for her brother’s latest missive.” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a rolled letter with a red seal bearing the Cellarian royal sigil of the crescent moon.

“And how do I know the letter is authentic?” asks. “The Cellarians don’t use stardust seals. You could have written the letter yourself.”

“You’re cleverer than I expected,” he says with a laugh. “But alas, I can’t prove its validity. Yet I’m sure you can, once you read its contents. Consider it a compass, leading you in the direction of the truth.”

“And how much will this compass cost me, considering it very well may be broken?” she asks.

“I rather like your ring,” he says, his eyes dropping to her hand where it holds the letter. At first she thinks he means her wedding ring, but instead he’s looking at the ring she wears on her smallest finger—a teardrop ruby set in a band of gold, studded with diamonds. It was part of the Temarinian royal jewels she inherited when she became queen, not something she’d part with under any normal circumstances, but she doesn’t have a choice. Violie will notice its absence, but she can claim it fell off her finger without her noticing—small as it is, that will be a believable lie. She slides the ring off her finger and passes it to him, exchanging it for the letter.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Sophie,” Sir Diapollio says, and cringes at his use of her nickname. He doesn’t notice. All of his attention is focused on the ring in his hand. “I’ll give your regards to your sister when I see her next.”

barely hears him, already on her way out the door, desperate to get away from the singer as quickly as possible, shoving the folded letter into the top of her bodice as she goes.