Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Aurelia
B eyond the broad windows that stretch from floor to ceiling all along one side of the expansive room, a private forest sprawls within the walls of the imperial compound. I rest my hand on a glass pane, peering down at the treetops.
Other than the fact that they’re green, they don’t bear many similarities to the forest that surrounded my family’s castle back home—rounded and bushy rather than towering and majestic. The morning sun glares off their still, pale leaves.
It’s hard to imagine a stroll through those woods being much of an escape.
I force myself to turn back to the rest of the room. I’m not sure what’s more absurd: the fact that the so-called parlor is immense enough to make me feel small as a sparrow or that it’s somehow claustrophobic at the same time .
With dozens of members of the imperial court meandering around the sofas and low tables, I can’t walk more than a few paces without bumping into someone. The cloying warmth that’s risen in the room might not bother them in their airy clothes, but my skin has turned sticky beneath my fern-green dress. My appointment with Madam Clea to commission new gowns isn’t until this afternoon.
Nearly all of the courtly figures are wafting some version of lush perfume. The scents of innumerable flowers, herbs, and musks collide in a thick stew. I have the urge to find one of the few windows that will open and shove my head out into the fresh air.
What I really want is to be able to curl up in one of the chairs in Father’s office and hash out the political factors I need to keep in mind. To flop onto my sister’s bed and vent about the catty looks every lady in this place has been sending my way. To walk through the familiar gardens with my friends and share the awe and the horror of the past day.
I can’t quite imagine it, though. The only person I never had to hold myself back with was gone long before I ever knew I’d end up here.
Melancholy wells up inside me for a moment before I shake it off and square my shoulders. Wallowing in what-could-have-beens won’t get me anywhere.
My gaze lands on Lady Rochelle, standing by herself between two clusters of chattering ladies. Her head droops beneath its cloud of blond curls, her posture making her large-boned frame look more awkward than statuesque.
Not every lady has been staring venom at me.
I amble over to join her. My spirits can’t help lifting at the way her expression brightens when she notices my approach.
Maybe we both need each other a little .
“Take a turn around the room with me?” I suggest.
Rochelle chuckles. “There is a lot of it to see.”
As we stroll along the row of windows, she brushes her fingers over her lips. “The palace chefs really outdid themselves with that breakfast. I thought I wasn’t that hungry, but then I couldn’t stop until I’d cleaned my whole plate.”
“It was pretty fantastic.” To tell the truth, my first breakfast in the imperial dining room might have been the most mouthwatering meal I’ve ever eaten. I don’t know if I should take that as a consolation prize or a sign that everything about this situation is mad.
Rochelle glances at me. “Is the typical food in Accasy much different?”
I consider the question. “There’s quite a bit of variety. Darium recipes have made their way even that far north.” Mostly to meet the demands of soldiers and overseers stationed in our territory. “Our native fare tends to be a little heavier and more directly spiced rather than relying on sauces.”
She hums to herself. “I wish more cuisine from the outer territories came to us in exchange. It’d be interesting to try.”
Has she given much thought to why that isn’t the case? To why her country imposes its customs on the rest of us and never the other way around?
Why would anyone in the palace care when the treatment of our people doesn’t affect them at all?
At the far end of the room, several paintings hang on the wall. Various austere figures in imperial purple gaze back at us.
One face sends a shock of recognition through me that jolts the words from my throat. “That’s Emperor Tarquin, isn’t it? ”
He’s a much younger man in the portrait, with golden hair much like his son’s and a little more flesh around his high cheekbones, but the same sharp-edged features. It’s his eyes that first caught my attention, though—the gray irises piercing even on canvas.
He’s posed next to an elegant woman whose dark brown hair is sculpted in whorls over her head with several tendrils cascading over her shoulders. Her doe-like eyes give an unexpected impression of gentleness, but there’s a firmness to her smile that suggests some fortitude.
