Beatriz
doesn’t dare raise any suspicions by asking a servant for dried etheldaisies. Instead, she goes into town herself, with Pasquale at her side and four guards for protection. is sure they will report her actions to her mother—sure too that there are more than just the four she sees—but she’s determined that she and Pasquale will show them nothing more remarkable than an idle royal couple spending the day shopping.
keeps her arm linked through Pasquale’s as they walk down Hapantoile’s main street, lined with immaculate shopfronts selling everything from chocolates to perfumes to elaborate hats. Though it is a busy day, the other shoppers give them a wide berth, pausing to bow or curtsy as and Pasquale pass. is careful to keep a smile on her face and nods at each person, but she would much rather be doing this in disguise, sneaking out of the palace after dark like she has so many times before.
But the only people who sneak out are those with something to hide, and suspects that she couldn’t leave the palace without being followed, no matter how careful she tried to be. Better, then, to hide in plain sight.
“Oh, Pas, you must try Renauld’s Chocolates,” she says, giving him a beaming smile as she pulls him into the small shop, its large windows displaying elegant dark green boxes filled with an assortment of different-shaped and -colored chocolates that are nearly too pretty to eat. The shop is small enough that the guards are forced to wait outside, but suspects she and Pasquale are still being watched, their lips perhaps read through the window. She wonders if, as soon as they’re gone, someone will be in to question poor Renauld about what they purchased and what they said.
“Hello, Renauld,” she says, smiling at the man who has owned this shop since was a small child. He’s portly, with close-cropped ginger hair and kind eyes.
“Your Highness,” he says, bowing low before straightening up and frowning. “Or is it Your Majesty now?” he asks, eyes darting to Pasquale.
Truthfully, isn’t sure herself. People have called her both since she and Pasquale arrived. They were never properly made King and Queen of Cellaria, but since they are meant to be claiming that throne, that seems a moot point.
Rather than answering, she flashes Renauld a bright grin. “I’ve told you time and time again to call me ,” she says, knowing he won’t.
“Whatever title you might have, I’m glad to have you back in my shop,” he says before his smile flickers. “And I was very sorry to hear about your sister,” he adds.
’s chest tightens. No matter how many times she has heard those words over the last weeks, they always feel like a bucket of cold water being tossed over her head, a sharp reminder that Sophronia is dead.
“Thank you,” she manages before hurrying to change the subject. “My husband adores chocolate,” she says, squeezing Pasquale’s arm. “I told him he simply must try yours. And, of course, I’m selfish enough to want my own box. The largest sizes, filled with whatever you recommend,” she adds.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Renauld says, apparently deciding to err on the side of caution.
As he bustles to fill the boxes, feigns interest in a shelf stocked with bottles of chocolate powder, angling her body so that her face isn’t visible to the guards standing outside the window.
“Don’t speak,” she murmurs to Pasquale. “And don’t look at me. Keep your face toward the window, so they don’t think we’re conversing.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Pasquale do as she says, despite the small furrow in his brow.
“Don’t frown like that, either, or they’ll know something is wrong,” she adds. “Nothing is wrong. Apart from the obvious. But I’m fairly certain they are watching us. Reading lips, perhaps.”
Pasquale doesn’t say anything, but feels his confusion. “It’s a useful skill, though not one I ever had the patience for, admittedly. Daphne’s quite good at it, though.”
Pasquale still doesn’t speak, and takes a breath. “I can’t explain it, but I feel they’re watching closely—watching me closely. They might not think anything of our jaunt to the florist, but they might. However, if I distract them, there’s nothing stopping you from getting the dried etheldaisy on your own.”
“On my…,” Pasquale starts before remembering he isn’t supposed to talk. He turns the words into a cough, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth.
“It’ll be a simple thing—the flower shop is just two doors down. Tell them you want a bouquet of Princess ’s favorites—they’ll know what you mean. Then ask to add dried etheldaisy. Tell them I grew fond of etheldaisies in Cellaria.”
Pasquale is still silent, and though she isn’t sure what is going through his mind, she continues.
“There is little risk,” she says. “My mother underestimates you, Pas. And no one will think there is anything strange about your buying your wife flowers. The guards won’t be paying attention to you always—I’ll make sure of it.”
—
and Pasquale leave the chocolatier, Pasquale carrying two emerald-green boxes tied with gold ribbons, which he passes to a waiting guard. casts a look each way down the street, endeavoring to look as suspicious as possible. She turns back to Pasquale with a bright smile.
“Oh, darling, I forgot I have one other quick errand to run,” she says, injecting her voice with a touch too much breeziness. “I wanted to stop by the milliner to buy a hat tosend to Daphne.”
“The milliner,” Pasquale says, uncertain but trying to play along. “Which way is that?”
laughs, shaking her head. “There’s really no need for you to come with me—I’ll only be a moment and it will be frightfully boring.”
“I don’t mind coming along,” Pasquale says, and for a second worries she wasn’t clear enough in the chocolatier and he doesn’t understand their last-minute change of plans, but then she notes the glint in his eyes and she realizes he knows exactly what he’s doing—making her look even more suspicious.
“No!” she says, a little too forcefully, before making a show of softening her tone with a smile. “No, that isn’t necessary, Pas. I’ll meet you back at the palace as soon as I’m through.” Without waiting for his answer, she looks at the guards.
“You should stay with my husband,” she says, looking toward the four guards. “It’s quite possible King Nicolo sent assassins, now that he knows we are holding his sister hostage.”
She knows there is no possibility the guards will let her go alone, but asking will only make her look like she’s up to something.
