Daphne
wakes to news that Violie—or rather, Vera—has regained consciousness, and that her trial will take place tomorrow night, which gives little time to execute her plan. Or, rather, the half plan she’s managed to formulate while tossing and turning all night. Now, she’s groggy and exhausted as her maid bustles around her room, relaying gossip about who she believes Vera to be, but is no closer to figuring out how to save Violie’s life without implicating herself.
Though there are other matters she needs to take care of first, and she hopes a plan for the rest will occur to her before it’s too late.
—
Breakfast with Lord Panlington has been set up in the conservatory, and is the last to arrive. When she passes the guards standing at the entrance and steps into the glass-walled space full of an assortment of flowers and trees, she sees Bairre and Cliona seated at a round table that overlooks the now-frozen garden below. Lord Panlington sits with his back to her, staying seated even when Bairre gets to his feet to pull out ’s chair for her.
“Good morning,” she says, flashing her brightest smile at each of them, finally settling on Lord Panlington. “I hope I didn’t keep you long?”
“This entire thing is a waste of my time, Princess,” Lord Panlington says, sipping his coffee. “What little more you chose to waste so that you could make an entrance is negligible.”
holds fast to her smile. “I’ll make a deal with you, then, my lord— I won’t waste your time with pleasantries if you don’t waste my time pretending you don’t need me more than I need you right now.”
Cliona snorts into her teacup, earning a glare from her father. She straightens up and sets the teacup down, placing her hands on her lap. “This morning, my maid asked me if it was true that Princess bled stardust,” she says conversationally. “Of course I told her that was ridiculous, but I don’t think she believed me.”
“I’ll be sure to be extra mindful of people approaching me with sharp objects,” says.
“I heard someone call her Saint ,” Bairre adds.
Lord Panlington shoots him a glare. “There’s an easy enough way to put an end to that. After everything the two of you have told me, it would be prudent to simply have her killed.”
“Clearly, you don’t know much about saints,” tells him. “But let me assure you, killing me is the last thing you want to do.”
Lord Panlington sits back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly. “Enlighten me, then,” he says. “What should I do with a scheming foreign princess who has admitted she’s done everything she can to destroy my country?”
smiles. “You should thank the stars every day that I’ve had a change of heart, or you would be bowing to my mother before the year is out.”
Lord Panlington’s mouth twists into a scowl. “How dare you,” he says.
“How dare I?” she asks, laughing. “Which of us arranged the kidnapping of two innocent boys?” She doesn’t add that she herself contemplated killing them, but her words find their mark, not just on Lord Panlington but on Cliona as well. Her flinch is small but visible as she waits for confirmation. She doesn’t look surprised when he doesn’t deny it.
“I have always done what is best for Friv,” Lord Panlington says, his face turning red.
“Then I have no choice but to question your judgment, my lord,” says. “Because I fail to see what good your rebellion has done for Friv since my arrival, apart from killing an empyrea. You think this is merely about Friv, isolated and alone and separate from the squabbles of the rest of the continent? You are a child who has been playing with toy soldiers, and war—real war—is about to start battering down your door.”
“Don’t speak to me about war, girl,” Lord Panlington growls, sitting up and leaning toward , eyes blazing. “I know more about war than you could ever hope to know.”
Bairre reaches up instinctively, shoving Lord Panlington back into his seat and away from . His eyes find hers, asking a question. Are you all right? She nods, refocusing on Lord Panlington.
“I can assure you, Lord Panlington, when my mother and her armies arrive in Friv, you’ll yearn for the days of the Clan Wars. They’ll seem like nothing more than friendly skirmishes compared to the nightmare of bloodshed she’ll leave in her wake. And the only advantage you have against her right now is that she doesn’t know that you have me.”
Lord Panlington stares at across the table, fury still simmering in his eyes. holds his gaze, unflinching. For a long moment, neither speaks, and even Cliona and Bairre seem to be holding their breath.
