Violie
After just a day on board the Astral, can’t remember what not being ill feels like. Her stomach is constantly rioting, and despite the chill in the air, her skin is cloaked in a thick layer of sweat. Getting out of the narrow bed in the small cabin she and Leopold share is an effort that seems to require the favor of the stars, but staying in bed is pure misery. Every fiber of her being is exhausted, but no matter how she tries, she can’t manage more than an hour of sleep at a time. A bucket has taken up residence beside the cot, which she empties her stomach into often, though she can’t bring herself to eat more than a nibble or two of stale bread.
isn’t aware of much outside of her own misery, but she knows that someone dabs her face with a cool, wet rag from time to time. Someone forces her to take sips of water from a glass and small bites of bread. Someone empties the bucket of her vomit.
Someone, she supposes, must be Leopold, but even when her thoughts fray at the edges, she has a difficult time imagining the King of Temarin acting as her nursemaid.
—
wakes at dawn, if the faint light streaming through the single porthole in the cabin is anything to go by. Two days. She’s been on this boat for two days and it feels like an eternity. It takes her a moment to recognize the scent hanging heavy in the air.
“Ginger,” she mumbles, rolling over on her side.
Leopold is sitting on the wooden floor beside the cot, a mug of steaming tea in his hands.
“Among other things,” he says, looking at the mug. “The cook brewed it for you—she said it is a foolproof cure for seasickness. Can you sit up?”
It’s a struggle, but manages to pull herself up, leaning against the understuffed pillow. Leopold passes her the mug of tea, but her arms feel so weak she can barely hold it. He helps her bring it to her lips and though it’s hot, she manages three small sips.
gives a sputtering cough as she lowers the mug and winces.
“The cook said it isn’t the best-tasting thing, but it does its duty.”
“The cure might just be worse than the sickness,” says, but she manages to lift the mug on her own and force down another sip. “Thank you.”
Leopold nods. “The ship is making good time,” he tells her. “Captain Lehigh says the stars and weather are on our side. We should reach Glenacre port by sundown tomorrow.”
“I think my stomach can survive that, if only barely,” she says. She means the words as a joke, but Leopold frowns.
“Is there anything you need? Do you want to try some more bread?”
The thought of food makes want to vomit, but she merely shakes her head. “I’m fine. Well, I’m surviving, at any rate.”
“The cook also said fresh air would help,” Leopold says. “When you finish the tea, I could help you up to the main deck.”
shakes her head. “I’m sure the crew will be busy up there.”
Leopold laughs. “Trust me, after the festivities last night, I think most of them will be sleeping for another hour at least.”
“Festivities?” asks, taking another sip.
“Captain Lehigh’s birthday,” he explains. “You won’t be the most miserable person on this boat today by a nautical mile.”
manages a smile and takes another sip of tea, then another. It is helping, she realizes. She still doesn’t feel like herself, but her stomach has calmed down significantly. She sits up a little straighter and manages to drain the cup in a few more sips.
“Fresh air sounds perfect,” she tells Leopold.
—
The deck of the ship is largely deserted, though notices a scattered handful of crew members about, doing their various duties to ensure that the Astral keeps sailing while everyone else sleeps. The clear sky overhead is just beginning to lighten, though the stars are still visible, strewn over the pinkening sky like the diamonds used to polish for Sophronia. She knows, vaguely, what clusters of the stars represent, but she’s never completely sure which constellation is which.
“That’s the Tumbling Water,” Leopold says when asks him if he knows, pointing to a cluster of stars to the east. “It’s supposed to look like a waterfall.”
squints, but she doesn’t quite see it. She takes his word for it, though. Growing up a prince, he had access to the best teachers for that sort of thing.
“Tumbling Water for…inevitability?” asks, frowning.
“Sort of. I always heard it as fate,” Leopold says, shrugging. “The water can’t help but go where it’s meant to.”
They stop at the ship’s railing and leans her entire body against it. She’s only been on her feet for a moment, but she feels like she’s been running for miles.
“Is it helping?” he asks. “The fresh air.”
“With the nausea, yes,” she admits. “Thank you. For the tea and…well…taking care of me like you have been.”
“I don’t think I’ve done a good job of it,” he admits, leaning against the railing beside her. “I’ve never been around ill people, really.”
“Not surprising for a king, or crown prince for that matter,” she points out. “What would Temarin have done if you’d gotten ill and died?”
He gives her a sidelong look. “Been just fine, I’d imagine,” he says.
isn’t sure what to say to that. She knows she should tell him it isn’t true, but she doesn’t have the energy to reassure him just now. Before she can say anything at all, a new voice breaks the silence.
“Hey, Leopold!”
Hairs rise on the back of ’s neck—not because she recognizes the voice but because she doesn’t. Because Leopold has never known what it is to fear the sound of his own name, so of course he turns toward it without a bit of hesitation.
A man stands just a few feet from them, dressed like a member of the crew in rough-spun trousers and a tunic that is more oil stains than clean linen. His face is ruddy and covered in stubble and his eyes are dark and beady, locked on Leopold. In his right hand, he holds a pistol, aimed right atthem.
“I thought I recognized you,” the man says, coming a step closer. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, though.”
