Daphne
is getting married tomorrow and there are approximately a thousand things that need tending to. The wedding was already postponed to allow her to heal after she’d been shot in the woods outside the castle, but her wound is gone now—with a little help from the empyrea, Aurelia’s, star magic—and everyone is anxious to see her and Bairre wed. No one more so, perhaps, than herself.
She wrote to her mother as soon as she’d returned to the castle, telling her about Bairre’s and Aurelia’s revelations, though she stopped short of recounting the moments she, Beatriz, and Sophronia had spent in one another’s heads, or the nagging suspicion she has that she both heard and felt Sophronia die. She knows it’s illogical, but as long as she doesn’t put what she felt into words, it fails to be real.
Besides, there are seating charts to finalize and a gown that needs a final fitting and so many guests filling the castle from all over Friv who needs to socialize with. She has no time at all to think about her possibly dead sister.
Oh, Sophronia sneaks into her thoughts constantly—the florist suggests adding daisies to her bouquet, which were Sophronia’s favorite, a highland lord tells her a ghost story that would have terrified Sophronia, her maid picks out a dainty opal necklace for to wear that Sophronia bought her for their fifteenth birthday. At least a dozen times a day, finds herself mentally drafting a letter to her sister, only for the memory of their last conversation to stop her cold.
She doesn’t know Sophronia is dead. That’s what Bairre told her when the connection to her sisters snapped and she found herself back in Aurelia’s cottage with Aurelia and Bairre. He tried so hard to reassure her and she pretended to let him, but when she met Aurelia’s gaze, she knew the woman understood the truth of it just as well as she did.
The blood of stars and majesty spilled. Sophronia, with the blood of emperors and stars in her veins, was dead, just as the stars had foretold.
But cannot think about that now. Just as she cannot think about the fact that assassins have tried three times to kill her. Just as she cannot think about Bairre, with plenty of secrets of his own, who now knows a few of hers and still somehow wants her anyway. She cannot think about Beatriz, knee-deep in her own trouble in Cellaria. If she thinks about any of those things, she will fall apart, so instead she focuses on tomorrow, on finally accomplishing the one thing she was raised for and the one thing she can control—marrying the Crown Prince of Friv.
“I’ve never seen a bride looking so perturbed,” Cliona says to her.
The other girl practically forced her into a walk in the snow-covered gardens of Eldevale Castle— would have preferred to stay inside, going over every detail of the planning for tomorrow and anxiously waiting for any word to arrive from Temarin, Cellaria, or Bessemia. It is a strange thing, to know her sister is dead but to be unable to mourn her yet.
“No?” asks, glancing at the other girl with raised eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve seen a bride looking anythingbut.”
She can’t help but glance back over her shoulder to where six guards now follow her every move. It was two the last time they walked in this garden, and before that there had been none at all, but with the wedding so close and someone so determined to kill , King Bartholomew has ordered her guard increased.
knows she should be grateful for it, but their constant presence chafes. Besides, Cliona has as good a reason to want her dead as anyone, and surely she could wedge a dagger between ’s ribs before any of the six guards could manage a step, if they even bothered, since would wager at least half are working for Cliona’s father, Lord Panlington, the leader of the rebels.
The thought should alarm , but it doesn’t. Enemies are everywhere, after all, and there is some comfort in knowing Cliona for what she is: the daughter of the head of the rebellion, every bit as deadly and manipulative as herself.
Maybe that’s why likes her.
Besides, knows the rebels don’t want her dead—not yet, at least. Not when they have Bairre himself on their side. Not when they think they have , too.
“Most brides are anxious, maybe,” Cliona concedes. “But not ill—you’re pale as a ghost.”
“The Frivian weather is to blame for that,” says, turning her gaze up to the gray sky. Now that winter has fully settled in, there isn’t a hint of blue. “It’s been so long since I’ve felt sunshine on my skin, I’ve forgotten what it feels like.”
Cliona laughs, the sound light and breezy even as she drops her voice and gives ’s arm a squeeze. “Well, you’ll be back in Bessemia soon enough, I’m sure.”
cuts a sideways glance toward her—Cliona should know better than to speak like that in front of the guards. In fact, Cliona must know better. Which confirms her suspicion that at least most of the guards are on her side.
“I’m assuming, then,” says, matching Cliona both in tone and volume, “that there isn’t going to be a wedding tomorrow after all.”
