Daphne
“You did what?” Bairre asks the next morning when and Cliona corner him in his bedchamber before breakfast, before he learns from anyone else that Gideon and Reid are gone.
and Cliona agreed on how to handle him, though neither of them was keen to explain to him that his mother ordered Cliona to kidnap Gideon and Reid. managed to convince Cliona that there was no point in telling him about her own mother’s orders, though as usual with Cliona, wonders what she’ll have to pay for that favor. Whatever it is, though, it will be worth hiding the truth from Bairre a little bit longer.
“It was the only way to protect them,” says levelly.
“Protect them from who?” he asks, looking between and Cliona, bewildered. He woke up mere moments ago and his brown hair is a mess, pieces sticking up at strange angles.
“Your mother,” Cliona says.
shoots her a glare—saying it so plainly was not the plan.
“What?” Cliona asks her. “You certainly weren’t going to say it.”
Loath as is to admit it, she’s right. Part of is grateful that Cliona has taken responsibility for saying the words.
“You’re both mad,” Bairre says, shaking his head.
“Are we?” asks. “Both of us suffering from the same delusion? Is that more believable to you?”
“Frankly, yes,” Bairre snaps, running his hands through his hair and taking a deep breath. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean that. But it must be a misunderstanding.”
“Cliona had the conversation with her. I overheard it. Do you believe either one of us unintelligent enough to misunderstand that, let alone both?”
Bairre’s mouth tightens. “But why?” he asks.
“That, I don’t know,” Cliona admits. “She said it was my father’s orders, but I have difficulty believing that.”
“It would make the most sense, though,” points out, unable to help herself, even as Cliona glares daggers at her. “Well, it would,” she says. “As far as he and the rest of the rebellion know, Gideon is the rightful heir to the Temarinian throne, and Reid next in line. There are plenty of reasons a rebel faction would want them in their grasp—not the least of which would be blackmail for sorely needed funds.”
“We do not sorely need funds,” Cliona snaps.
doesn’t dignify that with more than an eye roll. “Regardless,” she says, “the safest place for them is far away from here, so that is where Rufus and Violie are taking them.”
“Where, exactly?” Bairre asks.
and Cliona exchange a glance.
“It seemed best that we didn’t know,” she says.
Bairre frowns. “Cliona, I understand keeping it from. But you don’t know either?”
clenches her jaw. “No,” she says.
“Why would they keep that from you?” he asks.
“It seemed prudent to limit the people who know,” she says, though to her own ears it rings false. But she can’t very well tell him that Cliona was the lesser threat to Gideon and Reid.
For an eternity of a moment, Bairre doesn’t say anything, and worries that he’ll go ahead and chase after Gideon and Reid anyway. She doesn’t think she could stop him if he did, only hope he went east instead of west. But eventually, he sighs.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks.
“It was the best move we had,” Cliona says. “And you trust Rufus.”
“I trust Rufus,” he agrees, but his eyes are heavy on and she hears the words he doesn’t say. But I don’t trust you.
She can hardly fault him for that, can she? But it stings all the same.
—
That night, the northern lights finally show themselves. When a scout arrives with the news after dinner, , Bairre, Cliona, Haimish, and Leopold walk down to the edge of Lake Olveen.
Everyone in their party knows Leopold’s identity now. guesses that Cliona told Haimish at the earliest opportunity. As long as the truth stays among them, it won’t cause any issues, though as soon as begins to think that, she stops herself short.
Just because she’s decided to go against her mother in regard to Gideon and Reid doesn’t mean she can avoid killing Leopold. Unlike his brothers, better understands the threat he poses to her mother and their grip on Vesteria. Unlike his brothers, Leopold isn’t an innocent in ’s eyes.
Now that Violie has gone, there is nothing stopping from killing Leopold this very night.
Unaware of the turn her thoughts have taken, Leopold meets her stare and gives her a small smile, which she tries her best to return before Bairre clears his throat, diverting her attention.
Bairre holds Cillian’s urn—regal and understated as has heard Cillian himself was—while Haimish and Leopold use picks to break a hole in the thick ice that covers the lake. and Cliona wait onshore, bundled in furs and clutching mugs of hot mulled wine.
They haven’t talked since this morning, but the weight of unspoken words is heavy between them. Cliona knows that wasn’t completely honest with Bairre—she must suspect, too, that isn’t being entirely honest with her—but she doesn’t press her on it. Not yet, at least. And is grateful for that.
Soon, Cliona and Bairre and everyone else will know the truth about her, the full extent of her mother’s plots. She has always known that they won’t forgive her for it, but more and more she wonders if she will be able to forgive herself.
’s gaze lowers and she watches Bairre holding his brother’s urn, his hands shaking in a way that she doubts is due to the frigid cold. She’s struck by the desire to hold him so closely that their twin shattered hearts would melt into one.
