Daphne
lets loose another arrow, watching with mounting frustration as it lands on the rim of the target. A very unprincesslike curse rises to her lips, though she manages to tamp it down. After all, she has an audience. She glances behind her where six guards wait, three observing her, three standing with their backs to her, monitoring the surrounding woods for any sign of a threat.
She understands why they’re there—part of her is even grateful for their presence, after the last few attempts on her life—but she knows their watching eyes are a large part of the reason she’s shooting so poorly today. Unlike Beatriz, doesn’t flourish with an audience.
Lifting the bow again, forces herself to take a deep, steadying breath and tries to ignore the guards entirely. They aren’t there. It’s only her, the bow in her hand, and the target before her. Nothing else exists. Nothing—
Just as she releases the arrow, one of the guards gives a shout and her shot goes wide.
“Stars above,” she snaps, whirling toward the guard, though her annoyance dies as soon as she sees a figure riding toward them. Bairre, appearing unsettled.
For a moment, thinks he might be coming to join her. It’s been weeks since they practiced together, but she finds she misses his company. Him watching never affected her aim. But when he pulls his horse to a stop beside her and her guards, he doesn’t dismount.
“My father is requesting your presence,” he tells her, an unreadable look in his eyes that makes ’s heart clench.
“Is everything all right?” she asks him, her mind already whirling through the myriad of things that could have gone wrong since she left the castle just an hour ago.
“Fine,” he assures her quickly. “Everything’s fine. But there’s a visitor.”
“A visitor?” asks, even more perplexed. Many of the highland clans left after the failed wedding, and she can’t imagine they’d have returned so soon. And as for visitors from the south…well…no one visits Friv.
“From Temarin,” he tells her.
The air leaves ’s lungs. Sophronia. It isn’t. It can’t be. Sophronia is dead. But for the barest sliver of an instant, ’s heart lifts in hope. Bairre must see it, because his expression softens.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, not…it’s someone else.”
Embarrassment claws at ’s skin. Of course it isn’t Sophronia. She was a fool to hope that it might be, even more foolish to let anyone see her hope. She seals her disappointment away behind a cool mask and lifts her chin. “Who, then?” she asks.
Bairre clears his throat, glancing at the guards around them, who are only pretending not to listen.
“Queen Eugenia and her two sons,” he tells her, lowering his voice to a murmur. “They’ve come seeking political asylum.”
clutches the bow tighter in her hand.
“Her sons,” she echoes. “Does that include King Leopold?” The Dowager Queen of Temarin has three sons, knows, and if King Leopold were among them, surely Bairre would have mentioned him first, but she has to ask. She has to be sure.
“No,” Bairre says. “The younger two—children, who look like they’ve seen the stars go dark.”
Seen the stars go dark is a Frivian expression, and one doesn’t fully understand the origin of, but she gets the meaning all the same. It seems apt now, describing children who lived through a coup.
How did they survive the coup? wonders. And why are they here, of all places? Friv has never been known to be kind to outsiders. Surely Eugenia would have better luck in her homeland of Cellaria.
Well, there is only one way to find out what she’s doing here. slides her bow back into its place in her quiver and steps toward Bairre, holding her hand out. He grabs hold of her palm with one hand, elbow with the other, and hoists her up to sit in front of him. The saddle isn’t made to ride sidesaddle, but with Bairre’s arm secure around her waist, it’ll do for the short ride back to the castle.
—
Upon and Bairre’s arrival back at the castle, he leads her through the labyrinth of halls that she is finally beginning to know her way around. When he makes a left instead of the right knows will take them to the throne room, her steps falter. Bairre notices, but he gives her arm a gentle tug, urging her to follow him.
“It’s a private audience,” says, noting that he’s leading her toward the royal family’s wing. “Your father doesn’t want the court to know of their arrival. Not yet, at any rate.”
Bairre doesn’t answer, but knows she’s right. It makes sense. Friv prides itself on its independence from the rest of the continent, and King Bartholomew is aware that many of his people already think he’s relying too much on other countries—Bessemia, in particular, given ’s betrothal to Bairre. So of course he doesn’t want it known that the Dowager Queen of Temarin is seeking asylum with him.
files that information away, wondering if she can use it.
Bairre leads her to the library, pushing the door open and ushering her inside.