“We’re under strict orders to watch you both,” the head guard, Alban, says, his eyes solely on . She’s happy to see a healthy dose of wariness there.
pretends annoyance at that. “Fine,” she says after a moment. “Though I don’t see who could possibly be lying in wait at the milliner. Two of you with me, two of you with my husband, then.”
Alban opens his mouth to argue, but doesn’t let him get that far, cutting in with her most flirtatious smile. “Come now, Alban—you and your men seem plenty capable—surely we can handle a trip to the milliner with only two guards, and Pas is only going back to the palace. Unless you think it’s outside your abilities—”
“It isn’t,” Alban says, a little too quickly. He pauses, eyes darting between and Pasquale, and can almost see the wheels of his mind turning. “Torrence—you escort Prince Pasquale back to the palace, the rest of us will go with Princess .” When raises her eyebrows at him, he shakes his head.
“The prince is not as easily recognized as you are in Hapantoile,” he says. It’s true enough, but has never had any issue with security, even when she’s slipped away from her guards altogether. But the fact that Alban sees her as a threat makes feel a bit proud. Still, she makes a show of looking annoyed.
“Is that really necessary?” she asks.
Alban nods. “Unless you’d rather we all accompany you to the milliner—”
“No,” interrupts. “Three of you is more than enough.” She turns back to Pasquale and reaches up to kiss his cheek, taking the opportunity to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll see you back at the palace.”
He looks a bit green around the gills but nods, offering a small smile before they go their separate ways.
—
enjoys taking the guards on a journey—first, at the milliner, she decides that Daphne won’t want a hat after all, since most of the fashionable ones would be quite impractical in notoriously blustery Friv, though she buys three for herself, insisting to the owner, Madame Privé, that there is no need to deliver them to the palace when her guards can carry them. She leads the guards to a bookshop next, taking her time roaming its shelves and flirting shamelessly with the stock boy, ultimately buying a stack of books for Pasquale that the guards add to their piles. Then it’s on to the perfumery, where the perfumer allows her to mix a custom fragrance for Daphne.
As the perfumer shows her around the store, letting her sample different scents, an idea occurs to . One of the codes she and her sisters learned was flowers, and how different blooms could convey different messages. In a perfume, the difference between a rose that is pink for happiness and one that is dark red for mourning will be lost, but there are other flowers that might serve to get a rudimentary message to Daphne.
As she wanders the shop, she considers exactly what she wants to say to her sister and feels at a loss.
After a moment, she selects a small bottle of marigold, for grief, and sets it on the perfumer’s counter.
She chooses rhododendron next, to signify danger, though she doubts Daphne will heed this warning more than any other she’s given.
Finally, after much deliberation, she picks up a bottle of yarrow, setting it down beside the other two. The perfumer frowns.
“Are you certain, Your Highness?” she asks. “I am not certain those scents are often blended. Perhaps nettle with the yarrow? Or vanilla with the rhododendron? Marigold with citrus might be a more balanced combination?”
pretends to consider it. “No,” she says after a moment. “I believe my sister deserves a perfume like no one else has ever had—a perfume as unique as she is.”
The perfumer hesitates a second longer but finally nods, taking the bottles. follows her to her workbench, watching as she adds a few drops of each scent to an amber-colored crystal bottle. She screws on the top with its attached coral-pink atomizer.
“Would you like to sample it before I wrap it up?” she asks.
nods and the woman squeezes the atomizer, emitting a cloud of perfume. leans in and inhales.
It is not a scent she herself would wear, and she knows Daphne prefers more subtle perfumes, but the smell is inoffensive. Certainly not odd enough to merit suspicion.
“It’s perfect—Daphne will love it,” she tells the woman. “I’m sure it will bring to mind all of the wonderful days we spent wandering Mama’s garden. Could I trouble you to have it sent directly to Friv?”
—
After the perfumery, finally returns to the palace, sensing her guards’ confusion all the way back. When she reaches her rooms and closes the door firmly behind her, Pasquale is already waiting, sitting on the overstuffed sofa with a bouquet of flowers resting on his knee. When he sees her, he bolts to stand.
“Any trouble?” she asks.
He shakes his head, holding the flowers out to her. It’s her usual assortment of hydrangeas, orchids, and hellebores, but she sees five stalks of dried etheldaisies mixed in.
“I actually found it fun,” he admits, somewhat sheepishly. “All the deception and sneaking about.”
laughs and takes one of the etheldaisies out. She examines it closely before glancing at Pasquale.
“Have you ever heard that etheldaisies are poisonous?” she asks, suddenly wary. After everything that’s transpired between them, she would be a fool to take Gisella at her word.
Pasquale shakes his head. “But I asked the florist—not in any way that would raise suspicions,” he adds quickly when gives him a horrified look. “I simply told her that there was an old Cellarian wives’ tale about etheldaisies and I didn’t want to accidentally give my wife flowers that might hurt her.”
relaxes slightly. “And what did she say?” she asks.
“She said not to worry—the only way they would be toxic is if they found their way into your bloodstream in unfathomably great quantities. Which would be impossible.”
“But Gisella is right: stardust would amplify the poison, making it more potent,” says. She turns the stem of the etheldaisy in her hands. She has the poison, now all she has to do is grind it and mix it in with her mother’s face powder. The thought of that makes her feel ill, if only fleetingly. She doesn’t think she will shed a tear for the empress, not after learning she had Sophronia killed, yet the woman is still her mother.
It needs to be done, she thinks. And since no one else will do it, it’s up to her.