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

Daphne

Cliona’s missive arrives just shy of midnight the day after their shopping trip, a note tied to the open window with black ribbon, fluttering in the slight breeze. Since ’s bedroom sits on the third floor, whoever left it would have had to scale the castle walls without being noticed—a feat even has to admit is impressive. The message inside is short, in hasty but delicate writing.

Steal your marriage contract. It’s kept in the king’s study, but you said that wasn’t an issue.

She isn’t surprised Cliona wants to see the marriage contract—after told her that King Bartholomew and the empress were merging the countries, of course Cliona wants proof. Proof doesn’t exist; there’s no formal agreement, because the king would never willingly join his country to Bessemia. But can fix that easily enough. She might not be as good at forgeries as Sophronia, but she can certainly manage.

She pulls her dressing gown over her nightgown, tucking the missive into her pocket.

A thrill runs up her spine as she steps into the empty hallway with her candle, closing the door softly behind her. Dangerous as this may be, playing two sides and serving two agendas, she can’t deny that a part of her enjoys the risk.

A week after Cillian’s death, the castle has begun to come alive again, so she must be more careful than the last time she went sneaking about. Servants will be up, stoking fires and cleaning. The hallways near the kitchen in particular will be bustling.

When she reaches the office door, she sets down her candle, pulls the pins from her hair, and gets to work. Now that she’s picked the lock once, the second time goes much quicker, and in just a few seconds, she’s pushing the office door open and slipping inside.

She makes her way straight for the desk and begins rifling through the drawers, looking for the marriage contract. When she finds it, she sits down at King Bartholomew’s desk and picks up his quill from its inkpot, flipping through with her free hand until she reaches the end.

This agreement is made in good faith and in the best interests of both Friv and Bessemia.

It is easy enough for to change that period into a comma. She studies the rest of the handwriting, noticing the precise, unadorned script—easy to read and easy to imitate—but with a few markers to set it apart. The way the a ’s and o ’s slope slightly, how the t ’s and f ’s cross slightly higher than they should.

Once she’s satisfied she can mimic the handwriting, she takes a deep, steadying breath and begins.

This agreement is made in good faith and in the best interests of both Friv and Bessemia, and the united country they will oneday form, to be ruled by Prince Bairre and Princess upon the deaths of King Bartholomew and Empress Margaraux.

It is a tight fit to squeeze in a couple of extra lines above the place where ’s mother and King Bartholomew signed and left their seals, but when replaces the quill in its pot and sits back to peruse the document, nothing looks amiss.

As she waits for the ink to dry, she considers Cliona’s instruction to steal the contract. What if the king notices it’s missing? That’s cause for concern, but not ’s—if the king does notice, he won’t blame her, so what does it matter? Her duty will be done.

Footsteps patter down the hall, and goes still for an instant before scrambling into motion. She touches the ink and finds it dry, so she rolls the contract up with Cliona’s missive, tucks it into her pocket, and blows out her candle, shrouding the study in darkness.

The footsteps grow louder and louder—boots. Heavy ones. A guard? The steps sound regimented enough, evenly paced, rhythmic. Her mind spins with excuses, reasons for her presence in the king’s office, but all of them sound suspicious, even to her own ears.

Just when the footsteps can’t get any louder, they pass the office, fading away as they continue down the hall. releases a breath and sags against the desk. She waits until the footsteps have died away entirely before crossing quietly to the door and slipping back into the hall.

As soon as she’s closed the door, though, the footsteps are back, coming toward her once more. Her fingers fumble with the hairpins, but there’s no time to lock the door again. As the footsteps round the corner, she hastily shoves the hairpins back into her bun.

“Hello?” a voice calls out in the dark.

A familiar voice.

“Bairre?” she whispers.

The sound of a match striking, then flame as he lights a candle, illuminating his bewildered face. His overgrown chestnut hair is windblown and wilder than usual, in desperate need of a comb, but it suits him.

“,” he says, the way he always says her name—as if the effort of being in her presence has already exhausted him. “What are you…” He trails off, looking at the door behind her. The crease in his brow deepens.

“I was trying to find the kitchens for a glass of water,” she tells him before his thoughts can lead him further. She bites her lip, putting forth her best ingenue impression. “I thought maybe that led to a hallway, but it just seems to be a study of some kind. This castle is still such a maze, and it’s hard to see much of anything in the dark.” She holds up theextinguished candle and shrugs. “It went out a few minutes ago.”

