Sophronia
dunks a miniature sponge cake into her cup of coffee and takes a bite without looking up from the page she’s been studying for the better part of an hour. The new draft of the updated tax code is a dense beast of a document— suspects intentionally—and she’s found error after error. Does Lord Covier believe that if he drowns the important information in unnecessary words, she will miss it?
Actually, she wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what he believes.
She sets her coffee and cake down and picks up her quill, circling a particularly verbose sentence that rambles on long enough to take up half the page.
“What good will announcing lower taxes do if the people don’t understand a word of the new policy?” she grumbles aloud.
Leopold glances up at her from the other side of the sitting room, hunched over a piece of parchment with his own quill in hand.
“Perhaps it’s an issue of the language barrier?” he asks.
She shoots him an annoyed look. “I guarantee you, Leopold, my Temarinian vocabulary is larger than that of many villagers. How many do you think will know the meaning of verisimilitude ?”
He frowns. “Did Covier throw that in there? I don’t even know what it means.”
“Neither does he, apparently, since he used it incorrectly,” says, striking through that sentence altogether. “One would almost think he’s hoping no one understands a word of this. We should really think about replacing him and Verning,” she adds. She knows better than to even suggest he replace his mother, and besides, it is handier to keep Eugenia close. hasn’t received a response from her own mother yet, and she’s sure the empress will have ideas of her own for how to keep Eugenia from ruining their plans.
“Let’s get through this afternoon first,” Leopold says.
This afternoon, they are to go down to Kavelle along with Eugenia and Leopold’s brothers to announce the lowered taxes. It’s something she’s both excited about and dreading, and she knows Leopold is anxious as well. He’s been tweaking his speech all morning, and he’s eaten nearly the entire plate of sponge cakes she made.
“You’re giving good news,” she reminds him. “They’ll be cheering your name by the time you’re through.”
There’s a knock on the sitting room door, and without waiting for an answer, Eugenia bustles in. Her eyes fall on Leopold first and she greets him with a broad, warm smile, but when she notices it dies on her face.
“Oh, you’re both here,” she says. “How nice.”
“Actually,” Leopold says, glancing at the clock hanging above the marble mantel, “I’m late to meet Gideon and Reid—I told them I would walk them through everything today. Is it all right if I bring the rest of the cakes with me? Might help calm their nerves.”
“Yes, their nerves,” teases.
Leopold kisses her cheek. “Are you done with that?” he asks, nodding toward her papers. “I can drop them off with Covier on my way.”
“Just about,” says, striking through another sentence and passing the pile to Leopold. “Tell him it needs to be simpler—language that even children can understand. We don’t want anything misinterpreted.”
“I’ll tell him,” Leopold says. As he passes his mother on the way out, he stops to give her a quick kiss on the cheek as well.
“Not too many sweets for your brothers!” Eugenia calls after him, but the door shuts before she finishes. She sighs and turns back to , and can see the instant the facade falls and Eugenia goes from being a doting mother to being an adversary.
“Sophie,” she says, inclining her head.
“Genia,” replies, matching the woman’s cold smile. “Today should be quite exciting—Leopold’s nervous, though. I couldn’t believe it when he told me he’d never given a speech in Kavelle before! One would think he’d be a familiar face to the people he rules over.”
Eugenia doesn’t respond for a moment. Instead, she tilts her head to one side and looks over with a critical eye. “It won’t work, you know,” she says.
frowns. “Lowering taxes? I don’t see why it wouldn’t, but we can go over the figures again if you like—”
“They’ll never love you,” Eugenia interrupts, coming to sit across from and pouring herself a cup of coffee as if they’re discussing the latest fashions. “Oh, Leopold might be enamored at the moment, but we’ll see how quickly he tires of you once you’ve actually let him between your legs—don’t insult me by lying, servants talk, you know that.”
, who had indeed been about to lie, closes her mouth again.
“And Temarin,” Eugenia continues, clicking her tongue. “If the hearts of kings are fickle, Temarin’s heart is downright tempestuous, especially toward foreigners.”
