Beatriz
wakes up to someone shaking her shoulder none too gently. She tries to shove them away, a groan working its way past her lips, but it does no good—the shaking continues.
“Triz,” a voice says, and somewhere past the skull-splitting headache, she recognizes it as Pasquale. “Wake up, my father needs to see you.”
That gets ’s attention. She forces herself to sit upright, her eyelids so heavy it takes all of her energy just to lift them. When she does, she sees Pasquale, already dressed and looking at her anxiously.
“I feel horrid,” she tells him—the truth, even if it is entirely her own fault. How many glasses of brandy did she drink last night? Still, this feels like more than her usual postdrinking morning. Not only does her head feel like it’s been split in two, but it’s as if her blood has been replaced with lead. Every small movement costs her. “Can we postpone it?”
“No,” he says, and somehow that single word sends a bolt of fear through her. She blinks, truly looking at Pasquale, and she sees that same fear echoed in him. “A servant girl was arrested with stardust in her possession,” he says. “She’s claiming she found it on our windowsill.”
tries to swallow, but her mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. There was no starshower last night—if Cellaria’s drought of starfall had been broken, she would have seen it—and the only other way for stardust to appear is when an empyrea wishes on a star, pulling it down from the sky in the process. She saw Nigellus do it once, and though he hadn’t appeared to do anything remarkable, she remembers the pile of stardust that appeared near him, glittering and gray and brimming with power.
Her stomach lurches and she feels like she might be sick. “I need water,” she tells Pasquale, forcing her voice to come out level. “And then I’ll get ready as quickly as I can.”
He starts to leave and she climbs out of bed, even though every muscle in her body protests. Her mind is a whirl ofpanic and bewilderment. How did stardust get on her windowsill? Did someone put it there? Who? She thinks back to last night, when she drunkenly wished on a star in a fit of homesickness, though she pushes that thought from her mind as soon as it appears. She’s no empyrea, after all, and if that wish had come true, wouldn’t she be home right now? No, someone is trying to frame her.
“Triz?” Pasquale asks her tentatively. She turns toward him, eyebrows raised.
“You want to ask if I did it?” she says, her voice coming out sharper than she intends. She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to at least appear relaxed. “I didn’t. Not everyone from outside Cellaria has the gifts of empyreas—only one in ten thousand or so has that power. Even if I were a heretic—which I’m not—I assure you, I’m utterly incapable of magic.”
Pasquale nods and disappears from the room to fetch her water, but as rings a bell that brings servants fluttering in to help her dress, she can’t stop thinking about the words she spoke last night.
I wish I could go home. Idle words, really, an expression of longing, not a call for magic. That’s all it was. It was only words, just a silly, magicless wish. And yes, she imagined herself home, felt for a moment that her imaginings were real, but that was the brandy, surely. Nothing more.
But no matter how many times she tells herself that, it doesn’t untangle the twisted knot of her stomach.
—
The throne room is so packed full of courtiers that the guards escorting and Pasquale have to push their way through the crowd to clear a path. The stifling heat caused by so many bodies crammed into such a small space heightens ’s nausea, and she has to force herself to take deep, calming breaths to still her roiling stomach.
I’m never touching a drop of alcohol again, she tells herself, but as soon as she thinks the words, she knows they’re a lie—she knows how seriously Cellaria takes charges of sorcery, knows too that King Cesare has become increasingly paranoid. If she makes it through this without being tied to a stake, she’ll celebrate with an entire bottle of wine.
At least she knows how to hide how ill she feels. She did it often enough in Bessemia when her mother would summon her and her sisters at some ungodly hour—seeming always to know exactly which nights had had one drink too many—for some lesson or other.
After her maids helped her get dressed, managed a few minutes to herself to delve into her cosmetics case. She dabbed some tinted cream beneath her eyes, added a touch of rouge to her cheeks, and dusted her whole face with powder. She even added a couple of her drops to her eyes, though she’d used them before going to bed, as she always did.
It can’t hurt, she tells herself now. If she’s to stand before the king under charges of being an empyrea, she isn’t about to chance her silver eyes showing themselves.
When they make it to the front of the room, sees King Cesare sitting on his throne, his head propped up on his arm, reminding her of a bored child. When he sees them, he sits up slightly and waves a hand behind him.