Finally, Lord Panlington exhales a low chuckle, reaching for his teacup. In his large hand, the fragile painted cup looks ridiculous.
“I understand it now,” he says, nodding slowly. “The rumors. I don’t believe you’re a saint by any means, if even half of what my daughter has told me is true, but I understand the myth.” He looks at Bairre. “If we’d had a woman like her around in the Clan Wars, your father wouldn’t be the one on the throne, I can tell you that much.”
Bairre doesn’t answer right away. “If you can see that, surely you understand what a threat her mother poses,” he says finally.
Lord Panlington’s mouth twists again and he lets out a noncommittal sound. “If your mother wants a war with Friv, she’ll get one,” he tells . “And if she thinks we’ll be easy to conquer, we’ll remind her why no enemy forces have dared to cross our border in three centuries.”
wants to tell him that he’s underestimating the empress, that he has no idea what she’s capable of, but that will be a problem for another day. Right now, she has a more pressing one.
“The girl who tried to murder Queen Eugenia,” she says. “The one you’re trying to pin the bomb at my would-be wedding on. I need her to go free.”
That causes Lord Panlington’s eyebrows to arch high. “You ask too much.”
“You know she had nothing to do with my wedding—you did.”
“Yes,” Lord Panlington says slowly. “But she’ll hang for the assassination attempt on the queen alone; I don’t see what harm it does to throw an extra charge at her.”
“And if she didn’t do that, either?” asks.
Lord Panlington laughs. “I find that difficult to believe, all things considered.”
swallows. “Still,” she says, “you have the king’s ear. You could sway him to mercy, if you wished to.”
Lord Panlington swallows the last of his tea. He gets to his feet and shakes his head. “If you manage to convince anyone that girl is innocent, I might believe you truly are a saint,” he says. “We’ll be in touch, Princess.”
expects Cliona to follow her father out, but instead she reaches across the table to pour herself more tea.
“Well, that went about as well as anyone could have hoped for,” she says lightly.
stares at her. “Violie is still due to go on trial, making her execution imminent. How well, exactly, did you hope for it to go?”
Cliona shrugs. “Well, there was little chance of avoiding a trial, wasn’t there? Even if you could persuade him to put a good word in with the king, Bartholomew has his mind made up. The girl’s fate is sealed, . Go on, tell her I’m right, Bairre.”
looks to him and for a moment he doesn’t speak. “She’s right,” he manages finally.
She hears what he doesn’t say: Her blood is on your hands. has plenty of blood on her hands as it is, a few drops more shouldn’t trouble her so much, but they do. She doesn’t care what they say, she’s going to find a way to save Violie.
“Then what exactly do I need your father’s help for?” she snaps at Cliona. “If he can’t stand up to Bartholomew, I can assure you he’ll stand no chance against my mother.”
“All the same,” Bairre says, “the more friends on our side the better.”
Our side. is so caught on those two words that she almost misses Cliona’s reply.
“Let’s not be hasty,” she says, sipping her tea. “The enemy of my enemy might be my friend, but it isn’t a friendship built to last.”
—
The next morning, pays a visit to Eugenia on her sickbed, bringing a vase filled with carefully selected flowers gathered from the conservatory—marigold, yarrow, and rhododendrons. If she had more time, she would have tried to reclaim her poison ring from among Violie’s things, but with the trial scheduled for tonight and the fact that Violie’s room has likely already been searched, decides to take a different approach. Luckily, a gift from Beatriz arrived this morning—a bottle of perfume that supposes was meant to send a message rather than smell like perfume. As it is, though, the concentrated scent of the perfume is strong enough to mask the smell of the noxious poison she’s added to the water in the vase. Even carrying the vase from her room to Eugenia’s is enough to make her feel light-headed, but an hour of breathing in the fumes will be enough to finish what Violie started.