Something in her words digs beneath ’s skin, nettling her. It’s the bitterness in her voice, but more than that, the hatred. She’s heard Eugenia speak of Temarin with wariness before, but never with this level of vitriol. It occurs to that this is the real Eugenia, the one plotting with her brother to conquer a country she hates. And if she is letting see past all her illusions, it means she knows the game is up.
“I’m not you,” tells her.
Eugenia laughs. “No, you are not,” she agrees. “That’s just it. My husband never loved me, neither did this stars-forsaken country, but the true difference between us, Sophie, is that I never needed them to. You’re so desperate to be loved that you would slit your own throat to endear yourself to vultures.”
is careful not to show how deep the words cut. She suspects that they hurt worse because there is some truth to them.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry for me, Genia,” tells her with a smile she doesn’t even try to pass off as genuine. “I assure you I’m quite adept at recognizing vultures for exactly what they are.”
—
Violie helps dress for their trip to Kavelle, the two of them debating which dress will be best suited to the occasion—nothing ostentatious, which rules out the vast majority of her wardrobe, but still something regal and strong. Finally, they settle on a plain velvet gown in a deep plum, with only the barest touch of silver embroidery on the bodice. They forgo all jewelry except a tiara, though even that is the simplest one she owns, made of thin, spindly silver and studded with pearls.
“You are quite unfashionable,” Violie proclaims, tucking the end of ’s braid up in a simple bun and securing it with a pin. “But still every inch a queen.”
snorts. “Honestly? I prefer this,” she admits, examining her reflection in the mirror. “Can you ask the other maids to start working on the rest of my wardrobe? Strip away all the jewels and embellishments. The entire court is bound to be upset with me, and I’d like to lead by example. And…,” she says, biting her lip and thinking about the conversation she had with Eugenia. She wouldn’t be surprised if Eugenia had another card up her sleeve, and if she is getting desperate she will be all the more dangerousfor it. was sure enough of her suspicions to share them with her mother, but she needs to be ready withincontrovertible proof in case she needs to reveal Eugenia’s treason to Leopold. “Did you ever find out about thesparkling wine from the brunch? Where it came from?” sheasks.
Violie blinks. “I’m afraid I’ve run into a bit of a mystery there. I asked the kitchen staff—they said it was from the Cosella vineyard in the south of Cellaria.”
“No mystery there,” says. “The best sparkling wines come from that area.”
Violie nods, biting her lip. “But they couldn’t provide an address. Eventually, I found an address for another vineyard in the area, the one the palace usually orders sparkling wine from. They haven’t heard of any vineyard with the name Cosella.”
frowns. “That is curious,” she says. “If they’re charging so much per bottle, one would think they had a reputation.”
“As I said, a mystery,” Violie says.
“I’ll write to my sister,” says. “Perhaps they serve the wine at the palace there.”
“Perhaps,” Violie says before pursing her lips. “It’s an awful lot of trouble over a bottle of sparkling wine, isn’t it?”
shakes her head, giving Violie an embarrassed smile. “A quirk of mine, I’m afraid. Once I set my mind to a mystery, I can’t rest till I see it solved. For my own edification.”
Before Violie can respond, a maid pokes her head into the room. “Your Majesty, Duchess Bruna is here to see you—”
Duchess Bruna doesn’t wait for the maid to finish, elbowing past her and into ’s dressing room, her face nearly the color of ’s purple gown.
“Aunt Bruna,” says, offering her a pleasant smile. “I’m running late, but we can speak this evening, perhaps—”
“That Cellarian bitch cut my allowance!” Duchess Bruna erupts. “Can you believe the nerve? She has always hated me, Sophie, but this is a new low. You must put a stop to it right away.”
glances at Violie and dismisses her with a nod before turning back to Bruna.
“Actually, Aunt Bruna,” she begins, as gently as possible, “that wasn’t Eugenia’s decision—it was mine, and Leopold’s.”
Bruna stares at as if she’s just started speaking Frivian. “I am the sister of the late king, Sophie,” she says, her voice cold. “It is utterly thoughtless to treat me this way. That money is what I am owed.”
lets out a long sigh, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall. “Unfortunately, Aunt Bruna, Temarin’s finances are quite in shambles—you aren’t the only one being affected. The entire royal family will be cutting spending, Leopold and I more than anyone. I’m hopeful it will only need to be a temporary measure, until Temarin gets back on its feet, but it is a necessary one.”
