Violie
Princess Beatriz knows how to throw a punch. stumbles back a step, her vision fracturing into stars and pain exploding across her face. Leopold’s arms come out to steady , but she shrugs him off, her hand flying to her nose, and she winces as the pain sharpens at the slightest contact.
“I think you broke my nose,” she says, dazed.
“And I think you killed my sister,” Beatriz retorts. The other boy has his arms around her shoulders, and suspects he’s the only thing keeping Beatriz from hitting her again. Prince Pasquale, she assumes.
“She didn’t,” Leopold breaks in.
spits on the dirt at her feet, noting it’s more blood than saliva. The taste of copper fills her mouth. Finally, she drags her gaze back to Beatriz. “I didn’t,” she agrees. “But I am the reason she’s dead.”
Beatriz absorbs the words like ’s dealt a physical blow, then begins to struggle against Prince Pasquale again.
“Would hitting me again make you feel better?” asks her, taking a step closer, even as her body protests.
“Maybe not,” Beatriz bites out. “But I’d like to find out for certain.”
Beatriz manages to push Pasquale off her and lunges toward again, but holds her ground.
“Go on, then,” says, bracing herself. Maybe it will make Beatriz feel better—maybe it will make feel better as well, maybe it will alleviate even a fraction of the guilt that has been threatening to drown her ever since the guillotine’s blade fell on Sophronia’s neck.
closes her eyes and waits, but the blow never comes. Leopold throws himself between them, pushing Beatriz back gently but firmly.
“Stop it,” he tells her. “If you’re passing out justice, save some for me as well.”
“Don’t think I won’t!” Beatriz snarls at him. “I’d heard you were an idiot and a coward, but how, exactly, are you standing here when she’s…”
Beatriz trails off, her shaking hand lifting to her mouth as if she can keep the word sealed inside, as if not saying it will keep it from being true.
Dead.
“Because Sophronia wanted him to survive,” says quietly. “And she trusted me to ensure he did.”
Beatriz swallows and watches the fight leave her—almost. It lingers in her eyes as she looks between and Leopold. Silver eyes, notes, just like Sophronia’s. Just like her own, now that the eye drops she was using in Temarin have faded completely. Leopold hasn’t noticed the change, though he spends very little time looking at her.
“What exactly are you doing here?” Beatriz snaps.
shrugs, struggling to ignore her nose—it is certainly broken. “Coming to rescue you, actually.”
Beatriz snorts. “As you can see, you aren’t needed.”
isn’t entirely convinced of that. “You’re traveling with Nigellus?” she asks.
Beatriz glances at Pasquale, a flash of uncertainty showing itself before she seals it away. “We are,” she says, lifting her chin.
could never see Empress Margaraux in Sophronia, no matter how she searched. She was the opposite of her mother in every way, for better or for worse. Beatriz isn’t. The way she looks at now makes her feel like she is back in the empress’s presence, an inch tall. But Sophronia loved her sisters, and can’t let them meet the same fate she did.
“You shouldn’t trust him,” she tells her. “Or your mother.”
At that, Beatriz laughs, but the sound is sharp enough to draw blood. “I can assure you, I have never in my life trusted my mother,” she says. “And I have no intention of starting now.” She looks at a moment longer. “You know that she’s responsible for Sophronia’s death,” she says.
Beside , Leopold nods. “Sophronia knew it too,” he says. “Before she…before we were separated, one of the rebels told her he’d been working with the empress, that it had all been orchestrated by her long before we married, including Sophronia’s execution.”
For an instant, Beatriz looks like she might be ill, but she manages to nod. “Nigellus told me the same, that if her plots in Cellaria had succeeded, I’d be dead as well by now.”
“Nigellus told you that?” asks, frowning. “Why would he do that? He’s been plotting with her.”
“With you, you mean,” Beatriz corrects, though her voice is no longer laced with fury but with ice. finds she misses the anger. “I haven’t discovered the answer to that yet, but I will.”
“But you can’t trust him,” says.
Beatriz glances at Pasquale and the two of them share a silent conversation. They are close, that much is clear, but there is nothing romantic in the air between them, not like there was between Sophronia and Leopold. Unless is mistaken—and she rarely is—Pasquale’s heart belongs to Ambrose.
“At the moment, I have need of him,” Beatriz says, and can tell she chooses her words carefully. “But that is not the same thing as trust.” She pauses. “As you can see, we are hardly in need of rescuing,” she adds, glancing at Pasquale before turning back to and Leopold. “So what will you do now?”
shrugs, looking to Leopold, who appears just as uncertain.
“On to Friv,” he says. “I’m not sure I’ll find safety anywhere else.”
“No, you won’t,” Beatriz agrees. “My mother wants you dead, and Nicolo’s hold on the Cellarian throne is tenuous. If he can strengthen it by executing you, he won’t hesitate. I’m not sure you’ll find safety with Daphne, though. She is my mother’s creature, through and through.”
It’s impossible to miss the bitterness in those words, but before can ask what she means, Beatriz turns to her.
“And what will you do?” she asks. “Follow King Leopold to Friv?”
smiles tightly. “It seems I have little choice,” she says. “I made Sophie a promise and I intend to see it through.” She hesitates, a question rising to her lips that she knows she has no right to ask. “I’m sure I’m low on the list of people you would do a favor for,” she says carefully.
Beatriz raises her eyebrows. “Bold to assume you’re on the list at all,” she says coolly.
ignores the insult. “I started working for your mother because she promised she would heal mine. She has Vexis. Nigellus used star magic to cure it, but your mother made it clear that if I went against her…” She trails off, but Beatriz understands her meaning well enough. “Her name is Avalise Blanchette. She’s still at the Crimson Petal last I heard.”
“If I know my mother, I’ll be watched,” Beatriz says, and despite everything, she does sound sorry. “She can’t know our paths have crossed.”
“I won’t be,” Ambrose points out, nodding at . “I’ll seek her out as soon as I’m able. Is there anything you’d like me to tell her?”
Assuming she’s still alive, thinks before she can stop herself. Her stomach twists as she thinks of the woman who raised her, who braided her hair each night, who taught her how to sing and dance and lie. She cannot think about living in a world without her mother, of letting her die alone. She’ll go mad if she does. She clears her throat. “Just…that I love her. And I’ll see her again soon.”