The guards let her past with little fuss after she explains that she wants to offer comfort to Lady Eunice. Given the powder Violie used on Eugenia, she expects to find the dowager queen looking as frail as she does, with sallow skin and half-closed eyes. But she doesn’t expect to find King Bartholomew already at her bedside.
“Your Majesty,” says, dipping into a curtsy.
King Bartholomew turns toward her, surprise showing on his face.
“,” he says, offering her a tired smile. His eyes go to the flowers she carries. “It was very kind of you to bring those—I’m sure she’ll appreciate them. Isn’t that right, Eugenia?”
Eugenia tries to smile, but she can’t quite manage it. Weak as she appears, suspects that if she’d inhaled just a bit more of the poison powder, she never would have woken.
moves to set the vase on Eugenia’s bedside table.
“They smelled so lovely while I was having breakfast this morning,” tells him.
“The scent is strong,” Bartholomew agrees. “Odd for this time of year.”
“I thought so as well,” agrees. “But perhaps it will help to reinvigorate her senses and get her back to her usual self.”
“Very thoughtful,” Bartholomew agrees. “I was just leaving, but I wanted to let Eugenia know about you and Bairre locating her sons, that they are safe. And, of course, that the assassin we apprehended would be facing trial tonight.”
Eugenia opens her mouth, trying to speak, but nothing comes out except a hoarse whisper that sounds to like “Violie.” Bartholomew merely shakes his head.
“No, don’t try to speak,” he says, reaching for her hand. “It isn’t worth straining yourself by voicing such unpleasantness—you must save your strength for getting better.”
“I’ll stay with her for a moment,” offers. “I’m sure you have to prepare for the trial.”
“You are truly sent from the stars, ,” he says, giving her shoulder a pat as he passes by.
gives a demure smile, but as soon as he leaves the room, it slides from her face and she turns to Eugenia, crossing to the side of her bed far from the vase of flowers and sitting down gingerly on the mattress beside her.
“My mother has a habit of making promises she has no intention of keeping,” she tells Eugenia, her tone conversational. Eugenia struggles to move away from her, and since that only serves to put her closer to the noxious flowers, allows it. “I don’t have to tell you that, I’m sure.”
Eugenia watches with wary eyes. She asks something, though the words come out too hoarse to translate. assumes she’s asking about her sons.
“They’re safe,” says. “Safe from her and you. Leopold was very relieved to see them again, I must say. Their reunion was truly heartwarming.”
This time, hears her echo Leopold’s name.
“Yes, he’s alive and well too,” tells her, allowing a smile to curl over her lips. “You are very lucky indeed—all of your lost children not so lost after all, and you narrowly avoiding death yourself! One might think you were blessed by the stars.”
The look on Eugenia’s face tells that she doesn’t feel very blessed at all, but carries on.
“He had some stories to share, though,” tells her, watching as Eugenia’s already sallow skin turns a shade paler. “Outlandish stories that paint you as the one responsible for the mob that tried to kill him and succeeded in killing Sophie.”
Eugenia shakes her head, opening her mouth, but now no words come out. She breaks off into a cough.
“As I said, outlandish stories. But stories that make sense the more one thinks about them,” says, watching the shock and horror overtake Eugenia. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the northern lights, Eugenia. It was quite a transformative experience. They let me have one final conversation with my sister, a conversation I won’t soon forget.”
Eugenia coughs again, this cough louder, more wheezing.
“Your mother,” she manages to rasp.
“You don’t have to tell me anything about my mother,” snaps. “As I said, she makes promises with no intention of keeping them—to you, to me, to Sophronia. But I am not my mother, and when I promise you that the next hour will be excruciating for you, that you will suffer in silence for every minute before you finally die, I mean it.”
Now Eugenia tries to sit up, to call for help, but she is too weak, her throat too raw from Violie’s poison. Not a sound comes out.