Cliona smiles. “Oh, the less you know about that the better, Princess,” she says. “Do try to look a little more like the blushing bride you’re meant to be, though, will you? It shouldn’t be too difficult, given how cozy things have become between you and Bairre.”
At that, does indeed feel a blush rise to her cheeks, but she tells herself it’s only the bite of the Frivian winter wind. It has nothing at all to do with the memory of Bairre’s lips brushing over hers or the way he said her name, full of reverence and the smallest hint of fear.
Over the last few days, there’s been no time to talk about the kiss, or anything else, really. Her guards are usually present and it isn’t a conversation either of them wants to have with an audience.
She’s surprised that Cliona has managed to pick up on anything different between them, and she wonders with a blossoming horror if it’s something she and Bairre have talked about. Bairre is working with the rebels, after all. He and Cliona have likely had a good many conversations about her. If she’s lucky, that kiss is the worst of what they discussed.
“Oh, there’s no need for that glower,” Cliona says, rolling her eyes. “Just smile a little bit. I promise it won’t kill you.”
At that, lets her mouth twist into a sardonic smile. “A questionable choice of words, Cliona. All things considered.”
Cliona shrugs. “Oh, after what I saw in the forest, I pity anyone who tries to kill you. It seems to be a dangerous pastime.”
“I’m sorry, remind me which one of us slit a man’s throat?” asks.
“I’m only saying I misjudged you, ,” Cliona says. “I didn’t think you’d last a week in Friv, but here you are, doing quite well for yourself.”
It’s close to a compliment, and it makes uncomfortable. “Well, as you said, I’ll be gone soon enough.”
“Yes,” Cliona agrees. “And I think I might just miss you.”
The other girl says the words lightly, but a quick glance confirms she meant them. Something tightens in ’s chest and she realizes she’ll miss Cliona as well. She’s never really had a friend before, only sisters.
Before can respond, the head of her guard gives a shout and the rest of the men draw their weapons, their attention focused on a hooded figure approaching. can just barely make him out between the bodies of the guards that surround her, but she immediately knows whoit is.
“It’s only the prince,” she says, just as Bairre pulls back his hood to reveal overgrown dark brown hair and his recognizable sharp features. The guards part and Bairre steps toward , his eyes on her even as he gives Cliona a quick nod.
“,” he says, and something in his voice immediately sets her on edge. “There’s a letter.”
Her heart drops. “From Temarin?” she asks. “About Sophronia?”
She can’t read it, she thinks. She can’t read the words. Some part of her knows her sister is dead, but seeing it spelled out in an elegant hand with perfunctory sympathy? She cannot stomach it.
Bairre shakes his head, but the crease doesn’t leave his brow. “From your mother,” he says, and perhaps that should reassure her, but the way he says it, she knows he’s already read it. And she knows it is far worse.
“Where is it?” she hears herself ask.
“In your bedroom,” he tells her, glancing back at the guards. “I thought you’d want privacy.”
My dearest ,
It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that our dear Sophronia was executed by rebels in Temarin. Fear not — this grave injustice has been repaid and I have already taken hold of the Temarinian throne and seen each person responsible for this heinous act put to death. I know this will bring you little consolation, but I am told her suffering was light and her death swift.
As a mother, there is no greater sadness than burying a child, though I know that what you are feeling now is certainly close. I know I will be relying on you and Beatriz all the more for comfort.
I am told that King Leopold managed to flee the palace before the rebels could execute him alongside Sophronia, though there has been no sign of him since. If word of him reaches you, please let me know, as I am sure he will be wanting his throne back.
Your devoted mama,
Empress Margaraux
reads the words three times, all the while aware of Bairre and Cliona watching her. The first time, she simply takes in the message—Sophronia dead, executed by rebels, Temarin under Bessemian rule, the rebels who killed her dead. The second time, she looks for a sign that it is coded, but finds none. On the third read-through, she focuses on what her mother says beneath the words themselves.
I have already taken hold of the Temarinian throne.
Well, that was always the plan, wasn’t it? Admittedly, it was done quicker than thought possible, and Sophronia was meant to be there to welcome her mother’s armies. The thought sours ’s stomach, but she pushes it aside to focus on the letter.
I know I will be relying on you and Beatriz all the more for comfort.
That, is sure of, though she doubts comfort will play any part of it. No, without Sophronia, and Beatriz will have to work that much harder to aid the empress’s plans. thinks of Beatriz—under house arrest at the Vallon palace, last she heard, in large part because she, like Sophronia, went against their mother’s orders. If her mother didn’t know of that when she penned this letter, she certainly does now, which means even more rests on ’s shoulders. She turns her attention to the part about King Leopold.