Nicolo steps forward, a glass of red wine on a tray that he offers to the king, who takes a long sip before placing it back on the tray. Nicolo must be the king’s cupbearer—in Bessemia it’s a servant’s job, but not so in Cellaria. remembers one of the missives she and her mother received from their Cellarian spies: King Cesare is never out of arm’s reach of his goblet of wine, and his cupbearers are some of the hardest-working noblemen in the country. They are well rewarded after some time in service with a place on his council, estates—sometimes titles of their own. Most young lords, however, don’t last long enough to reap the rewards.
files this information away in her mind and hopes she will have the chance to use it.
“Your Majesty,” she says, dipping into a low curtsy before rising. She flashes him a beaming smile, as if she isn’t quaking in her satin slippers. Beside her, Pasquale echoes her words and executes his own bow. “I understand there was some trouble with a servant this morning?” she says, tilting her head. “I assure you, Prince Pasquale and I will help in any way we can.”
King Cesare’s expression doesn’t waver. His eyes cut to the left, where a girl no older than fourteen stands, flanked by guards, her wrists bound in iron manacles. She isn’t crying, but suspects that’s only because she’s cried herself out already—her face is red and her eyes are bloodshot.
“This servant girl claims she found stardust on your windowsill while cleaning this morning,” King Cesare says, his voice indifferent even as his eyes spark with malice. “I would like to know how it got there.”
“As would I, Your Majesty,” says, tearing her eyes away from the servant girl and looking back at King Cesare. She makes a show of hesitating, then biting her lip, as if she is debating her next words, when she has, in fact, been reciting this speech in her mind the entire time she has been dressing and making her way here. “Though I do have my suspicions. I must confess…” She trails off, giving a heavy sigh.
“Oh?” King Cesare says, sitting up straighter. “You would like to confess something, Princess ? I understand, coming as you do from a land like Bessemia, that it might be difficult to acquaint yourself with our customs. Confess, and I will show mercy.” He doesn’t even bother trying to make the words sound convincing. No doubt he believes mercy will constitute watching her burn.
“Your Majesty,” says. “I’m certain that you also find it odd that this stardust would simply appear on my windowsill like this, barely a week after I’ve arrived. I know that there are many in your court who disapprove of my marrying Pasquale, many who believe that I carry the same heathen stain as my mother and sisters. I’d hoped, in time, I would be able to prove them wrong, but I simply cannot wrap my mind around the fact that someone was so desperate to be rid of me that they would obtain stardust themselves and plant it on my windowsill. I cannot believe it.”
“It is…unfathomable,” King Cesare says.
“And yet, I must believe it’s the truth,” says, offering another dramatic sigh. “What would the alternative be, Your Majesty? That I’ve come into your court, married your son and heir, as a scheming empyrea, set on destroying Cellaria with stardust and wishes?” She laughs, the sound loud and full, and a few courtiers join in, even as others glare at her. Even the king smiles, fleeting though his smile is. “Surely, you cannot believe that to be the case—if I were an empyrea, don’t you think I would know better than to leave stardust around where anyone could find it? No, I believe it was planted, in an attempt to bring suspicion on me.” Here, she affects a wounded look, letting her bottom lip tremble as she casts her gaze upward, as if to keep from crying. “It hurts me, Your Majesty, that there are those in your court who must hate me so much as to break your laws like this.” She blinks quickly, letting a couple of artfully summoned tears trace down her cheeks.
Tears are a weapon, ’s mother is fond of saying. But they must be carefully wielded—too many and you are hysterical, too few and you will be overlooked. But the right amount…the right amount will make a man so uncomfortable he will do whatever is necessary to stop them.
seems to have hit the right balance. King Cesare shifts on his throne, casting a gaze around the room. He motions for his wine again, and Nicolo steps forward to offer him his cup, but this time, Nicolo’s eyes meet ’s. He doesn’t seem discomfited by her tears, she notices, merely appraising. He offers her a small smile before taking the king’s cup back and retreating behind the throne.
“Princess ,” King Cesare says, leaning forward. “I hope you will accept my apology, and the court’s apology as well. If you feel you have been…mistreated…well, that is no one’s intent, I’m sure. If you should continue to feel that way, I pray you will tell me of your troubles so I can handle them,” he adds before looking beyond her, to the crowd of courtiers. “Princess is family. Should I get word that anyone is treating her ill, I will deal with you swiftly and harshly.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the courtiers murmur, almost in unison.
is slightly taken aback by his reaction. She hoped to be believed, of course, but the speed with which King Cesare has gone from being ready to try her for sorcery to threatening his court on her behalf is enough to give her whiplash.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” says, dipping into another low curtsy. When she rises again, she sees the servant girl still standing, shackled, between the guards. King Cesare’s eyes follow her gaze.
