Beatriz
In the two days since saw the star she pulled down from the sky reappear, she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what it means. As soon as Nigellus saw it, he went a shade paler and shooed her out of his laboratory, muttering under his breath about miracles and impossibilities. But hadn’t Nigellus said it himself? Many things seem impossible, until they are done. And whatever has done, she’s seen the reappeared star with her own eyes. It isn’t impossible.
She’s been anxiously waiting a summons for another lesson, but so far none has come. She hasn’t seen Nigellus at court, either, though his absence isn’t odd enough that anyone else seems to notice it.
When her mother sends an invitation to her and Pasquale to join her in her rose garden, is almost relieved to have something else to focus on. She knows that for her to step into battle with her mother, her mind will need to be clear of everything else, even miracles.
“She will try to break you,” she warns Pasquale under her breath as they make their way down the hall, guards trailing behind them. “She’ll view you as a weak entry point.”
“Compared to you, I’m not sure that isn’t exactly what I am,” he mutters.
“You’ll be fine,” says, trying to sound more confident than she is. “And when in doubt, stay quiet.”
Pasquale nods, but notices he looks a little green. She catches his hand and squeezes it. “We’ll get through this,” she says. “And visit Gisella again tonight to see if she’s changed her mind.”
He glances sideways at her, brow furrowed. “And you haven’t?” he asks. “You’re still intent on…” He trails off, and wisely so. They’re speaking quietly enough that the guards won’t be able to hear them, but when discussing regicide, one can’t be too careful.
“I don’t see another choice,” says. “Do you disagree?”
Pasquale’s moral compass should be the least of her concerns, but finds herself holding her breath and waiting for his answer. She knows she will proceed no matter what, but she wants his blessing nonetheless.
“No,” he says after a moment. He glances over his shoulder at the guards before turning back to her. “What Gisella and Nicolo did…,” he starts. “How many lives would have been saved if I’d had the strength to do it earlier? No, I don’t disagree at all, . More than that, I want to help you, however I can.”
nods, struggling to hide how much his words mean to her. Before she can answer, they arrive at the door that leads to her mother’s rose garden. A waiting servant opens it and gestures them through, bowing as they pass.
As they step into the fragrant garden, surrounded by roses of every color imaginable, it takes a moment to find her mother, perched beside a bush of roses the color of fresh lemons, though a few petals are browning. As and Pasquale approach, the empress takes a pair of shears and snips off the head of one of the dying roses, sending it rolling away till it comes to a stop at ’s feet. ’s stomach turns, and she can’t shake the thought of Sophronia’s head being severed just like that. Every bit as much her mother’s doing.
The empress sees them, her dark brown eyes sweeping over first Pasquale, then , as she rocks back onto her heels to stand, drawing herself up to her full height.
“You’re late,” she says.
“Are we?” replies, tilting her head. “Your invitation was quite last-minute, Mother. We came as soon as we were able.”
The empress’s nostrils flare, but without a word she turns and starts down the path, leaving and Pasquale no choice but to trail after her. The guards, notes, stay where they are.
The empress wants privacy, thinks, watching her mother’s back. Though whether she wants to keep prying ears away from their conversation or private eyes off something more sinister, she isn’t sure. There have been plenty of times the empress has brought and her sisters to some secluded corner in order to inflict some sort of lesson on them. Once, in this very garden, , Daphne, and Sophronia found themselves set upon suddenly by five attackers, leaving Sophronia with a broken arm and with fractured ribs. Only Daphne escaped unscathed, and only because she was the only one of them who’d remembered to carry her dagger.
But if the empress is hoping to repeat that incident, she will be disappointed. learned her lesson well, and she carries not just one but two daggers—one on her forearm, the other on her thigh. She’s made sure Pasquale is armed as well, with a dagger in his boot, though she doubts he would be able to wield it with any particular skill.
After a moment of walking, the empress stops short and turns toward them. She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and stiffens—perhaps her mother has found out what they’ve been plotting and has decided to kill them before they can kill her. When the empress withdraws a letter rather than a weapon, lets out a breath.
“King Nicolo has responded to your letter,” she says, passing it to .
The seal has been broken, which doesn’t surprise , though it sets her on edge. She can only imagine what Nicolo had to say about her, and she hopes he didn’t say anything too damning. If her mother knows about Nicolo’s proposal, that he would take as his queen, Pasquale’s life will be in danger. Marrying to Nicolo would solve all of her mother’s problems, if she knew it was an option.