“The irony is,” says, getting to her feet and smoothing her hands over her skirt, “if Sophronia were here, she would urge mercy. She would tell me to be compassionate, to understand what drove you to do what you’ve done, and I would likely listen to her. Sophronia made me a kinder person, but you had her killed and now you’re left with the consequences.”
With that said, turns her back on Eugenia, just as she breaks off into another cough. doesn’t look back as she exits the bedroom, closing the door behind her and walking through the empty sitting room to the main door. When she passes the guards, she thanks them for allowing her in with a bright smile.
“The poor dear was utterly exhausted,” she tells them. “But she needs her sleep if she’s going to heal, so she is not to be disturbed for the next few hours at least, is that understood?” she asks.
Both guards bow their heads and assure her it is.
—
returns to her room to find Bairre waiting for her, pacing, but as soon as she enters he stops short, looking up at her with solemn eyes.
“Is it done?” he asks.
“Yes,” says simply. She knows, on some level, that she should feel guilty about what she’s done, that she should feel some small amount of remorse, but those emotions don’t find her. In her mind, she hears Beatriz’s voice, calling her a cold, ruthless bitch. Perhaps that has never been more true than it is now, but any remorse has in her is reserved for Violie.
“Are you all right?” Bairre asks her, lowering his voice though there is no one else in the room with them.
lets out a heavy sigh, removing her leather gloves and setting them on her desk before turning to face him. “What would you like me to say, Bairre?” she asks. “That I’m shaken up, horrified by what I had to do? I’m not. The truth is that I feel perfectly fine. After today, I will never think about that woman again. It’s the truth, but it isn’t what you want to hear, is it?”
For a moment, Bairre only stares at her. “Of course that’s what I want to hear,” he says finally. “What do you think? That I want you to suffer?”
“I think that you think I’m a monster, that I terrify you.” The words burst forth, but it isn’t until says them that she realizes they’re the truth. And now that she’s started, she can’t stop. “And you’re right to think that, truly, but I just can’t stand you looking at me the way you are, especially when I still don’t know what I can do to help Violie, who I do truly feel guilty over, whether you believe me or not. So if all you’ve come to do is judge me, please, please leave.”
Bairre shakes his head, raking his hand through his hair and letting out a short, strained laugh. “, I have always been very honest about the fact that you terrify me,” he points out. “But you aren’t a monster. She was.”
“I think that depends entirely on who you ask,” mutters.
Bairre closes the distance between them in two long strides. “But you asked me,” he says. “And I didn’t have an answer for you at the inn because you gave me a lot to think about—I’m still thinking about it—but in case it hasn’t been made abundantly clear by now: I am on your side. If you’re a monster, fine. I’ll be a monster too. We’ll be monsters together.”
swallows, looking up at him with uncertain eyes. Words leave her, so instead of speaking she rolls up onto the tips of her toes and kisses him. She feels his initial shock before he softens, his arms coming around to anchor her to him. After a too-brief moment, he pulls away.
“Not that I object, but I’m not sure there’s time for that,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. “Violie’s trial is this evening. You don’t have to attend.”
“Of course I do,” she says.
“No, , you don’t,” he says firmly. “You didn’t force her to do anything—you gave her permission to do what she wanted. She chose.”
On some level, knows Bairre is right. Violie is where she is because of her choices. Some part of adds that she is where she is because of her own failure—a part that has the voice of the empress. But knows too that she used Sophronia’s words to manipulate Violie, to get what she wanted. Maybe that in and of itself isn’t wrong, but she knows Sophronia would be angry at her for it nonetheless.
“You’ve done everything you can to help her, ,” Bairre adds when she doesn’t speak. “But contrary to what half of Friv believes, you can’t actually perform miracles.”
stares at him for a moment, that last word echoing in her mind. A slow smile spreads across her face.
“Maybe I can,” she says. Her eyes dart to the grandfather clock in the corner—ticking ever closer to the evening, when Violie’s trial is scheduled to start. “I need to speak with Leopold. Now.”