“Never fear, Princess , she will be sent to the dungeon to await the next Burning Day—we have no tolerance for heretics here,” he says.
“Please, Your Majesty,” the girl calls out. “Please, I didn’t even know what it was—I only pocketed the dust because I thought it was pretty.”
King Cesare ignores her, his eyes remaining on , who is careful not to let her sympathy for the girl be seen. Though she would like nothing better than to ask King Cesare to show the girl mercy, she’s heard enough stories from her mother’s spies to know that all that will accomplish is burning beside her. Pasquale must feel her waver, because he steps forward, placing a hand on her back.
“Thank you, Father,” he says, bowing again to the king. “I hope that whoever is responsible for framing my wife is found soon and meets the same fate.”
King Cesare nods, but he is already distracted, calling for more wine as the guards drag the crying servant girl away. notes that her tears don’t do her any good.
—
clings to Pasquale’s arm as he escorts her from the throne room, though she can feel it trembling beneath her grip. He guides her down the crowded hall and around the corner to an empty corridor. As soon as they are alone, lets go of him and doubles over. She wants to retch but knows that nothing will come up. The nausea doesn’t abate, though, even when she forces herself to take deep breaths. Through it all, she feels Pasquale’s hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles.
“It’s all right,” he says, though he seems uneasy with this show of comfort.
“It isn’t,” says, straightening up. She can’t stop shaking all over. “I thought he was going to have me killed—on some level, I was certain of it.”
She expects him to reassure her, to tell her she was never in any danger, but he doesn’t. “I was too,” he admits softly.
“And that girl!” she says, keeping her voice to a whisper in case anyone wanders by. “She’s going to die for picking up a bit of sparkly dust.”
Pasquale nods, glancing away. “She won’t be the first, or the last. There was a boy just last month, the son of my former tutor, barely twelve—executed because one of his friends said he was talking about stardust. That’s all it took, the word of a child, and he died for it. They killed his father, too, because he’d given the boy a book on the subject.”
feels sick all over again. She knew about Cellaria’s intolerance for magic, about King Cesare’s temper. But it is one thing to hear gossip and read reports, it is another thing to experience it firsthand.
“Did you…,” Pasquale starts, but then trails off. “, you know my secret. If you have a secret as well, I hope you know that I’ll protect it.”
almost wants to laugh at the thought. She has somany secrets, but none of them what he means. She is no empyrea, just a spy and saboteur here to bring his country to ruin. For a second, though, she wonders if he would protect that secret as well—he clearly has no love for his father or the way he rules Cellaria. And ’s complicated feelings about her own mother aside, she can’t deny that the empress would be a far better ruler than Cesare. When Cellaria is her domain, there will be no more Burning Days, no more children arrested for heresy, no more walking on eggshells to appease a mad king. Perhaps, if she told Pasquale all that, he would agree.
She shakes the thought from her mind. No. She doesn’t need him to agree. She needs to do what she was sent here for, so she can return home as quickly as possible.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a man steps into the entrance to the corridor, a cautious expression on a face she knows right away from sketches.
“Apologies, Your Highnesses,” Lord Savelle says, offering a bow. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I wished to see if you were all right. That was quite an ordeal for you.”
forces a smile, wiping at her eyes to catch any tears that might have escaped. “Thank you, that’s very kind,” she says, pretending not to know exactly who he is. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir.”
“Triz, this is Lord Savelle, the ambassador from Temarin. Lord Savelle, my wife, Princess ,” Pasquale says.
Lord Savelle bows again. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Lord Savelle,” says with what might be her first true smile of the day. “I apologize for losing my composure—”
“No apology necessary, Princess,” Lord Savelle says, waving her words away. “I’ve been in the Cellarian court for two decades now—I understand better than anyone what a…shock certain practices can be to a person. Which is why I sought to offer my compassion.” He pauses. “I also bring word of your sister—Lady Gisella said you might welcome the news?”
“Sophie?” asks, her heart rising into her throat. “Is she well?”
“Married,” he says. “A day before you were, I believe. I’m told she and King Leopold are the very stuff of love ballads and poetry.”
smiles, though inside she hopes that Sophronia is keeping her wits about her. Still, her sister deserves a little happiness, if she can reach it. “I’m very glad to hear it.” She pauses, as if an idea has only just occurred to her. “Please, you must join us for dinner soon so that Pasquale and I can show our gratitude.”
Lord Savelle bows again. “I would be honored, Your Highness.”
Perhaps, thinks with a flutter of triumph, home isn’t so very far away after all.