You sound like Beatriz, she thinks, giving herself a mental shake.
“Stars above!” Leopold exclaims. follows his gaze up to the sky, her breath catching at the sight of neon greens, violets, and turquoises streaking across the star-littered sky. As watches, mouth agape, the colors ripple and spread across the sky like drops of ink in water.
She’s seen paintings of the northern lights before, but she isn’t prepared for the experience of seeing them with her own eyes. Looking at a painting doesn’t compare—this is more akin to stepping inside a work of art. could search for centuries for the words to describe it, but she would still fall short. She understands how this sight could spawn stories that transcend reality; standing beneath the stars and the lights and the wide, Frivian sky, anything suddenly seems possible, even fairy tales and folklore.
The moment shifts as soon as Bairre clears his throat, and she forces her gaze away from the sky and to him. He has his back to her, facing the lake and the hole in the ice Haimish and Leopold created.
“Cillian, you were the best brother I could have asked for,” he says, and though his voice is soft, his words carry on the wind. “When you were alive, I felt like I was forever in your shadow. In most everything, you were smarter, stronger, braver, better than me. There were times I even resented you for that. And now, I would give anything to have you back, no matter how insufferable you could be. But not a day goes by that I don’t feel your presence, guiding me.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “I hope you understand what I’m doing, even if you don’t agree with it. I hope that one day, you’ll forgive me for it.”
swallows, her throat suddenly thick. Bairre told her that Cillian never knew about his work with the rebellion. He said he thought that with time, Cillian would have understood it, but they never had that chance. She understands, suddenly, the power that comes in talking to the dead during a starjourn, even if the dead don’t talk back.
She wishes she could ask Sophronia’s forgiveness.
“May the stars guide you home, to the rest you deserve among them,” Bairre says, the traditional Frivian mourning words.
and the others echo the words, just as Bairre turns Cillian’s urn upside down, the ashes spilling into Lake Olveen.
A moment of silence stretches on around them and turns her face back up to the stars, searching the constellations for some sort of meaning.
The Lonely Heart catches her eye, flitting into the sky from the south—one of the birth constellations she shares with Beatriz and Sophronia.
The Lonely Heart indicates sacrifice and suffering. An inauspicious sign to be born under, to be sure, but one has never felt as much as this night. Dread pools in her stomach; how much more suffering can she endure?
The smell of warm sugar and roses fills the air and breathes in deeply. Sophie. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend Sophronia is standing beside her. Even that smell is hers—a blend of the rose soap she used and the sugary scent that clung to her after her excursions to the kitchens.
If focuses, she can hear Sophronia’s laugh, hear her voice echo in her mind. I love you all the way to the stars.
She can even feel Sophronia’s arms around her. She remembers all the nights Sophronia would wake up with nightmares, sometimes crawling into ’s bed for comfort, sometimes Beatriz’s, sometimes all three of them piling into one bed and staying up for hours whispering and giggling together until the sun lightened the sky outside.
She feels the tears on her cheeks before she realizes she’s crying. When she opens her eyes, the northern lights are brighter than they were before—so bright it no longer feels like night. So bright they blind momentarily.
When her eyes adjust, everything around her has gone dark and Sophronia stands before her, wearing the same pale yellow gown she wore the last time saw her, but has never seen her sister stand so straight, never seen such conviction in her eyes.
“I’m dreaming,” says when she finds her voice.
Sophronia smiles, and the sight of it threatens to buckle ’s knees.
“Oh, Daph,” she says, and the sound of her sister’s voice, the way she says her name, is what finally breaks her. shatters into countless pieces, so many that she feels she will never be whole again, but then she feels Sophronia’s arms come around her, rebuilding her, and she buries her face in her shoulder, great sobs wracking her body. She’s overwhelmed by the scent of warm sugar and roses.
“I’m so sorry, Sophie,” manages to get out between sobs.
“I know,” Sophronia says. When ’s cries calm, Sophronia pulls away, holding at arm’s length to look at her. And there it is again, the steel in Sophronia’s silver gaze that has never seen before. “But it isn’t enough to be sorry.”
swallows. “Is this the part where you tell me the truth?” she asks. “About what truly happened to you?”
wants to hear it but she doesn’t. She finds that she’s holding her breath, waiting for Sophronia’s answer, but her sister only smiles, reaching her hands up to brush away ’s tears.
“You know what truly happened to me, ,” she says, her voice low.
shakes her head, but she can’t form words.
“You’ve always known,” she continues.
Before can think of how to reply, Sophronia leans toward her and kisses her cheek, her lips like ice against ’s skin.
“Give Beatriz my love,” she says. “Tell Violie her debt is paid. And tell Leopold…” Sophronia’s smile turns sad. “Tell him I forgive him, and I hope he can forgive me in turn.”
“He’s a fool,” says, her voice coming out rough with tears.
