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

Daphne

finds King Bartholomew in the library. The vial of stardust is buried deep in the pocket of her wool skirt.

When the guards posted outside open the door and she steps into the library, she’s momentarily stunned by the space. The rest of the castle betrays its newness—many walls are without decoration, some rooms are underfurnished, spaces simply don’t look lived-in the way the centuries-old Bessemian palace does. The library, though, is something else entirely.

The room is two stories tall, with shelves that line each wall, full of more books than has ever seen in one place. So many books that it makes her dizzy trying to estimate how many there might be.

“,” King Bartholomew says, rising from the armchair beside the roaring fire. The furniture in the room is sparse, like in the rest of the castle, but it’s cozy—all overstuffed and upholstered in emerald-green velvet. When steps onto the rug spread out over the stone floors, her feet sink deep into the pile.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, mustering a sheepish smile. “I haven’t seen the library yet, but I was hoping to find a book of poetry.”

In truth, has no patience for poetry—that’s Beatriz, who would sneak small leather-bound volumes out into the garden to read aloud in the shade of the trees. had liked listening to Beatriz’s melodic voice reading from the books, but she’d never found much to enjoy in the words themselves. Pretty for pretty’s sake, nothing of value for her.

The thought of Beatriz is soured by the last letter received from her sister, and the last line in particular.

It is somehow even hotter in Cellaria than I expected. I can’t walk more than five minutes outdoors without sweating through my gown. I’m sure if you could you would pummel me all the way from freezing Friv for complaining, but I’m sure the cold suits you.

It is nothing to get annoyed about, knows this, but the words still prickle against her skin, the insinuation that she herself is cold. Beatriz has said similar things before, often calling her a cold, ruthless bitch —always teasing, the same way would call Beatriz a shameless harlot —but the irritation lingers longer this time, in large part because is beginning to suspect that it’s the truth. She hasn’t shed a tear over Cillian, the sympathy she feels for his parents is perfunctory at best, and even when she had a knife to her throat and thought she might die, she found herself more annoyed than frightened. Perhaps Beatriz is right and her heart is as frozen as the Frivian highlands in midwinter.

She pushes her sister’s letter to the back of her mind and focuses on the task at hand—another cold maneuver to take advantage of a grieving father.

King Bartholomew loves poetry—she remembers this from one of the many briefings she sat through with her mother’s spies. He and Cillian both spent hours in the library, reading poetry. She assumed that the king would be here, mourning his son, so here she is.

And just as knew he would, the king smiles and gestures her closer, lifting up the book he’s reading to show her the cover. She pretends surprise when she realizes it’s a volume of poetry—Verity Bates, one of Beatriz’s favorites as well. She’d even had translate a few volumes from the original Frivian for her to compare them to the official Bessemian translation. combs her memory for something she remembers.

“Oh, is that the one who wrote ‘A Mood Black and Waning’?” she asks.

“You’re familiar with Bates?” the king asks.

“She’s one of my favorites,” tells him, letting her smile broaden. “I find her use of color to indicate emotion so visceral.”

The way he returns her smile tells her this was exactly the right thing to say. Thank you, Beatriz, you shameless harlot.

“I have quite a few volumes—on the shelves there,” he says, motioning to a corner beside the window. “Please, help yourself to whatever you like.”

“Thank you, that means so much,” she tells him. With the first step of her plan complete, it’s time for the second.

She starts toward the corner he indicated but stops short halfway to unleash a sneeze so dramatic it sends a shudder through her entire body.

“Bless you, child,” the king says, looking up from his book once more.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m sorry, I think the Frivian air is taking some getting used to for me,” she says before shivering for good measure.

“Well, it’s no wonder, is it? Where on earth is your coat?” he asks, alarmed.

glances down at her day dress, the gray wool soft and warm enough that she would have been sweltering in Bessemia, but in Friv it’s not nearly enough to ward off the chill. Contrary to Beatriz’s dig, she does not like the cold atall.

“Oh,” she says, faking a laugh. “I’m always forgetting it—in Bessemia we never have any need for coats indoors—” She breaks off, sneezing again, this time even more loudly.

The king’s brow creases as he looks at her, the concern in his eyes so genuine that the slightest smidgen of guilt nags at her. She’s come into the place that most reminds him of his dead son, and now she’s faking an illness, which undoubtedly also reminds him of Cillian. She’s playing on his grief, using it against him. If Sophronia were here, she would give that look of hers, the kind that reeked of disappointment and disapproval, the kind that would linger with for days and weeks after, eating at her.