Bruna shakes her head, her jaw clenched. “This is…illegal,” she bites out.
has to bite her own lip to keep from laughing—that will surely upset the duchess more. “I assure you, it isn’t. We will all have to make sacrifices, Aunt Bruna. Do you need help going over your books to make the necessary adjustments?” she asks.
“Of course I do,” Duchess Bruna snaps, though ’s relieved to see that her face has returned to a more natural shade. “You took the only maid of mine with legible handwriting, you know.”
frowns, certain she must have misunderstood. “Violie?”
“The rest of them all write like writhing chickens—how is it a Bessemian peasant girl has better Temarinian writing than those born and raised here?”
Bruna seems to be talking more to herself than , but turns the question over in her mind. How indeed?—especially because Violie told her she didn’t know how to read.
—
counts twenty guards that escort their carriages from the palace entrance to the gates. A platform has been set up just on the other side. There are two carriages, the first carrying and Leopold, the second carrying Eugenia, Gideon, and Reid.
The sound of the crowd greets them even before the carriage pulls to a stop beside the gates.
“Ready?” asks Leopold.
He hesitates, pulling the curtains slightly aside so he can see what awaits them. “It’s a lot more people than I’ve spoken to at court,” he says.
“You’ll do fine,” she tells him. “Everyone loves good news.”
He nods, turning back toward her. “A kiss for luck?” he says with a grin.
laughs and leans across the carriage to kiss him quickly on the lips, trying to ignore Eugenia’s words echoing in her mind: We’ll see how quickly he tires of you once you’ve actually let him between your legs. She forces a smile. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”
He raps his knuckles against the window and a guard opens the door, helping them out of the carriage and into the bright afternoon sun. takes Leopold’s proffered arm and they make their way toward the towering gates that lead to Kavelle. Just through the golden curlicues, can see a crowd of people gathered. Leopold was right—there are more people than she can count waiting to hear him speak.
A wall of guards guides them through the gates and up onto the platform, and gives Leopold’s arm one last squeeze of reassurance before letting go and stepping back to stand beside his mother and brothers. The noise from the crowd is deafening, but she can’t tell if it’s made up of cheers or curses. Both, perhaps. But when Leopold clears his throat and lifts a hand, the crowd falls silent.
For a long moment, he freezes, staring out at the crowd. Though she can’t see his face, notes the tension in his shoulders, how they hitch up toward his ears. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.
“Good afternoon, good people of Kavelle,” he says before clearing his throat again. “I know that Temarin has been facing difficult times, and nowhere is that more clear than here in the capital, but as your king, I will be doing everything in my power to see us through this.”
“Horseshit!” a man cries out from the middle of the crowd. ’s eyes find him quickly, as do the guards making their way through the crowd. When one of them grabs the man’s arm roughly, Leopold holds his hand up again.
“Release him, please,” he says, and after a second of confusion, the guard does as he’s told. Even the man looks bewildered.
“I have been…lax in my duties since taking the throne, and I can’t blame you for not believing me, but I assure you I’m in earnest. Starting next month, the taxes you owe will be halved.”
There are whispers at that, a swell of quiet voices that buzz through the space until they nearly drown Leopold out altogether. “We will also be setting up a food distribution system through which those in need will be able to pick up rations, free of cost.”
There is more murmuring at that. scans the crowd, trying to discern whether the people are pleased or not, and her eyes snag on a familiar face. There, near the front of the crowd, is Violie. It isn’t surprising—there are other palace servants she recognizes dimly, come to hear news that affects them as much as anyone—but the surprising thing is that Violie isn’t alone. A boy of about eighteen stands just behind her left shoulder, whispering something in her ear that seems to annoy Violie. She frowns and she says something back—something, thinks, that appears unpleasant. A lovers’ quarrel, perhaps. Another secret Violie has been keeping.
takes note of the boy’s face—sharp angles and dark brown eyes, black hair in need of a cut, skin gold from the sun, a pale white scar across his left cheek. Violie catches her watching and turns a shade pinker before offering her a smile. forces herself to return it before turning her attention back to Leopold.