Bairre reaches behind her, trying the door to the king’s office. It gives easily and swings open.

“That should be locked,” he says, more to himself than her. For an instant, her heart goes still, but then he shakes his head. “The whole castle has been a bit distracted lately, I suppose.”

“How did your hunting trip go?” she asks him, hoping to divert his attention from the unlocked door. He’s been gone the last two days, since her shopping trip, hunting with the heads of some highland clans.

He frowns and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Well enough; we hunted. Got a few stags, even a boar.”

“You weren’t there to hunt, though,” she says. “How did you get on with the rest of the party?”

“Why are you so concerned?” he asks, though the tension in his jaw gives away the answer.

She blinks. Why is she so concerned? She will be stuck with him once they’re wed, she supposes. She’d expected that Cillian wouldn’t live long into their marriage, but Bairre seems to be in perfect health. And once her mother leaves her the empire, imagines she’ll run it herself while he…while he does what? She supposes she shouldn’t care, but he will be her husband, so maybe she should. “Because the whole purpose of the trip was for them to see you as the crown prince and not the king’s bastard, but I’m guessing that didn’t work.” She pauses, fixing him with a look. “Whether you like it or not, you’re a prince.”

“No one sees me that way,” he says, shaking his head.

“Because you don’t see yourself that way,” she says. “My mother was a tailor’s daughter and an emperor’s mistress. No one wanted to see her as a ruler either, but she didn’t give them a choice.”

For a moment he doesn’t say anything, but then he nods down the hall, back in the direction she came from. “It’s that way.”

She glances down the dark hallway, then back at him. “What is?” she asks.

His eyebrows lift. “The kitchens. I thought you were thirsty.”

“I was,” she says quickly. “I am. You just distracted me.”

She starts off down the way he pointed, and he falls into step beside her. Though she won’t admit it, she’s grateful for the light he brings with him.

“There’s a bell, you know,” he says. “You can ring if you need anything.”

“I did,” she lies. “No one came.”

He seems to accept that, and they continue to the kitchens in silence.

“You stay here,” he tells her when they’re just outside the door. “They know me, but the sight of the princess at this hour will get them flustered.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

He pauses for a second, eyeing her uncertainly. “Anything else?” he asks her. “Truffle cheese or spun-sugar pastries? Caviar?”

“I find caviar gauche, actually,” she says with a bland smile. “Water will do.”

“You sure you don’t want pearl powder in it?” he continues, clearly enjoying this. “I hear your mother boils pearls in her tea to make her beautiful.”

“Pearls don’t boil,” says before she can stop herself. “But they do dissolve in vinegar, under the right circumstances, and the effect makes for quite a show of wealth and power for an upstart queen dining with foreign dignitaries who are trying to undermine her. Perhaps there’s a lesson there for you.”

That wipes the smirk off his face, and he ducks into the kitchen without another word. When he appears a moment later, he presses the glass of water into her hands.

“You can find your way back?” he asks.

She nods, taking the glass from him and turning away without another word.

—

Back in her room alone, fishes the rolled-up marriage contract from her pocket. She crosses to the window and opens it, leaving the contract on the sill just where she found the missive, then shucks off her dressing gown and finally climbs into bed.

Exhausted as she is, she should fall asleep quickly, but instead her mind whirls over her conversation with Bairre. She tells herself she accomplished her goal: she distracted him—he never truly suspected what she was really doing in the king’s study—but she didn’t have to give him advice. What the court thinks of Bairre isn’t her concern. Friv isn’t her concern. Her concern is getting through the wedding, stealing the king’s seal, and doing whatever else her mother demands of her. It would be better if Bairre liked her, but that’s not likely to come about when she’s insulting him.

So why did she do it?

falls asleep before she arrives at an answer.

—

She wakes at dawn to a draft coming in from the open window. She knows she closed that window the night before, and latched it for good measure. But now it’s open and there, on her vanity, are another note and a small vial of shimmering powder.

The stardust.

She stumbles out of bed and crosses to the vanity, picking up the vial and turning it over in her hands. She sets it back down and picks up the letter, unfurling it and scanning it quickly. It’s only four words, but they feel like a lead weight dropping into her stomach.

Well done. More soon.