“I think you have me confused with someone else, sir,” Leopold says, moving to place himself between the gun and , a gesture appreciates—not because she needs his protection but because it allows her cover to reach beneath her skirt to where a small knife is strapped to her thigh. She moves slowly to avoid notice, hoping Leopold can at least keep the man talking for another moment.
The man laughs. “Do you really think I would forget the face of the boy who forced my family from their home? I assure you, Your Majesty, I know exactly who you are.”
moves quicker, her fingers fumbling with the strap. Suddenly, the man shooting Leopold seems far more likely. His desire for personal vengeance might just outweigh the bounty on Leopold’s head. She glances around the deck, but there is no one else nearby. The night crew must have retired while she and Leopold were talking, and the day crew hasn’t yet come on deck.
“I never forced…,” Leopold begins before trailing off. “You lived in that village. Hebblesley.”
“Hevelsley,” hisses. Hevelsley was the name of the village Leopold had seen demolished so that he could build a new hunting lodge. remembers because it was right after she arrived at the castle, and the details of that disaster made up her first coded letter to Empress Margaraux.
“Hevelsley,” Leopold amends. “I’m sorry, truly I am. There is no justification for it. I was told few people lived there and that everyone who did had agreed to move and been compensated for the inconvenience, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?” he asks.
is surprised at how level his voice is, even with a gun aimed at him. She didn’t think the pampered king had it in him. Her fingers close around the knife and she straightens. She has one throw—one chance to hit a man pointing a gun at them. They’re poor odds, poorer still given how ill she feels. The knife feels impossibly heavy in her hand, the strength it takes to lift it almost unfathomable.
“A lie,” the man says with a snort. His hand is shaking, but doesn’t find that fact comforting. He’s leading with emotion and it makes him erratic. It makes his behavior unpredictable, and there is nothing comforting about that. “We were given no money. My family and all of our neighbors were forced onto the streets, carted into Kavelle and left to fend for ourselves. I took this stars-forsaken job because it was the only one I could get, but I doubt my children will survive long enough to see me return.”
tightens her grip on the knife and steels herself. She sees the throw she needs to make, notes the best place to strike.
“I’m sorry,” Leopold says again, and knows he means it. She knows that if it were up to him, he might just let the man shoot him. But made Sophronia a promise to protect Leopold, and she intends to keep her word. Even if she has to protect him from himself.
She throws the knife with all the strength she can muster and she and Leopold both watch as the blade embeds itself in the man’s throat. He slumps to the deck, the gun falling with a clatter that echoes in the silence, though mercifully it doesn’t go off. The man dies, quickly and quietly, just as intended.
Leopold drops down beside him, a scream lodging in his throat as he pulls the knife from the man’s neck and uses his hands to try to quell the blood.
“He was going to kill you, Leopold,” says, her voice level.
“So you killed him instead?” Leopold asks, looking at her over his shoulder with horror in his eyes. tries not to let that look bother her. It’s better, she tells herself, that he understands who she is and what she is capable of.
“If I’d hit him in the arm and made him drop the gun, what would have happened?” she asks Leopold, struggling to keep her voice calm. Any moment now, the crew will finish their breakfast and come up to the deck.
When Leopold speaks, his voice is hoarse. “He would have told the captain and anyone who would listen who I am.”
“They would have fallen all over themselves to take you back to Temarin to collect the bounty on you,” says, nodding. “I couldn’t allow them to do that. There was only one true option and I took it.”
“You killed him,” Leopold says again, turning back to the man. “He was right to be angry with me. He was right to want revenge. You should have…” He trails off.
“I should have what?” asks, because she needs him to realize that there is no right answer, no good answer. They left the possibility of right and good behind when they watched Sophronia’s execution. “If you want to be a martyr, you’re welcome to try, Leopold. But your fate is tied to mine. If you’re caught, I’ll be executed right beside you. I’m not willing to make myself a martyr to ease your guilt.”
He doesn’t answer, but the deck is so silent that she hears him swallow. Finally, he pushes himself to his feet and lifts the man’s body into his arms. With a blank expression, he carries the body to the railing and tosses it overboard. They both listen as the body hits the water with a splash barely audible over the sound of waves crashing against the ship’s hull.
turns to the deck, where the man left a trail of blood. She crouches down to retrieve her knife.
“We’ll need a bucket of water, quickly,” she tells Leopold. “Hungover or not, the sailors will be coming up soon.”
Leopold nods, his face still ashen but some of the shock leaving him. “And when they notice a crew member missing?” he asks.
shakes her head. “The most plausible explanation will be that he had too much ale and fell overboard,” she says. “Let’s not give them any reason to look for a less plausible explanation.”
He nods, the movement jerky. “I saw a bucket and mop down by the galley,” he tells her, moving to walk away.
“Leopold,” she says, her voice soft. He hears her, though, and turns back, only for to realize she doesn’t know what to say. She opens her mouth, then closes it, before trying again.
“It wasn’t…,” she starts, but she can’t tell him it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t blameless; he made choices that ruined the man’s life, knowingly or not. But made the choice that ended it. “It was necessary,” she says, and that, at least, is the truth.