I am told that King Leopold managed to flee the palace before the rebels could execute him alongside Sophronia, though there has been no sign of him since.
So, Leopold escaped. hates him for that. How could he survive when her sister didn’t? Sophronia did mention him the last time they spoke, saying that her friends were coming—Leopold and Violie. But surely they would go to Beatriz rather than her, given Leopold’s family connections to the royal family there. Perhaps she should tell her mother that, but she doesn’t know how she could without revealing all of Sophronia’s final words, and the fact that she spoke them at all. The prospect of sharing those moments with anyone else makes feel ill.
One thing is sure of, though: her mother has no intention of giving Leopold his throne back, much as she might pretend otherwise. She also notices that there is no mention of Leopold’s brothers, though knows he has two. If he is dead, the throne should by all rights pass to one of them, and knows her mother won’t allow that to happen.
looks up from the letter, glancing between Bairre and Cliona.
“My sister is dead,” she says.
It isn’t the first time she’s said those words out loud. She said them to Bairre and Aurelia as soon as she surfaced from her conversation with Sophronia and Beatriz, her voice then choked with tears. This time, she says the words calmly, though she still feels them threaten to strangle her.
Bairre isn’t surprised, but Cliona is. Her brow furrows and she takes a step toward , like she might embrace her, stopping short when holds her hand up. doesn’t want to be touched right now, doesn’t want to be comforted. If anyone touches her, she will fall apart, and shecannot allow that. Instead, she draws herself up straight and crumples the letter in her hand.
“Executed by rebels,” she adds. A touch of venom must leak in, because Cliona stumbles back a step.
It was a detail didn’t know before, one that cuts all the deeper because here she is, conspiring with rebels herself. She knows it isn’t logical, that Cliona and Bairre and the other Frivian rebels had nothing to do with Sophronia’s death, but the spark of anger feels good. It is the only thing that does, so she clings to it.
“Temarinian rebels,” Bairre points out, logical as always, but for once doesn’t want logic.
“Sophronia was a gullible sort,” she says, pushing her shoulders back. “She trusted those she shouldn’t have.”
She doesn’t know how true that is, but as soon as she speaks the words aloud she believes them. It makes sense, it is a tangible thing she can latch onto, a place to lay blame. Sophronia trusted the wrong people. Those people are dead now. Her mother was right—the knowledge brings her little consolation, but consolation all the same.
“,” Bairre says, his voice wary.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” Cliona says. “But the Temarinian radicals were rash fools who had no plan beyond executing those they viewed as the elite. You know it isn’t the same thing,” she adds, tilting her head to one side. “Besides, it’s a bit late to turn back now.” The flash of tenderness is gone and Cliona is back to her usual sharp-edged self. is grateful for it.
“I think we’re past that,” says. “But still you should know that I am not my sister.” can feel her hands start to shake, feel her throat begin to tighten. She is a mere breath from falling apart, and she refuses to do it with them here watching. The shame of that might just kill her.
Cliona watches her for a moment and gives a curt nod. “You’ll want time to grieve,” she says. “Bairre and I will pass the news along to the king and give your excuses for dinner.”
nods, but she doesn’t trust herself to speak. If she does, she isn’t sure what will come out. Cliona slips out of the room, but Bairre lingers a moment longer, his eyes on .
“I’m fine,” she bites out. “It isn’t exactly a surprise, is it? I knew she…I knew she was gone.”
Bairre shakes his head. “I knew Cillian was dying,” he says, and remembers when they first met, mere days after he’d lost his own brother. “I knew it for a long time. But it didn’t make it hurt any less when he was really, truly gone.”
presses her lips together into a thin line. Part of her wants to close the distance between them and throw herself into his arms. If she did, he would hold her, comfort her. But to do so would show weakness, and cannot bear the thought of that.
“Thank you,” she says instead. “I don’t think your father will be keen to postpone the wedding again, what with all of the highlanders here already. Please assure him I will be well enough to go through with it tomorrow.”
For a moment, Bairre looks like he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it. He gives another nod before slipping out of the same door Cliona passed through, closing it firmly behind him.
But even when he is gone and is well and truly alone, she can’t cry. Instead, she lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and hears Sophronia’s final words echo over and over in her mind.
I love you all the way to the stars.