The library is ’s favorite room in the castle—a cozy space with floor-to-ceiling windows and overstuffed sofas clustered around the largest of three fireplaces. It is King Bartholomew’s favorite place in the castle too, and she often comes across him there early in the mornings or in the evenings, reading a volume of poetry or a novel—books ’s mother would have said were far too impractical to bother with.
Now Bartholomew is standing by the bay window, the thick velvet curtains drawn, casting the room into darkness only alleviated by the three burning fireplaces. The room is warm enough, but a woman sits on the overstuffed sofa, fur blankets piled on her lap and a boy on either side of her. Queen Eugenia and her younger sons, notes.
She searches her memory for everything she knows about the woman. Eugenia was born a Cellarian princess, the younger sister of King Cesare, and married off to King Carlisle of Temarin at the age of fourteen—a union that ended the Celestian War between the two countries and ensured a tentative peace. By all accounts, the marriage hadn’t been consummated until she was sixteen and King Carlisle was eighteen, and even after that, she and the king had never been more than passingly polite. Passingly polite, however, was far kinder than the rest of the Temarin court had been to her.
But Eugenia had survived it, and when King Carlisle died, leaving behind a fifteen-year-old Prince Leopold to succeed him, Eugenia had ruled in her son’s stead. remembered the empress referring to Eugenia as the most powerful person in Temarin.
Sophronia was supposed to supplant her, to exert her own influence over Leopold however necessary.
So why, wonders, her eyes raking over Queen Eugenia, is Sophronia dead and Eugenia here, looking no worse for wear? Well, that’s not entirely true, she notes, her eyes finding a large bruise on the woman’s left temple.
Another thing can’t ask about, not yet. Instead, she pastes a smile over her face and crosses toward Queen Eugenia, holding out her hands to grasp the older woman’s and giving them a squeeze.
“Your Majesty,” says, dipping into a curtsy. “It is such a relief to see you made it out of Temarin safely. Word of the uprising has reached Friv and we have all been terribly worried.”
“Princess ,” Queen Eugenia says, her eyes scanning ’s face. “You are the very image of your dear sister, stars bless her soul.”
It’s a lie—the only notable similarity between and Sophronia is their silver eyes. ’s hair is black where Sophronia’s was blond, her features are sharp where Sophronia’s were soft, her figure stick-straight where Sophronia was plump and curvy. Anyone who didn’t know them would think they were strangers.
“Thank you,” says, casting her eyes down as she makes a show of swallowing back tears. “And these must be my young brothers-in-law,” she says, looking to the two boys flanking the queen, one around fourteen, the other twelve or so. Gideon and Reid. Both of them look at her with wide eyes, though they don’t speak. makes a mental note to seek them out later, alone—children, she knows, are prime sources of information, often without the slightest idea of what they’re meant to keep secret.
Behind her, King Bartholomew clears his throat. “Queen Eugenia is seeking asylum here in Friv,” he says. “She believes if she returns to Temarin, she will be executed as well.”
As well as Sophronia, thinks, though she appreciates that King Bartholomew doesn’t say so out loud.
“Oh,” says, furrowing her brow and glancing at Bartholomew. “I was under the impression that my mother had taken control of Temarin, no? She wrote to me that she would turn its rule over to Leopold once he was located—do you know where he is?”
There it is—a slight narrowing of the nostrils that tells that Eugenia is hiding something.
“Dead, I fear,” Eugenia says, clutching her younger sons closer to her in a way that strikes as more performance than anything. “And I have written to your mother as well—while her troops have quelled the worst of the rebels, it is her belief that it is not yet safe for us to return. She suggested we come to Friv until it is.”
“Did she?” asks, struggling to hide her confusion—surely her mother would have mentioned that to her?
“I have a letter from her, in fact,” Queen Eugenia says, reaching into a pocket of her dress and withdrawing a rolled bit of parchment, then passing it to , who unrolls it and scans the words. It is a few short lines, written in her mother’s hand—she’d recognize the writing anywhere—but the letter raises more questions than it answers.
Dear Eugenia,
We must proceed with caution — seek out my dove in Friv. I trust that she will give you shelter for as long as you need it. Let me know if you hear word from King Leopold — I shall keep his throne warm until I hear from him.
Your friend,
Empress Margaraux
Even if didn’t recognize her mother’s handwriting or the echo of her mother’s letter to her, would know the letter is genuine. Her mother only called , Beatriz, and Sophronia her doves in private. But the letter doesn’t tell her what, exactly, she is meant to do with Eugenia. She considers this as she passes the letter back to Eugenia.