“Temarin has faced troubled times before, and we have always come out the other side of them—stronger and united,” he says.
There is a smattering of applause—some of it even seems genuine, but it isn’t enough to cover the jeers. Certainly not loud enough to cover up the woman screaming “Liar!” at the top of her lungs as she pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She is slight in stature, with wiry gray hair pulled back from her face and partly covered by a dusty blue kerchief. Her wrinkled face is bright red from the effort of yelling, but her eyes are determined and focused on Leopold.
The guards in the crowd start moving toward her, but again, Leopold raises his hand to stop them, allowing her to come to the platform.
“How many won’t come out the other side of this, Your Majesty ?” she demands, her voice dripping with derision. “How many of our sons have been killed for stealing to survive, all the while you’ve been stealing from us to fill your coffers? How many parents have starved so that their children are fed? My own daughter died in labor because she couldn’t afford to pay for a doctor after your men took her last penny in taxes. How many others have stories like hers?”
The crowd close enough to hear her nods, and wonders just how many of them have lost people they loved because of Leopold’s na?veté. It is one thing to understand the cost in terms of ink and paper, but another to see it reflected in the eyes of so many people.
Leopold must feel it as well, because he has no answer for the woman. isn’t sure she does either, but before she knows what she’s doing, she’s stepping up beside Leopold, placing her hand on his arm.
“We’re sorry to hear about your losses—about all of your losses,” she says, surprised at how clear and level her voice comes out. “King Leopold and I will do everything we can to—”
Before she can finish, someone in the crowd throws a stone—a small thing, the size of a fat grape—and it strikes her cheek. It surprises her more than anything, but when she lifts her fingers to her face, they come away bloody.
“Sophie!” Leopold exclaims, pulling her behind him as more stones begin to join the first.
“Seems only fair,” a man near the front yells, throwing a larger stone that hits Leopold square in the shoulder, knocking him back a step, “to repay death with death!”
“Get back to the gates,” Leopold says to her as guards begin to close in around them and the crowd becomes more agitated. He keeps hold of her hand as they hurry toward Eugenia and the princes. When they meet, grabs hold of Reid’s hand and the five of them huddle together. Another stone hits ’s hip, a third smacks the back of her head hard enough that she sees stars, but she forces herself to ignore the throbbing pain and keep moving, putting her arm around Reid’s shoulders to shield the boy from the attacks.
The guards form a tight circle around them, but the barrier doesn’t hold—before they are even off the platform, three guards have fallen, one stabbed with a dagger, one clobbered over the head, and a third dragged down into the crowd. ’s heart thunders in her chest as the people get closer, shouting curses and threats and Temarinian words she doesn’t recognize but that don’t sound positive. Someone grabs hold of her gown, tearing the hem. Another person pulls at Leopold’s arm, knocking him off-balance before a guard pushes them away.
They are nearly to the gate when Reid is torn away from her, one moment standing beside her, the next gone altogether, her hand suddenly empty.
“Reid!” screams, but the guards are already pushing them through the gate, the iron bars slamming closed as soon as they’re through, but even the gate isn’t enough to stop the crowd. They reach through the bars, throw stones, shout.
“Reid,” she says, pulling Leopold to face her.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, looking dazed. He’s been hit as well, a streak of blood marring his temple. “What about Reid?” he asks, frowning. “Where is he?”
“The crowd pulled him away from me,” she says, panicked tears stinging at her eyes. “He’s gone!”
Leopold lets out a curse and lets go of her, turning away to summon the guards.
“Find him,” he says, his voice cracking. “Now.”
The guards draw their swords and slip back into the angry crowd.
“Leopold,” Eugenia says, hurrying toward him, her eyes red with tears. “Where is he? What happened?” she demands. “I saw him just seconds ago and then…” She swings her gaze to . “You.”
“The crowd,” says weakly, the guilt of it already outweighing any kind of logic. “They grabbed him—Itried to hold on but—”
“This was your idea,” Eugenia seethes, stepping toward until they are inches apart. She expects Eugenia to strike her, but before she can, Leopold shoulders his way between them.