“He’s brave,” Sophronia corrects. “It takes bravery to open one’s eyes and refuse to close them again, even when it would be so much easier to.”
swallows back a protest and forces herself to nod. She feels the goodbye hanging in the air, knows this—whatever it is—won’t last forever, but she would give just about anything for five more minutes. Sophronia takes ’s hands in hers and squeezes them tightly.
“We need you to be brave now too, ,” Sophronia says.
This time, when Sophronia wraps her arms around , the embrace is like smoke on ’s skin, swallowing her up into darkness.
—
comes to, still standing beneath the northern lights. As far as she can tell, only seconds have passed, but every part of her feels fundamentally altered. More than that, she feels broken open, raw and vulnerable. And this time, Sophronia isn’t here to put her back together.
She doesn’t understand what happened, how speaking toSophronia, feeling her touch, was possible, but she knows that whatever it was, it was real. She was real.
wishes her sister had simply told her the truth, but she knows Sophronia was right—she doesn’t really need her to. knows the truth; she always has. It doesn’t mean she knows what to do with the revelation—it isn’t as simple as washing her hands of her mother, appealing as that idea feels in the moment. There are too many strings tying them together, too much of ’s identity wrapped up in her and the role she’s been born to fill. But she does know one thing.
Shaking slightly, she closes the distance between herself and Leopold, coming to stand at his side.
“You should follow your brothers in the morning,” she says, not looking at him. “Take them somewhere far away.”
For a moment, Leopold doesn’t respond, but when he speaks his voice is hoarse. “No. I’m not running.”
It occurs to that both she and Sophronia were right about him—he’s a very brave fool, but a fool all the same. “Sophie gave her life to save yours. And you owe it to her to do something good with it.”
Again, he falls silent for a moment.
“I think running would be a waste of her sacrifice,” he says. “She didn’t just sacrifice herself for me, you know.”
frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“If Sophie and I had died together,” he says, “you and Beatriz would have been none the wiser. You would have thought that Sophie had failed, in some way, that her execution was a blunder.”
wants to argue that, but she knows he’s right. It would have been easy to believe that was the case. She would have blamed Sophronia for her own failure, for her own death, and she would have blamed Temarin as well. It would have been easy, certainly easier than blaming her mother.
“Beatriz learned the truth from Nigellus, which was a happy twist of fate, but if Sophronia hadn’t given her life, yours would be forfeit as well. She sacrificed herself for you, . You and Beatriz.”
reaches up to wipe away the tears gathering in her eyes. It doesn’t make her thankful for Sophronia’s choice—if anything, she understands it even less than her sacrificing herself for Leopold alone. The world isn’t a better place with in it, not like it was with Sophronia. It wasn’t an even trade.
“The best way to honor the sacrifice Sophie made isn’t for me to stay safe,” Leopold says. “It’s to help you in any way that I can. It’s to keep you alive, and to make your mother pay.”
Make your mother pay. The words echo in ’s mind, but she can’t conceptualize them. In her mind, her mother is infallible. Trying to hold her accountable for Sophronia’s death is a fool’s errand. She wouldn’t even know where to begin, and the idea of acting against the empress still leaves her feeling nauseated. We need you to be brave now too, .
“Tell me the truth,” says to him. “Tell me exactly what happened to Sophronia.”
—
falls asleep thinking about what Leopold told her of Sophronia’s final days—how she decided to go against their mother’s plans for Temarin, helping to begin righting their economy and showing Leopold how to be a better ruler, how she made an enemy in Leopold’s mother, Queen Eugenia—how crossing her eventually cost Sophronia her life.
It doesn’t sound like the sister knew. In the sixteen years spent with Sophronia, she never saw her go against their mother in anything—that was Beatriz, who seemed to enjoy rebelling for the sheer sake of it. Sophronia had always been every bit as obedient as , or at least she’d tried to be. Sophronia had disappointed their mother often, but never by choice.
Not until Temarin.
We need you to be brave now too, .
The words echo in her mind, but whenever she thinks about striking out at her mother directly—telling Bairre the truth about her plots, aligning herself fully with the rebels, even reaching out to Beatriz to tell her she believes her, that they’re on the same side—she feels sick to her stomach.
When wakes up the next morning, she doesn’t get out of bed right away. Instead, she stares up at the velvet canopy hanging over her and she realizes that there is someone else she can strike at, a blow she can see delivered without so much as a shred of guilt. Someone who can pay for their part in Sophronia’s death.
forces herself out of bed and makes her way to her wardrobe, searching through the three cloaks hanging there until she finds the vial of stardust tucked away in a hidden pocket. She carries it with her as she returns to bed, sitting cross-legged on the coverlet. With a steadying breath, she rolls up the sleeve of her nightgown and uncorks the bottle of stardust, tipping it onto the back of her hand.
She makes her wish.