“,” King Bartholomew says behind her, his voice low and level. “A word, if you please.”
nods and turns away from Queen Eugenia, following King Bartholomew to a quiet corner of the library, out of earshot of the queen and princes. Bairre follows them, the furrow in his brow deeper than usual.
“,” King Bartholomew says again. “Friv has a long tradition of abstaining from the conflicts of the rest of the continent, and for good reason.”
“Yes, of course,” says quickly, the wheels of her mind turning. She might not know what to do with Eugenia, but it’s clear her mother wishes her to stay here. Which means she needs to convince King Bartholomew to allow it.
Quickly, she runs through her tactics and how likely they are to work—there is little strategic reason for Bartholomew to help Eugenia. It won’t benefit Friv or him and, in fact, many people at court would resent him for it, and Bartholomew can’t afford to lose any more allies to the rebellion. Eugenia has little to offer and nothing that would counterbalance that. But King Bartholomew is a good man, and that is a weakness she has exploited before, with success.
So bites her bottom lip, casting a glance over her shoulder at Queen Eugenia and her sons.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I know it’s a lot to ask but I…I can’t help but think that my sister is watching me from the stars, that she would want me to help keep Eugenia from meeting the same fate as she did and…” She trails off, swallowing and turning her gaze back to King Bartholomew, who appears unsettled. “And you heard her—her own son is likely dead. I understand it isn’t an ideal situation, but I can’t bear the thought of throwing a grieving mother to the wolves when we could offer her and the children she has left some measure of protection.”
It is cruel, using King Bartholomew’s own recently dead son as leverage, but it is a cruelty that works. sees the flicker of horror in his eyes, the way he glances at Queen Eugenia with pity and understanding.
“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of that,” he says quickly.
Bairre is staring at like he doesn’t know her, but he manages to tear his gaze from her and look at his father. “I’m not sure it’s the best idea—the last thing Friv needs is to insert itself into a war it has no stake in,” he says.
King Bartholomew shakes his head. “It is less than ideal, certainly,” he says with a sigh. “But I cannot see another option here. We will keep their presence quiet. No one need know who they are. We can make up a story, tell people that she is the Temarinian widow of some highland lord.”
“No one will believe that,” Bairre says. “They’ll figure out the truth soon enough.”
“By which time we will hopefully have a better idea of what to do,” King Bartholomew says. “But they’ll be staying and that’s final, Bairre.”
Without giving Bairre a chance to respond, King Bartholomew makes his way back to Queen Eugenia, offering her a smile and Friv’s protection.
—
slips out of the library and into the hall, Bairre at her heels. He reaches for her hand, but she pulls it from his grip and keeps walking, her eyes darting to the guards waiting to escort her back to her room safely.
“,” Bairre says, his eyes glancing between the guards as well. Is he sizing them up? she wonders. Noting which of them is on the rebellion’s side—his side?
“Not now,” she snaps, and he falls silent. When they reach her room, isn’t surprised that he follows her in, closing the door behind him and blocking them from the guards’ prying eyes and ears.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she tells him with a heavy sigh as she removes her cloak and drapes it over the back of the armchair near the fire. “The last thing we need is gossip about us being alone together.”
“I don’t care about gossip,” he says, and snorts out a laugh.
“Of course you don’t,” she says. “The gossip would affect me far more than it would you.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but sees the muscle in his jaw jump and she knows he understands what she means. “Should I go, then?” he asks.
“The damage is done, you might as well join me for tea,” she says, sitting down at the small wooden table where a servant has laid out afternoon tea and pastries for her. She gestures for Bairre to sit. “Of course, if the wedding hadn’t been interrupted, we’d be able to be alone whenever we pleased.”
Even to her own ears, ’s words sound waspish and curt, not the way she imagines Beatriz might say them, looking up at Bairre through lowered eyelashes with a coquettish smile, her voice a purr. But as unseductive as the words might be, Bairre’s face still flushes red as he takes the chair across from her.
“What exactly are you playing at, ?” he asks, pouring tea for her, then himself. “Everyone in the castle will know who Eugenia is by supper, and my father—”
“Will find himself even less popular than he is now,” says, taking a sip of her tea. “Was I mistaken in believing that would suit the rebellion’s aims quite well?”