“Enough,” he says, his voice firm. “If you’re giving blame, I’ll take the lion’s share,” he tells his mother, running a hand through his hair that comes away streaked with blood.
“Your Majesty,” a guard says, approaching. “You’re wounded—Queen is too. You should be looked at.”
“I’m fine,” Leopold snaps. “But take Sophie, and my mother, and Gideon.”
For the first time, glances at Leopold’s other brother. Gideon looks to be unharmed, but his face is pale and his eyes wide. He looks so much younger than his fourteen years.
“I’ll stay,” says, slipping her hand into Leopold’s. “I’m fine too.”
It’s only partly true—the back of her head is throbbing and should likely be looked at—but she’s certainly as fine as Leopold is. If he isn’t getting help, she isn’t either.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” a voice at the gates cries, and after a second, the guards part enough that can see Reid, frightened but unharmed, with a stranger’s hands on his shoulders. Or rather, not entirely a stranger. recognizes him as the boy Violie was speaking with earlier, with the scar across his cheek. “I have him, he’s not been hurt.”
The guards open the gate and both Reid and the boy come through, Reid immediately running into Eugenia’s arms, sobbing.
“You have my gratitude,” Leopold says to the stranger, holding a hand out. “I was afraid…” He shakes his head. “Thank you…what’s your name?”
“Ansel, Your Majesty,” the boy says, bowing his head and taking hold of Leopold’s hand, shaking it. “And no thanks is necessary—anyone would have done the same.”
Leopold glances behind him, at the gates where the angry crowd can still be seen and heard. “I don’t believe that’s true,” he says.
“Tell me, Ansel,” says, finding her voice. “I thought I saw you with my maid, Violie. Is she safe?”
“I believe so, Your Majesty,” he says. “I saw her and some of the other palace maids slip back through the gates just before everything went sideways. From what I gathered, about half the crowd came armed and ready for a fight. I told Violie to get the others safe and then tried to warn the guards, but it was too late.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, if I’d been faster—”
“No apologies necessary, Ansel,” Leopold says. “You did all you could and more. My brother is alive because of you. You must dine with us, please, so we can show our thanks. Next week? I’ll have someone give you details.”
Ansel smiles and bows again. “If you insist, Your Majesty, I would be honored.”
As the guards usher and Leopold toward the palace, she glances back at Ansel, who simply waves, but it does little to assuage her gnawing suspicion. If she can’t trust Violie, she certainly doesn’t trust him. She isn’t sure she can truly trust anyone.
—
It’s nearly an hour before gets back to her rooms, her muscles aching and her whole body exhausted, though any physical wounds have been mended with a few pinches of stardust from the court empyrea. She wanted to stay while he tended to Leopold’s head injury, but Leopold, the empyrea, and the royal physician all insisted she needed rest.
Though as soon as she sees Violie sitting by the roaring fire, she knows rest will have to wait awhile longer.
“You’re back,” says as she toes off her slippers and removes her gloves. “I heard you made it back safely, but I’m glad to see it with my own eyes.”
realizes as she says the words that they aren’t a lie. Maybe she’s a fool for it—her mother would certainly say so—but no matter who Violie really is, who she is reporting to, is glad she’s safe.
Violie shakes her head. “I was never in any real danger,” she says. “How are you ?”
can still feel the dull ache from where the stone struck the back of her head. The doctor said she would be fine, but the shock remains. Someone hit her. Someone, some stranger, hates her so much that they want her dead. Many someones, she supposes, if the jeers of the crowd were anything to go by. The thought of it makes her sick, but she forces a smile.
“I’ll live,” she says. “Leopold’s wound was worse—he’s still being looked at.” She pauses. “Reid went missing, swept away by the crowd.”
Violie’s eyes widen. “He’s just a child—is he all right?”
“He is,” says, watching her expression carefully. “All thanks to your friend.”
Violie frowns, her brow furrowing. “My friend?” she asks.
“Ansel, I believe his name was,” says. “I saw you speaking with him just a moment before the riot broke out.”