“He’s quite angry with you,” her mother says, and once again, relief floods .
“He usually is,” lies, making no move to read the letter. It can wait until she has a moment of privacy, and she doesn’t want to appear too keen in front of her mother. “I assume there is something else. A letter doesn’t require privacy—it doesn’t even require a meeting.”
The empress’s nostrils flare again and her eyes dart between and Pasquale. “Very well,” she says. “I wished to inform you that Daphne’s life is in danger.”
On their sixth birthday, a traveling group of acrobats was brought in to perform for and her sisters, and one of the acrobats made her way across a thin rope suspended far above the marble floors. remembers holding her breath as she crossed, certain that any wobble might lead to her death.
feels like that same acrobat now.
“How do you know?” she asks, widening her eyes. “Is Daphne all right?”
“Fine, as of now,” the empress says. “I received word from one of my sources in Temarin that Sophronia had befriended a servant girl later linked to the rebellion that executed her.”
Violie, thinks, though she’s careful not to show that realization on her face.
“I have reason to believe that same servant girl has made her way to Friv,” her mother continues.
frowns, as if this is news to her. “But why? A Temarinian servant girl surely has no interest in Friv, and I doubt she went to enjoy the weather,” she says.
“I was confused about that myself,” the empress admits, her brow furrowing. “But I’ve recently made a discovery—the girl in question isn’t Temarinian at all. She’s Bessemian, born and raised a mere mile outside the palace. I have every reason to believe she is part of some nefarious plot to kill not just Sophronia but you and Daphne as well.”
It takes everything in ’s power not to laugh at that. It’s almost brilliant—Violie makes a spectacular scapegoat for all of her mother’s sins. If she hadn’t met the girl herself, if Nigellus hadn’t told her that her mother aimed to kill all of her daughters, she might be tempted to believe it.
Ambrose’s words come back to her as well and she realizes he was right. In telling this, her mother is nudging her toward Friv even further, manipulating ’s next move in a way that leaves no fingerprints. The only question is why.
“What would she have to gain by that?” asks after a moment.
The empress is an excellent actress, realizes as she watches her mother cast her gaze sideways and bite her lip, as if weighing whether or not to reveal information is sure she’s made up.
“I’ve received word that some of my enemies in Bessemia have been biding their time over the last decade, waiting until they could go after my daughters, when they were viewed as vulnerable. I believe they’ve been organizing and that this girl is one of them,” she says.
glances at Pasquale, who is absorbing everything in stoic silence. She knows that this show her mother is putting on is for his benefit as well, because the empress doesn’t know how much has told him.
“I do have good news, however,” the empress continues, and there is a glimmer in her eye that makes ’s stomach plummet.
“Oh?” she hears herself ask.
“While that villain remains at large, I’ve managed to capture one of her associates in Hapantoile, who I believe has been in contact with her.”
Next to her, feels Pasquale stiffen. Ambrose.
“Even more concerning, though, is that this boy appears to be Cellarian,” the empress says, shaking her head, though doesn’t find her convincing. She can’t be sure how much the empress knows about Ambrose, or his relationship with Pasquale, but if she hasn’t sussed out the whole truth yet, it is only a matter of time before she does.
“Oh?” asks, careful to keep her tone level. “That is concerning,” she says.
“Yes, I believe it is a lucky thing that this boy didn’t manage to have the two of you killed before you fled Cellaria, though, of course, I would imagine he followed you here to do just that! I have it on good authority that he followed you to a teahouse just two days ago. Did anyone approach you there?”
is aware of her mother’s eyes on her, reading every shift of her expression. Which is fine, thinks. So long as the empress keeps watching her and doesn’t look at Pasquale—he can’t hide his feelings nearly as well as she can. He isn’t cut out for this sort of questioning—he’s worried about Ambrose, and if she isn’t careful, he will say something foolish.
“No,” tells her, shrugging. “We weren’t there for more than twenty minutes. There was a boy sitting near us, I remember that, but he kept to himself, reading a book.”
“Hmm,” the empress says, giving no indication whether or not she believes . “Well, you were very lucky he didn’t strike there, I suppose.”