But Sophronia’s not here, so what little guilt feels slips away when King Bartholomew stands up and slips his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders.

“We’ve had enough illness in this family, ,” the king says, his voice firm but kind. “You must take better care of yourself.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” says, dropping her gaze. Her fingers graze the seal through the pocket of the coat, and she tries her best to look chastened.

He goes back to his chair and his volume of poetry, but when she makes her way to the shelf, he speaks again.

“It’s in volume two,” he says, though his eyes are still on his book.

“What is?” she asks over her shoulder.

“?‘A Mood Black and Waning,’?” he says. “It’s part of the collection she wrote after her brother’s passing. Cillian hated it, thought it was too dark and gloomy. Sometimes, though, there’s something comforting about seeing your grief mirrored in another’s. It helps us feel less alone.”

tries to think of something to say to that, but no words seem good enough. After a second, he looks at her over the top of his book.

“He would have liked you,” the king says.

swallows down her discomfort and tries to remember what Beatriz said about the poem.

“ A Mood Black and Waning reminds me of my father, I suppose,” she says. “I don’t remember him, but sometimes Ifind myself missing him anyway.”

It’s another deception, another made-up vulnerability to endear her to a man she will eventually betray, but doesn’t feel bad about it—not even when the king gives her a tender smile, the way she likes to think her own father might have smiled at her. Perhaps Beatriz is right and she is a cold, ruthless bitch after all.

She turns back to the shelves, pretending to scan them while she works through the next part of her plan, the bit she’s truly dreading. She can’t make her wish if he’s here, and she doubts he’ll let her leave with his coat—besides the seal, she can feel the heavy ring of keys in another pocket, the rolled-up bits of parchment crushed beneath them. The coat is full of all kinds of things he’ll likely have need for.

So, if she can’t leave with the coat, she’ll have to get him to leave her in such a hurry he won’t think about it.

She makes her way toward the library ladder, sliding it over to the poetry section and beginning to climb. She doesn’t need to go too high—just a few rungs should be enough. When she’s four feet off the ground, she takes a deep breath before rolling onto her tiptoes, pretending to reach for a book just an inch too far away.

Then she lets herself fall onto the carpeted stone below, holding out her left arm to break her fall. At least the agonized scream she lets out when her wrist snaps against the ground isn’t fake. The pain jolts through her body, turning her vision white for an instant. When she opens her eyes, the king is beside her, holding her arm out. Even though she prepared for this, was ready for the pain, it still sends shock waves through her. As gentle as the king tries to be, she still lets out a cry when he touches her wrist.

“I think it’s broken,” he says, getting to his feet. “Don’t move, , I’ll send for a vial of stardust to fix it.”

When King Bartholomew is at the door, she reaches with her right hand into the pocket of the coat, bringing out the seal and setting it on her lap before pulling out the bottled stardust as well. It takes some effort to unstopper it with only one hand, while the other sends jolts of pain whenever she moves it, but she manages, pouring the glittering gray dust onto the skin of her injured hand.

“I wish this seal were doubled,” she says, enunciating each word clearly.

Time turns to molasses, the air going still around her. When the sensation passes, there are suddenly two seals where before there was one.

She tucks the duplicate into the same pocket of the king’s coat before picking up the original and the empty vial. The door opens and she hastily shoves them into her pocket, wincing in pain as she moves her injured hand.

When she looks up again, though, it isn’t the king standing there, it’s Bairre. The way he’s staring at her, brow furrowed, mouth turned downward, eyes suspicious, tells her that he saw her with the seal.

“I fell,” she tells him.

His expression doesn’t change, but he holds up his hand, showing her the vial of stardust, identical to the one she just used.

“I saw my father talking to the guards, but I happened to have this on me,” he says, then pauses. “What did you put in your pocket?”

“My pocket?” she asks, frowning. “Oh, when I fell, your father’s seal fell out of the coat he lent me. I just tucked it back inside. It didn’t look like it was hurt in the fall.”

She reaches back into the coat pocket to pull out the duplicate seal as proof.

Bairre doesn’t look entirely convinced. “I saw you put something into your pocket, though,” he says.

ignores her thundering heart and lets out an annoyed sigh. “I know you don’t like me, Bairre,” she says, clenching her teeth in a not-entirely-fake pained way. “But if you’d like to accuse me of something, can you at least heal me first so I can properly defend myself without being distracted by pain?”