A faint spark of recognition flickers in Violie’s eyes. “Oh, him,” she says. “I’d never met him before; he just started talking to me—flirting, more like. I wasn’t interested and told him as much. That’s all.”
tilts her head, choosing her next words carefully. It won’t do to let Violie know of her suspicions, but she’d like some answers. “He said he told you and the other palace servants that the riot was about to happen, that you should hurry back here.”
Violie hesitates just long enough that can see her reshaping her story—it’s subtle, a flicker behind the eyes, something wouldn’t know to look for if she didn’t know how to do it herself.
“Of course he said that,” Violie says with a light laugh. “Some boys, Sophie, enjoy playing the role of hero—saving the prince wasn’t enough praise for him, I suppose. He had to claim to save a gaggle of servant girls as well.”
It’s a good lie, has to admit, but it’s a lie all the same.
“How did you know to hurry back here, then? Did someone else tell you about the riot?”
Violie sighs and offers a small, tight smile. “I’m no stranger to the shifting tempers of mobs,” she says. “I saw it often enough in Bessemia.”
frowns. “There were mobs in Bessemia?”
“Not like that,” Violie says quickly, then hesitates. “My mother was— is —a courtesan. Sometimes the men who came to the pleasure house she worked at would get angry with the girls, sometimes a group of our neighbors would gather to try to ‘remove the stain of sin from our streets,’ as they said. They didn’t often turn violent, mind you, but I suppose I learned to recognize the signs of when they would, so that I could go for help. There’s a shift in the energy. I felt it in that crowd, so I gathered the other servants and we made our way back. We’d barely got to the servants’ entrance when that man threw the first stone.”
regards her as she speaks, noting every slight arch of her eyebrows, every flare of her nostrils, every shift in the inflection of her voice. She wonders where Violie learned to lie so well, or if it is simply a natural talent.
“Well, I’m glad you’re safe,” tells her, letting it drop. “I’d like to get some rest—it’s been a trying day.”
“Of course,” Violie says, crossing to the wardrobe to find one of ’s nightgowns. In a few short, quiet moments, Violie helps her change and brushes her hair, all the while watching her face in the vanity mirror.
Who is this girl? And, more importantly, who does she work for? ’s mother seems a plausible option, though again thinks it’s a bit too obvious for her to send a Bessemian servant as a spy. Duchess Bruna is another possibility, though Violie helped work explicitly against the duchess’s interest. The other possibility that comes to mind is Eugenia, though that wouldn’t make sense either.
“Oh,” Violie says, jerking out of her thoughts. “Before I forget, there was a letter for you, from your mother.”
’s heart speeds up, but she tries to appear uninterested. “Oh? I suppose I’ll take a look before bed.”
—
waits until Violie heads off to sleep before she opens the letter, sitting up against her pillows as she unfolds it and scans her mother’s words. The letter isn’t in code, she notes, and there is no sign it has been tampered with, which raises more questions.
What you’re telling me is that Eugenia has done abetter job of destabilizing Temarin than you have. Leave her to me. It seems you are having problems with the simplest of orders, so let me be plain: I don’t care about Temarin’s finances; I don’t care about Temarin’s peasants, and therefore you don’t either. Do not delude yourself into believing you are a real queen, my dear. The role doesn’t suit.
immediately crumples the letter in her palm, not needing to read it a second time—the words will be scalded into her memory for a long while to come.
It isn’t the cruelty that gets to her— that she’s used to from her mother. It isn’t even the insinuation that the empress is watching , that she has someone close enough to her to deliver a message that made it to her unopened. knows her mother well enough to expect both of those things. No, the thing that hits her the hardest is the quashing of hope that leaves feeling like a fool for daring to hope in the first place.
Maybe her mother is right, maybe she is softhearted and weak.
The thing is, though, doesn’t feel weak. For the first time in her life, her mother’s disapproval doesn’t feel lethal. The role doesn’t suit, her mother wrote, about being queen. But these past days, that hasn’t felt like the truth.
drops her mother’s letter into the cup of hot tea Violie left on her bedside table, watching the words melt away until they are illegible. Satisfying as it feels for the moment, knows she can’t silence the empress that easily.