Chapter 69-The world best tasting wine
By the third glass of wine, the ballroom had become considerably easier to tolerate.
Not prettier.
It had already been beautiful in the way imperial celebrations were always beautiful aggressively, almost violently so.
Crystal hung from the ceiling in enough layers to turn every candle flame into a hundred smaller lights.
Gold traced the edges of the walls, curled around pillars, gleamed beneath the dancers' feet, and flashed each time someone lifted a jeweled hand.
Music filled the room without ever becoming loud enough to interrupt the conversations people were pretending were casual.
Nothing in court was casual.
Not the laughter.
Not the dancing.
Not the way a duchess placed one hand on another woman's arm as though affection had brought them close when what she truly wanted was information.
Still, the wine softened the sharpest edges of the room.
Warmth settled gradually beneath my skin, first in my chest, then my face, then the tips of my fingers each time I lifted the glass.
I did not feel unsteady. My thoughts remained clear.
Perhaps clearer than usual, though that might have been the sort of confidence alcohol encouraged people to mistake for wisdom.
I finished another sip and looked across the ballroom.
My husband had been trapped.
There was no gentler word for it.
He stood beneath one of the western arches surrounded by several noblemen and two visiting kings.
His posture remained straight. His expression remained controlled.
Anyone unfamiliar with him might have believed he was listening with great interest to whatever trade dispute had claimed his attention.
I knew better.
His right hand remained tucked behind his back, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing against one another a subtle habit he had never managed to break whenever he was uncomfortable and trying to steady himself.
His left arm hung loosely at his side, deliberately still.
Every few breaths, his jaw tightened before forcing itself to relax again.
To anyone else, he looked perfectly composed.
I knew the truth.
He hated every second of this.
One of the noblemen laughed too loudly at something Achille had not intended as a joke.
Another leaned closer, speaking with the eager expression of someone attempting to make himself unforgettable.
My husband listened because duty demanded it, answering in short, precise sentences that likely sounded dismissive to everyone except him.
I could almost hear his explanation later.
I answered the question.
They asked whether I supported expanding the southern roads.
I said yes.
Why would I say more?
Because normal people enjoy conversation, I would tell him.
Then he would remind me that most people at court were not normal.
He would not be wrong.
I smiled into my glass.
Unlike my husband, I enjoyed speaking to people.
Not because I trusted them.
That would have been foolish.
But conversation interested me. People revealed themselves constantly when they believed they were revealing nothing.
They showed envy through compliments. Disapproval through concern.
Ambition through excessive loyalty. The court was filled with snakes, but even snakes became predictable once one learned how they moved.
Achille saw danger and wanted it removed.
I preferred watching it coil.
A servant passed carrying another tray. I exchanged my empty glass for a full one before returning my attention to my husband.
He looked toward me.
Only briefly.
His eye found mine across the room with the ease of someone who had spent years learning where I stood even when surrounded by hundreds of people. His expression did not change, but I recognized the question in it.
Are you well?
I lifted the glass slightly.
His gaze dropped to it.
Then returned to my face.
A faint line appeared between his brows.
I smiled.
The line deepened.
Before he could escape the men surrounding him and come investigate how many glasses I had accepted, a group of women approached me.
Five noblewomen.
Two I recognized immediately. Lady Marielle, wife of the northern governor, wore silver and black with a string of dark pearls at her throat.
Duchess Sera stood beside her in pale green, smiling with careful warmth.
The remaining three had been introduced earlier, though their titles had already begun blending together beneath the music, wine, and endless ceremony.
They curtsied.
I greeted them warmly.
Not falsely.
Warmth did not require trust.
"Your Majesty," Lady Marielle said, lifting her head. "You look beautiful ."
"Thank you."
"The princesses are gorgeous ."
"And loud," I replied.
The women laughed.
Not too much.
Just enough to show they understood I had made a joke without risking the appearance that they found the imperial heirs ridiculous.
Duchess Sera glanced toward the corridor through which the twins had been carried earlier. "They appeared so calm."
"They were exhausted."
"Elowen seemed enchanted by the chandeliers."