“And his late wife.” Rochelle’s mouth slants at a discomforted angle. “Can you imagine having the birth of your first child go so wrong? Even with the gifted medics the imperial palace employs… I wonder if she ever got to hold her son before she passed.”
I don’t know what to say about the woman who might not have had much more choice in her marriage than I have—but who produced the arrogant, shameless jerk I might have to marry.
“Birth is a dangerous time,” I settle on.
Less so for nobles than commonfolk, but there’s no eliminating the risks completely.
A shaky laugh escapes Rochelle. “I suppose she at least survived long enough to actually marry.” Then she presses her knuckles to her mouth, her cheeks flushing beneath her freckles. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean—I’m grateful for the chance?—”
A flick of my gaze shows no one is close enough to have overheard. I offer Rochelle a sympathetic smile, one that’s more genuine after the hint of uncertainty she’s revealed. “It’s all right. It’s an… unnerving situation, as great as the reward might be.”
“I didn’t even know my father had complained.” Rochelle sighs and draws her posture up straighter, turning away from the wall of paintings. “Well, we’ll all just do our best.”
She sounds as if she’s reassuring herself more than me.
As we drift along the inner side of the room, Bianca and Fausta sashay by. Even though she’s nearly half a foot shorter than me, Fausta manages to peer down her pert porcelain nose when she looks my way. “Can’t even dress herself properly for the imperial court. They really don’t teach their princesses much of anything in the wild north, do they?”
Bianca lets out a snort that somehow sounds graceful. “Apparently not.”
I did learn some politeness, because I manage not to roll my eyes at the two ladies as they swan off. If the worst thing they can find to criticize me about is unfashionable clothes, I’m not doing all that badly.
“They seem to be close,” I remark to Rochelle. She might be more comfortable talking about the other ladies than my maid was.
She dips her head in agreement, the corner of her lips crooking up wryly. “There’s a family connection—cousins twice removed or something like that. But they obviously get along beyond that. I remember seeing Vicerine Bianca had taken Lady Fausta under her wing during my early visits to court.”
Vicerine—more prominent than a baronissa but not quite as respected as a marchionissa. She clearly feels secure in her position.
I arch my eyebrows. “It seems they don’t think very highly of visitors from beyond Dariu.”
“It might be just that they know you’re only here because you were meant to marry Marclinus.” Rochelle hesitates, her stance tensing as if she’s realized she’s ventured into precarious territory .
I match her previous wry smile. “It’s fine to acknowledge that. We all know it’s true, no matter how the situation evolved.”
She shakes her head with a rustle of her curls. “I’m sorry. Anyway, I don’t know much about how they’ve reacted to other guests from farther abroad. I’m usually only at court for a short time each month. There’s a lot to oversee at home, and it’s a day’s carriage ride away. I suppose Bianca wants to see Fausta elevated with such an impressive match, but it is a little strange because… Oh. Well. That.”
Something in her tone puts me on the alert. My gaze darts over the crowded room, seeking out Fausta’s flame-red hair.
I spot Bianca’s sleek braids first where her head is tipped close to one of familiar golden-blond.
Marclinus has been sauntering amid his subjects since we gathered here after breakfast. Now, the imperial heir leans against the back of one of the armchairs while Bianca appears to murmur something in his ear.
Her lithe brown hand trails down his chest over his silk shirt with the confidence of a woman who’s touched him many times—and in much more intimate ways—in the past.
Ah. The sight makes me a little queasy, even though I have no desire to be touching Marclinus myself. Even though it’s no surprise.
If one of the foster princes who has no real standing in Dariu can seduce plenty of the married ladies of the court, why in the realms would anyone assume His Imperial Highness hasn’t partaken as well? I can’t imagine any husbands would be bold enough to object.
Marclinus grins at whatever Bianca has said and grasps her hand, but his attention appears to be mainly elsewhere. I follow the direction of his wandering gaze and notice Prince Raul working his own charms not far away, presenting a glass of wine to one lady before aiming a sly wink at another by his side. His crimson shirt with its loosened collar emphasizes his brawny form to even greater effect than yesterday’s clothes.