Bairre frowns, crossing the room and dropping down by her side. He unstoppers the vial and pours the stardust ontothe back of his hand before taking hold of her broken wrist.

“Ow,” she snaps.

He winces. “Sorry,” he says, his voice soft. His touch is soft too—softer than she expected it would be, though the pads of his fingers are roughly callused.

“I wish these bones were set,” he says before glancing at again. “Sorry,” he tells her.

“For wha—” she starts before the pain in her wrist swells to an unbearable agony. She can feel the bones moving, feel them fusing together, and it hurts like nothing she’s ever experienced.

After a moment, the pain fades, though it doesn’t disappear completely. A sharp ache remains, throbbing beneath her skin, which has turned a mottled blackish blue.

“It still hurts,” she says, looking down at her wrist. He’s still holding it, his thumb resting against her pulse point.

“Yes, it will for a few days, more than likely—have you never been healed by stardust before?” he asks.

shakes her head. Beatriz and Sophronia both have plenty of times—Beatriz after being reckless and Sophronia after being clumsy—but has always been too cautious. Oh, she’s had her fair share of scrapes and bruises, but those have always healed the natural way.

“Ah, well, healing something like a broken bone requires a lot of magic—often too much for stardust. The bones are set now, but it’ll take another few days for it to heal entirely and for the pain to subside. I don’t think a thank you would kill you.”

jerks her hand away from him. “Thank you, Bairre,” she says in a saccharine voice. “For following your father’s orders, though not before calling me a thief.”

He frowns. “I saw you put something inside your dress,” he says. “If I’m wrong, I apologize, but—”

“If you want to see inside my dress so badly, you’ll have to wait,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “We aren’t married yet.”

A scarlet flush works its way over his cheeks. “That isn’t what I meant—”

The door to the library opens again and the king comes in, holding a bundle of cloth in one hand.

“I could hear the bickering from outside the door,” he says. “What is the matter?”

bites her bottom lip and flashes King Bartholomew her most innocent eyes. “Bairre thinks I stole something,” she tells him. “But here, check your coat, everything is there, I promise.” She shrugs off the coat, wincing as the sleeve goes over her wrist.

The king frowns. “I sent you in here to help the girl, Bairre, not interrogate her.”

“Just check it,” Bairre says, passing the coat to his father. “I saw her take something, I swear.”

King Bartholomew sighs but takes the coat, feeling the pockets. “Everything is here,” he says to Bairre. “Now, apologize.”

“But I saw—”

“Apologize,” the king repeats, his voice firmer.

Bairre cringes but forces himself to meet ’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tells her.

“I accept your apology,” says with a smile she hopes is more magnanimous than smug. “And thank you so much for healing me, my prince.”

He holds her gaze for a moment longer, searching for something, but she closes herself off, giving him nothing but a blank slate.

That afternoon, sits down at her desk with the king’s seal, the letter he’d sent requesting her presence at tea, and a blank piece of parchment. The king’s handwriting is more difficult to master than the writing on the marriage contract. Though it’s neat enough, she can see his humble roots reflected in the drifting dots above the i ’s and the tilting stems of the letters.

Once she has the hang of it, she begins to draft a letter from King Bartholomew to her mother.

Dear Margaraux,

I’m glad we could settle upon a new marriage contract for and Bairre—I know it was not the original match, but I wholeheartedly believe that they will one day be the right king and queen tolead a united Friv and Bessemia.

On that note, I’ve reason to believe there are rebels in Friv who are conspiring against that future and mean to move against us. I humbly ask that in the interest of our alliance, you assist in sending troops to put an end to it. Perhaps you could use your influence with Temarin as well, since their power in war is legendary and they, too, have a vested interest in our united future.

Your loyal ally, Bartholomew, King of Friv

reads the letter again, wondering if perhaps she should specify what Temarin’s interest is, but she decides it’s better to let the imagination of the rebels run wild. This on its own will be enough to work Cliona and her group into a frenzy. Satisfied, she picks the seal up and holds it over the candle for a moment before pressing it to the paper, beside the forged signature, and pushes down, just as she saw the king do. When she lifts it, the wax seal is there, yellow with a spot of bruise purple in the middle.

That done, she wraps the king’s seal in a thick wool scarf along with the sample of his handwriting. She hides the bundle in a box she brought with her from Bessemia—aplain wooden thing on the outside, but with a hidden compartment in the domed lid just big enough for her purposes. Then she fills the main compartment of the box with another wool scarf that she bought in town with Cliona, and a letter from her to Sophronia.