“Lucky indeed,” adds. She glances at Pasquale, who has gone quite pale, though that can be attributed to his alleged near-death experience with a rebel spy, she supposes. Still, she knows she needs to get him out of her mother’s presence as quickly as possible. “You said the boy was in contact with this servant girl?” she asks, tilting her head and acting like her next question is only of mild interest to her. “How do you know? Did he have a letter on him?”
If he did have ’s letter still, her mother will soon be able to decode it, and then she will know at least most ofwhat is hiding.
“Unfortunately not,” the empress says, with such distaste that is sure it’s the truth. “The postmaster reported that a letter had arrived from Friv for the boy, but by the time he was apprehended, he didn’t have it in his possession.”
As much of a relief as that is, wonders what, exactly, happened to the letter she gave him in return. She forces herself to smile. “Thank you for sharing this information, Mama,” she says before glancing at Pasquale. “Oh, Pas, you look quite ill,” she says, resting her hand on his arm. “I know this must have come as a shock to you—I’m shocked as well. Do you need anything else, Mother, or is it all right if we retire?”
The empress’s eyes dart between them for a moment before she gives a quick nod and waves her hand in dismissal.
—
Pasquale manages to make it back to ’s room before he falls apart—a feat is impressed and surprised by—though as soon as they are safe behind closed doors, he collapses onto the sofa in her sitting room and drops his head into his hands.
stares at him, unsure what to do. She wants to comfort him, but the fact that Ambrose has been arrested is her fault. Surely he won’t want her comfort now.
“I’m sorry, Pas,” she says after a moment. “I…I’m sorry.”
He looks up at her, surprised. “It isn’t your fault, ,” he says slowly. “It’s hers.”
shakes her head. “She’s my mother, I know what she’s capable of—”
“So did I, more or less,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “And so did Ambrose, for that matter. We had every opportunity to go somewhere else, but even knowing the risks, we didn’t.”
wants to argue, but she knows it won’t go anywhere. “I don’t know how much she knows,” she says after a moment. “Whether she simply suspects him of conspiring with Violie, or if she’s using him to catch us as well. I don’t…” She pauses, swallowing. “My mother is always five steps ahead of me, even when I think I’m getting away with something. Perhaps she knows all of it—about your relationship with Ambrose, about my plotting against her, about us working with Violie.”
For a few breaths, Pasquale doesn’t say anything. “If she knew all of that,” he says, “would she let us roam free like we are?”
considers it. “She might give us the illusion of freedom,” she admits. “Though I have to believe I would know if I were being followed—by more than the usual guards, at least.”
“If she were having us followed, she would know about Gigi,” Pasquale continues.
nods slowly. “She can’t,” she says after a moment. “She could break Gigi quite easily if she knew we’d met with her that night. Gigi would spill all of our secrets if my mother offered her the right price. And if they’d had that conversation, we would be in the dungeon right beside her.”
“And Ambrose,” Pasquale adds.
bites her lip. “She won’t kill him,” she says, and even though she is only mostly sure of that, she tries to sound certain. “Not right away, at least. And I swear to you, we will get him out, alive and well.”
Pasquale looks at her for a long moment without speaking. “I believe you,” he says before one corner of his mouth quirks up in a sad excuse for a smile. “We’ve managed a jailbreak once; I can only imagine the second attempt will go better.”
“It will,” assures him. “This time, we’ll be sure to trust the right people. Which is to say, we’ll trust no one but each other.”
—
Later, after Pasquale goes back to his own rooms, fishes Nicolo’s letter from her dress pocket, unfolds it, and sits down on the parlor sofa to read it, curling her legs up to her chest and propping the letter against her knees. She begins to read.
,
My sister made her own mess, and I daresay she can clean it up for herself.
Nicolo
frowns, turning the letter over, sure there must be more to it, but the back is blank. A single sentence. She spent the better part of an hour crafting the perfect message to get under his skin, and he’s managed to do the same to her with a single sentence. Nothing even about herself, or Nicolo, no information about what he’s doing, how he’s doing.
It isn’t until this moment that realizes she wants to know those things. She gives herself a mental shake and folds the letter up, tucking it into the drawer of her desk.
Very well, she thinks—just because she got nothing from the letter itself doesn’t mean it can’t be of use to her. She wonders how Gisella will feel about him coldly leaving her to fend for herself.