Beatriz
Back in her cell, sits cross-legged on her cot, the skirt of her long gray dress spread around her and her eyes closed. There wasn’t much time to go over everything she needed to know about this new power waking up within her, but Nigellus stressed the importance of concentration and patience—two things that have never been ’s strong suits.
But at least if she sits completely still and keeps her eyes closed, she knows there is little chance she can miss Nigellus’s signal. In one hand, she clutches the vial of stardust he passed to her before he left, the glass warm from her skin since she’s barely set it down over the last day.
Any moment now, Nigellus will raise the signal. When he does, she has to be ready.
Any moment now.
Any moment.
She opens her eyes just enough to squint around the room. What if she missed it? Maybe it was too quiet to pierce the stone walls of her cell. Maybe—
Before she can finish the thought, a clap of thunder booms loud enough and close enough that the pitcher of water on her table rattles off the edge and shatters on the stone floor.
leaps to her feet, unstoppering the vial of stardust and sprinkling it over her hand, remembering the wish Nigellus made her memorize, word for word so there would be no mistakes.
Wishes are tricky, he told her, as if she hadn’t used stardust relatively often growing up. knows that the key to a successful wish is specificity—magic is like water in a bucket: if any holes exist, magic will find its way through them.
“I wish lightning would strike my cell and make a hole the size of my fist,” she says, the words coming out in a rush. As soon as they pass her lips, another clap of thunder sounds outside her cell and stone breaks off from her wall, falling to the ground in a cloud of dust.
hurries toward it, her heart pounding in her chest. Already, she can hear the surprised shrieks of the Sisters, and it will only be a matter of time before someone comes to check on her. She peers through the hole in the wall, doing a quick inventory of the constellations she can see—the Lonely Heart, the Raven’s Wing, and the False Moon. The Lonely Heart means sacrifice, the Raven’s Wing means death—neither of those is a constellation she wishes to draw from tonight, or ever. The False Moon means duplicity—can that be twisted in a way to suit her purpose? She’s sure the Sisters will consider her behavior duplicitous.
Before she can make that decision, though, another constellation edges into view from the north and lets out a sigh of relief—the Queen’s Chalice, which signals luck. She can see the outline of a goblet, tilted just slightly, as if its contents are threatening to spill.
Well, she can certainly use all the luck she can get. She finds a star at the center of the constellation, the sort of small twinkle of light that fades if you try to look directly at it. The sort Nigellus assured her that few will notice missing, though because it’s a smaller star, it will mean a weaker wish.
She was surprised Nigellus would allow her to pull a star from the sky intentionally—even outside Cellaria, that is a sacrilegious act, reserved for the direst of emergencies. But Nigellus pointed out that being locked away in a Sororia in Cellaria when her mother is determined to kill her qualifies as an emergency, and wasn’t about to disagree with him. There is a part of her, though, that suspects Nigellus could, perhaps, go about freeing her in a less sacrilegious way, with more stardust perhaps. There is a part of her that suspects this also serves as a test for her.
If that is the case, can only hope she passes. The last few times she used star magic have been accidental, in moments of heightened emotion. In time, Nigellus assured her, she would be able to better control her power, but for now it will be simplest to replicate those prior incidents and channel her emotions. This time, homesickness and lust are far from her heart. This time, she reaches for anger.
It kindles within her in an instant, hot to the touch and easily stoked. She thinks of Sophronia, executed while she was hundreds of miles away and helpless; she thinks of Gisella and Nicolo, who she trusted only for them to betray her and Pasquale; she thinks of Daphne, who refused to help her or Sophronia and left them to fend for themselves. Anger comes easily, but it isn’t enough. can feel it, power just past her fingertips no matter how she tries to stretch.
Her heart pounds in her chest—there is no time for half measures, no time to hold back.
keeps her gaze focused on the constellation and imagines what will happen when she sees her mother again. After two months in Cellaria, parts of Bessemia have already become a blur, but she sees her mother’s face as clearly in her mind as if she is standing before her, perfectly coiffed and powdered, with that same smug smile she always wears.
Did she smile like that when she plotted to kill Sophronia? When she tried to do the same to herself? ’s hands clench at her sides as she imagines confronting her mother with that knowledge and laying all of those sins at her mother’s feet. The empress won’t care, of course, knows that, but she will make her care. And then she will make her sorry.
Power wells up in her, filling her chest with heat in a way that feels vaguely familiar, though this is the first time she has recognized it for what it is. She takes a deep breath.
Clear your mind of everything but your wish, Nigellus told her, so tries to do just that. She latches onto her wish, holds it tight, and forgets everything else.
I wish Nigellus, Pasquale, and I were far from here, together in the Alder Mountains.
She repeats the wish over and over in her mind, mutters it under her breath. She closes her eyes and sees the words on the backs of her eyelids. They burn themselves into her soul.
Frigid air blows over her skin and she opens her eyes once more, but she is no longer in her cell at the Sororia. Instead, she stands beneath an open, star-strewn sky, her bare feet buried in fresh snow and her wool dress blowing around her legs in the wind.
She is so cold, but she is free.
“Triz,” a voice says behind her, and she whirls around, a laugh bubbling up in her throat before arms come around her, holding her tight—Pasquale’s arms.
“Pas,” she says, hugging him back. “It worked! It actually worked!”
“What—” Pas begins, but before he can say anything more, another voice interrupts.
“Yes, well done,” Nigellus says, holding up two cloaks. “But it will have been a waste of a star if you freeze to death.” He passes them each a heavy, fur-lined cloak before reaching into a satchel to pull out two pairs of boots that look to be roughly the right size. “Hurry up now, we’ve got quite a journey ahead of us, and I’ll explain on the way, Prince Pasquale.”
Pasquale shrugs on the cloak, but his eyes find ’s, brow furrowed as it so often is. realizes how much she missed him and his furrowed brow.
“Who…?” Pasquale asks her.
“Nigellus,” she tells him. “My mother’s empyrea.”
His eyes widen at that—not that can blame him. Star magic is outlawed in Cellaria—he’s likely never met an empyrea before. Well, apart from her, she supposes, though that label still doesn’t feel like it fits her. She doubts it ever will.
“He helped us escape,” she says.
“You trust him?” he asks, and knows that Nigellus is only pretending not to hear.
“No,” she says, quite clearly. “But we have little choice, do we?”