"She has an obsession with bright thing"
That earned more genuine laughter.
A woman with auburn hair and a diamond comb leaned closer. "She is already showing excellent taste."
"She is showing an interest in stealing anything that reflects light."
"Then she will fit beautifully into court."
I looked toward her. She froze for half a breath, uncertain whether I had been insulted.
Then I laughed.
She joined me quickly.
The wine moved warmly through my body, loosening the muscles that had remained tense since entering the hall.
Lady Marielle placed one hand over her heart. "I must confess, Your Majesty, I felt such sympathy when I heard how small you and His Majesty intended to keep the nursery household."
There it was.
Concern.
Carefully dressed.
I tilted my head. "Sympathy?"
Her expression softened further. "Only because twins are such demanding little creatures. Beautiful, of course. A blessing. But exhausting."
The other women murmured their agreement.
Duchess Sera nodded. "When my eldest was born, we had twenty-three people assigned to his household, and I still believed I would lose my mind."
Achille would have declared war on the nursery before allowing twenty-three strangers near our daughters.
A blond woman standing near the back of the group lifted her glass. "We heard His Majesty reduced the princesses' attendants considerably."
"To ten," Lady Marielle said. "Including guards." Her tone suggested we had decided to raise the girls alone in the wilderness.
"That is true."
"Oh, Your Majesty." The auburn-haired woman looked genuinely troubled. Or practiced enough to resemble genuine concern. "That must be terribly difficult."
I smiled.
"It is not as difficult as people imagine."
Their expressions changed subtly.
Not disbelief.
Interest.
I continued before they could ask.
"We wanted the nursery to remain small. It feels more personal that way."
"That must be lovely," Duchess Sera said.
"It is."
And it was.
The days had been exhausting. Chaotic. Often unpleasantly damp.
There were hours when both daughters cried at once and neither Achille nor I understood why.
There were nights when sleep came in fragments too small to feel useful.
There had been milk on dresses, ruined shirts, blankets washed twice in one evening, and conversations interrupted because someone made a sound from the nursery that might have been distress or merely outrage.
I loved it.
Not every part.
I was not foolish enough to romanticize exhaustion.
But I loved knowing my daughters.
Not as distant little figures carried into a drawing room once each morning by women who understood their habits better than I did.
I knew the sound Elowen made before she began truly crying.
I knew Lysandra rubbed her left eye when tired and pulled at the blanket when she wanted to be moved.
I knew Elowen liked her bottles warmer and Lysandra became offended if anyone tried feeding her while she was distracted by a conversation.
I knew them.
They knew me.
That mattered more than uninterrupted sleep.
Lady Marielle smiled. "You must have developed such a close bond."
"We have."
"How wonderful."
The words were kind.
The eyes surrounding me were measuring. I could almost feel the questions they did not ask. Which maid held the princesses most often? Who controlled the nursery schedule? Which attendant could be bribed? Who comforted the future empress when neither parent was present? Who had access?
That was the part no one understood.
Or perhaps they understood too well and disliked the answer.
Our daughters had few attendants because too many caregivers created too many attachments.
Children loved without knowing the political cost.
They did not recognize ambition. They did not understand when affection had been deliberately manufactured.
At six months old, a familiar voice could become safety.
Familiar hands could become comfort. A person who arrived each morning, soothed every cry, offered every bottle, and remained present through every frightened night could become necessary.
And necessary people were dangerous.
Not always because they meant harm.
Sometimes because others discovered their value.
A nurse devoted to the child might still have a greedy husband.
A maid might have a threatened wife.
A guard might believe he deserved influence because a princess reached for him before her own mother.
Attachment became leverage quickly in court.
Once a child loved someone, removing that person could feel like punishment. Betrayal. Abandonment. A daughter old enough to remember might resent her parents for dismissing the only attendant she trusted, even if the dismissal saved her life.
Achille understood that instinctively.
Perhaps too instinctively.
He had grown attached to very few people as a child because nearly everyone around him had belonged to the crown before they belonged to him.
The people who fed him reported to someone.
The people who dressed him carried court gossip into other rooms.