The imperial heir must have noticed his foster brother too. Marclinus raises his voice loud enough to carry through the room, though his tone is jaunty. “Look sharp now, Prince Raul. Is there anyone in this bunch I should be worried about today?”
Raul’s smile stiffens. He lowers his head obligingly, easing a little away from his two female companions.
I’m confused for a second before I recall what Melisse told me about the prince’s power. Is Marclinus asking whether any of his nobles is carrying hidden weapons or other potential threats?
The imperial heir didn’t sound at all concerned. He might simply be tugging on the prince’s chain, reminding Raul that he can order him around.
Raul scans the nearby nobles, many of whom have tensed at his attention. He calls back to the imperial heir, matching the other man’s careless attitude. “No signs of sedition, Your Imperial Highness. But Viceroy Antun must not appreciate your hospitality enough, considering the size of that flask in his vest pocket, and I think Baron Otho should give his wife a break until he clears up whatever that nixel leaf is for.”
Several chortles ring out through the room. Nixel is mainly used to treat certain contagious sores of the nether regions.
Whatever Marclinus was looking for, Raul’s performance appears to have satisfied him. “Duly noted,” he says with amusement, and turns to one of the nearby lords.
How many times have they carried out that little charade to embarrass the lesser nobles? It looked like the imperial heir enjoyed it more than the prince did.
A quiet but firm voice speaks right by my ear. “And if you have any tricks up your sleeve, we’ll catch on to those too.”
My head twitches around to find Prince Bastien standing by my side. His dark green gaze roves over the milling nobles in front of us, but it’s obvious he was talking to me.
He’s caught me alone—while I watched Marclinus and Raul’s gambit, Rochelle has meandered over to a side table to procure herself a glass of wine.
Even though he only stands a few inches taller than me with his slender frame, the intensity Bastien gives off makes his presence loom larger. I study his chiseled face at the edge of my vision, copying his indifferent stance. “I’m not here to play tricks.”
“Or it could be said you came to attempt the greatest ruse of all.”
His odd animosity pricks at me. Why exactly is he so offended by my arrival at the palace? I didn’t ask for my betrothal to be turned into a sick contest.
“I think I’m here for many of the same reasons you are,” I say calmly, even though he didn’t seem to appreciate having our situations compared last night.
Bastien lets out a light scoff. “You had your whole life to make the choice to place yourself in this room. I was all of seven when they came for me. So don’t even try to claim we’re alike.”
He—and the other princes—were dragged to the palace when they were that young? My throat constricts.
Before I can decide what to say next, Bastien’s posture goes rigid. He’s staring across the room even more intently than before .
Several paces away, a few of the noblemen have closed in around Prince Lorenzo. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but their grins have a mocking edge.
One of them prods the silent prince in his well-built chest and lifts his voice just a little louder. “And you’ve nothing to say to that, do you?”
His companions burst into taunting laughter.
Lorenzo shakes his head, his mouth pulled into a resigned grimace. He pulls away from his hecklers.
As he starts across the room, Bastien strides away from me to join him. Lorenzo catches sight of him when he’s halfway there and makes a quick motion with his hand that stops the other man.
He must have told Bastien he didn’t want any kind of intervention. From the set of Bastien’s shoulders, I don’t think he’s happy standing back.
Watching them, I have to wonder if an awful lot of the animosity I’ve seen is simple protectiveness. Bastien can’t have that many years on the others, but there’s no mistaking the older-brother vibe.
It reminds me of my sister’s first pained gasp when my parents received the missive from the emperor confirming his interest in the betrothal. The fierceness of Soreena’s voice while I bit my tongue. You can’t possibly marry her to that monster!
I rub my finger over the rippled surface of my ring. It’ll all be for the best in the end.
As long as I win.
That thought has barely crossed my mind when Marclinus raises his wine glass and his voice. “My court, my eager ladies—it’s time for our next trial!”