Daphne
returns to the palace an hour before supper, reentering her room the same way she left it—through the window. From there, she hurries to change into her dress, shoving her men’s clothes back into her wardrobe, all while mulling over her suspicions.
If Zenia was meant to bring nearly to Aurelia’s door before poisoning her, that asks more questions than it answers, but at the same time, wouldn’t be surprised if Aurelia was the reason behind the assassination attempts. She said herself that she’d foreseen the death of someone with the blood of stars and majesty and feared it would be Bairre. can almost believe that Aurelia might have tried to have her killed as a way of keeping that prophecy from touching her son.
But what does that have to do with the princes? Aurelia said she was still hearing the same prophecy, but that had nothing to do with Gideon and Reid—they might have the blood of kings in their veins, but they aren’t star-touched.
Perhaps the two things are unrelated, she tells herself. Perhaps Zenia bringing to that place would have been a coincidence as well. But to ’s mind, even one coincidence is too many.
—
There is someone in ’s bedchamber when she comes back from supper, she is sure of it. The window is open even though it’s snowing again, and both she and her maids have been keeping it closed. Then there is the indent in the plush rug that stretches just below the window, as if someone crouching on the window’s ledge had jumped down.
Maybe the assassins aren’t bound to the woods after all. Maybe they’re getting bolder. Or lazier. Or perhaps just more desperate.
Tempted as she is to step back into the hall and shout for help, isn’t sure she can trust the guards stationed throughout the royal wing. And besides, if the assassin is working for the same people who took the princes, she has a few questions she’d like to ask, and that’s best done without interference.
She pauses in the doorway, reaching down to adjust her boot and sliding her dagger from its hiding place before straightening up and closing the door behind her. She waits to see if the assassin will take the opportunity to attack, but they don’t. She scans the room, looking for potential hiding places—a person could fit beneath the bed, but the position would render them more vulnerable than she is, making it a doubtful choice. The wind blows through the curtains, showing that there is no one hiding behind them. Which leaves her wardrobe—the only place a fully grown adult could hide.
She tiptoes toward the wardrobe, quiet as a cat, dagger poised and ready to strike. Her heart hammers in her ears, drowning out all thoughts but that of the danger before her. There can be no hesitation: she will strike or be struck, and she’s spent too many days close to death since she arrived in this stars-forsaken country.
In a quick, fluid movement, she throws open the door of the wardrobe and plunges the dagger inside, letting out a cry of rage as she does. She stabs again and again, only on the fourth try realizing she is maiming nothing but the gowns hanging there. Several now have holes—something Mrs. Nattermore is bound to be annoyed about.
spins back to the room, sagging against the wardrobe and struggling to catch her breath. The hand holding the dagger falls to her side while her free hand goes to her heart, as if she can calm its rapid beat.
No one is there. She’s seeing ghosts, she thinks, shaking her head. She pushes away from the wardrobe and crosses toward the window, closing it with a slam.
It’s only then that she feels the cold press of metal against her throat.
“Drop the dagger, Princess,” a voice says—a female voice, a Bessemian voice. is so startled by that last detail that she does as she’s told and lets the dagger fall to the floor.
“I mean you no harm, but I needed to speak with you alone,” the voice says. “I’m going to drop my dagger, but the instant you reach for yours, I’ll bring it back. All right?”
nods, though already her mind is spinning. As soon as that dagger is away from her throat, she’ll lunge for her knife. As soon as she has her knife—
“Your sister sent me,” the assassin says as she lowers her blade, and ’s plan falls away with it. She whirls to face the assassin and finds herself looking at a girl around her own age, and for the slightest instant, she’s reminded of Sophronia. They have the same blond hair, the same stature, but she isn’t Sophronia.
“Which one?” bites out, keeping a close eye on where her knife fell. She doesn’t trust the girl, but it’s clear she isn’t an assassin—if she were, would be bleeding out right now.
“Sophronia first,” the girl says, holding ’s gaze. Her eyes are like Sophronia’s, too, like ’s as well—star-touched silver. “Then Beatriz more recently.”
“You’re lying,” says.
The girl seems to expect this reaction. She shrugs. “Beatriz is left-handed—I know because she punched me, though she was kind enough to get stardust to heal me afterward. She also called you a ruthless bitch.”
That was certainly Beatriz, thinks. “And Sophronia?”
The girl hesitates, her eyes darting away. It’s the perfect moment to dive for her dagger, but doesn’t move. She waits, eyes on the girl.
“Sophronia liked to sneak into the Temarinian kitchens to bake when she couldn’t sleep,” the girl says after a moment. “I believe she had the same habit in Bessemia.”
feels like a sail when the wind stops blowing. How many times did she find Sophronia in the kitchens, apron tied around her nightgown, with flour dusting her skin and hair and a beaming smile as she pulled a tray from the oven? “Who are you?” she asks, struggling to keep her wits about her.