He shakes his head. “That isn’t…there’s a reason we don’t get involved in the squabbles of other countries,” he says. “I’m not inclined to hurt Friv to prove its leadership is faulty.”
It is not lost on that that is exactly what her mother is doing, but then, her mother has no loyalty to Friv and neither does she. won’t forget that—she can’t.
“What would you have done, then?” she asks. “Cast that woman and her sons out in the cold, sent them back to Temarin, where they would be killed as soon as they stepped over the border, like my sister was?”
Bairre shakes his head. “There are other places—she has family in Cellaria, and your mother offered her your hospitality, but what of her own?”
Both are good suggestions, and both make far more sense than Friv, and yet Eugenia is here, at her mother’s urging. The empress isn’t a fool, she would have thought of all options, weighed them carefully. There is a reason Eugenia is in Friv.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I’m sure my mother wouldn’t have sent her to me if she thought there was a better option.”
Bairre looks at her for a long moment. “You aren’t telling me the truth,” he says finally.
holds his gaze. “No more than you are me,” she replies, her voice coming out softer than she intends it to.
A long moment stretches out between them in silence as they sip their tea. opens her mouth several times to say something, but the words never come. She feels the secrets lying between them, creating a chasm that grows wider with each breath they take.
Let it, a voice whispers in her mind that sounds like her mother’s. Keep your distance. Use his affection if you can, use him, but don’t let him use you.
Bairre’s hand reaches across the table to take ’s, and this time she doesn’t pull away. Instead she laces her fingers with his and pretends that simple touch is enough to bridge the space between them, to cross the mountain of secrets and lies they’ve erected.
is not Sophronia, she knows there is no happy ending where she and Bairre will sit side by side on thrones and rule together—not least of all because Bairre himself doesn’t want that future. She knows there is no place for him at all in the future she and her mother want to build, and that means there is no place for her feelings, either. She knows that eventually—soon, even—he won’t look at her like he is now, with tenderness and adoration, if a little frustration, too. Soon, when he realizes what she and her mother are really working toward, he won’t look at her with anything less than hate.
knows this, but right now he is looking at her like he would set the stars on fire if she asked it of him, like he will do anything for her except tell her the truth, and suddenly the truth doesn’t matter as much as it should, not for either of them. Soon it will matter, but soon is not now.
Now she sets aside her tea but keeps ahold of his hand as she gets to her feet and walks toward him. Without saying a word, he pushes his chair back and gives her hand a soft tug and she lets herself be pulled down to sit on his lap, her arms going around his neck and his anchoring her around the waist, holding her tight against him.
She isn’t sure which of them initiates the kiss, but it doesn’t matter, not really. He kisses her and she kisses him and when his tongue traces the line of her lips, she opens to him, deepening the kiss. Still, it doesn’t feel like enough. Even when her hands tangle in his dark overgrown hair, even when he lets out a low groan that feels echo in her own throat, it isn’t enough.
presses herself closer to him and feels his hands bunch in the skirt of her dress.
A knock at the door cuts through the fog of her mind and forces herself to pull away. She feels like she’s been on an hour-long horseback ride, and Bairre appears similarly out of breath, his eyes a darker shade of silver than usual and locked on hers.
Without a word, she reaches up to smooth his hair, mussed from where she ran her fingers through it, and he leans into her touch.
The knock sounds again and drops her hand, forcing herself to stand up from his lap and return to her seat, Bairre reluctantly releasing her as she goes.
“Come in,” calls out, equal parts surprised and relieved when her voice comes out steady.
The door opens and a guard pokes his head in, eyes darting around the room before landing on and Bairre. “Apologies for interrupting, Your Highnesses, but Lord Panlington sent a messenger looking for Prince Bairre.”
Bairre lets out a low curse, getting to his feet. “I was supposed to meet him for a ride into town,” he says. “I’m sorry, , but I have to go.”
Lord Panlington is Cliona’s father and the head of the Frivian rebellion—King Bartholomew’s closest friend and greatest enemy. The sound of his name brings reality crashing down on —a reminder of who, exactly, Bairre’s loyalties are to. He chose Lord Panlington and the rebellion over his own father, after all; she knows better than to think he will ever choose her. Which is just as well, she reminds herself.
“It’s all right,” says, forcing herself to smile. “I owe my mother a letter anyway.”
She watches a curtain fall behind his eyes, feels the chasm open up between them once more, as wide as ever.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, giving her a stiff bow before exiting without another word, closing the door firmly behind him.