“My name is Violie. Your mother sent me to accompany Sophronia in Temarin.” The girl pauses. “And spy on her.”
Violie. knows that name—Sophronia said it just before she died. She’d told and Beatriz that friends were coming to find her—Leopold and Violie. Leopold, knew, but Violie she didn’t. But even if Sophronia considered this girl a friend, knows her sister was far too trusting.
“My mother wouldn’t—” begins before stopping herself. Her mother would send someone to spy on Sophronia. It would have been the prudent thing to do. “And Beatriz?” asks. “You said she hit you?”
The girl—Violie—reaches up to touch her nose, though as far as can see there’s nothing wrong with it. Her eyes dart away and knows before she speaks that she won’t be telling the entire truth.
“It was deserved,” she says carefully. “We came across her fleeing Cellaria with Prince Pasquale. It’s my understanding she’d been sent to a Sororia there by a new king who had usurped the prince’s place in the line of succession.”
frowns. “Is that even possible?” she asks.
“Anything is possible for a mad king, which I understand King Cesare was,” she says. “They were on their way to Bessemia, but she told us to come to you.”
“Us?” asks. “Who is us?”
Violie hesitates, twirling her dagger in her hand—a nervous tic, thinks. “King Leopold,” she says finally.
laughs—she can’t help it. There is nothing funny about the situation, but the fact that King Leopold, the most wanted man in the continent, has just fallen into her lap is truly laughable. “Where is he?” she asks, already mentally drafting the letter she’ll write her mother. The empress will be so pleased, so proud of for securing Temarin for her.
“I don’t believe Sophronia would want me to tell you,” Violie says.
feels like she’s been kicked in the stomach. “What?” she asks, shaking her head. “You came here for my help, didn’t you? Allow me to help—”
“By doing what?” Violie asks. “Writing to your mother? You do that and his days are numbered. Sophronia gave her life to keep him alive, and I intend to honor that sacrifice.”
is careful not to let Violie know just how close she came to guessing her thoughts. “I loved my sister, but she was a sentimental fool sometimes,” she says, keeping her voice level. “From my understanding, Leopold was an awful king. My mother believes she can rule Temarin better—”
“She believes she can rule all of Vesteria better,” Violie interrupts.
Panicked, casts her eyes around the room, reassuring herself that they’re alone, before hushing Violie. “I don’t know what you think you know—”
“I know what your mother told me,” Violie says, interrupting again. “In her own words, when she sent me to spy on Sophronia.”
grits her teeth. “Fine,” she snaps. “But the point stands—Leopold had no business being king. My mother wishes to ensure her rule in Temarin, yes, but if he simply renounces his claim—”
Violie interrupts her once more, but this time with a laugh, harsh and mirthless. “Please tell me you don’t genuinely believe that,” she says.
crooks a bitter smile. “I see Beatriz got to you with her conspiracy theories—she’s always been dramatic.”
“Beatriz didn’t need to get to me,” Violie says. “Sophronia already had. She’d have told you as much herself, but your mother had her killed.”
The words are a bucket of ice water dumped over ’s head, but she holds fast to her composure. “A Temarinian mob killed Sophie,” she says through gritted teeth.
Violie searches ’s face for a moment, lips pursed. Finally, she nods. “All right, then,” she says, picking up ’s dagger and backing toward the window. “Beatriz was right—there’s nothing more we need to discuss.”
“I beg to differ,” says, following her to the window and shouldering in front of her, blocking her escape route. Violie might have both daggers, but is certain now that the girl won’t hurt her. “Where’s King Leopold?”
“Safe,” Violie says, trying to push past , but holds firm.
“If you truly have him—which I’m beginning to doubt—I’m sure his mother would like to know that he’s well, at least,” says. She doesn’t expect the sentimentality to affect Violie—she doesn’t strike as that sort—but she’s unprepared for the shock and fury that ripple over Violie’s face.
“Eugenia is here?” she asks, her voice low.
“Arrived a few days ago with Leopold’s brothers. They were…taken,” admits. Violie’s eyes sharpen and wishes she’d held back that particular detail. “She’s lost two sons, would you keep her from him, too?”
Violie laughs again. “And here I was led to believe you were clever,” she says. “Did you fall for her mourning mother act? She forgot to mention the fact that she worked with the mob and your mother to execute Sophie and Leopold. She won’t be relieved to know he survived, she’ll be disappointed.”
“You’re lying,” says, though some part of her knows that this, at least, is true. She knew there was something not right about Eugenia, and this bit of information fits into the gaps Eugenia left in her story. But how can she believe that without believing her mother had a hand in it as well?
“Am I?” Violie asks. “The next time you see Eugenia, mention my name and see her reaction.”
opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, Violie reaches out and grabs her wrist and she feels a sharp jab. Looking down, sees that Violie is wearing her ring—the one that keeps a dose of sleeping poison.
“How dare…,” she begins, but before she can finish the thought, the world goes black.