The room comes to a stunned halt as she jumps back from the table, covered in blood, red running over her hands and down her beautiful taffeta dress. Reni is already at her side, but she raises her wet hands to hold him back and spins on the silver illusionist. “You vile creature!”
The man doesn’t grin, his hands raised. “No, you bring the vile creatures here, Majesty. You bring the Safire to our peaceful kingdom and we won’t have it. We won’t be silent. We won’t watch our home become a piece in their new empire!”
“Get him out of here,” Mother demands, and it’s then I realize, at last, she isn’t harmed at all.
Only an illusion.
Guards grip the man’s arms, Lord Jerig escorting him from the room, and Uncle watches them leave with a perturbed expression.
“This court grows wild,” he mutters, and I’m not sure if it’s meant for Havis or me.
Possibly neither of us.
He leaves to assist Mother, who’s struggling to cross the marble floor with a gown soaked in red liquid, her skin still marked by false blood.
I stand there, aware of the eyes that flick from Mother to Reni to me, courtiers wondering at what’s just occurred, wondering at why a person would do such a thing and how they should feel about it.
“On that note,” Havis says after a moment, “have a pleasant evening, Princess.”
His voice is pure satisfaction.
* * *
I escape from Heathwyn as soon as I can after dinner. I show her the painting from the woods, of the deer and the mountains, and say it’s a gift for my mother on this difficult day. It’s a bit splattered-looking, since I had to leap up and save the fawn, but she buys the lie and pats my cheek. “You’re such a sweet daughter, my lamb.”
Yes, a good daughter who’s also about to perform necessary subterfuge.
I slip down the dark halls, aware this is a gamble, but I’m counting on Reni and Uncle and everyone else not to let a stunt like the illusionist’s go undebated. And I’m right. There’s no sound from behind Mother’s door, only a maid retreating from the room with a golden tray of empty dishes. Everyone important is meeting in the throne room.
I hurry through the door as soon as the maid disappears.
Mother’s parlour greets me with shadows, faint moonlight illuminating the bright colours of her woven rug, a gift from Resya. I flick on the lamp, my painting in hand. The chandelier and finely wrought walls gleam curiously at me.
Determined, I tiptoe for her bedroom, certain she wouldn’t tuck the letter away in her mahogany desk. That would be too straightforward. If the letter from Havis is filled with unwelcome secrets, then she’d hide it well, perhaps in her private vanity.
It’s what I’d do, in any case.
I approach the beautiful cabinet, glass perfume bottles glinting on a lace runner with familiar scents of her—notes of jasmine and saffron and citrus. Guilt nips inside as I rest my hand on the first cream-coloured drawer.
What sort of daughter rummages through her mother’s vanity?
What sort of daughter rummages through her Queen’s vanity?
Well, I suppose I do, and I have no choice. Before I can talk myself into retreat, I open the drawer. The first two yield only silken scarves and delicate underthings and makeup, but the third drawer holds a tempting painted box. I lift the top, unable to resist.
The face of my father stares back.
Boreas Isendare.
Stunned, I sink to my knees on the wooden floor, box in hand, the sight of his face so unexpected and wrenching that my hand trembles holding the photograph. Mother doesn’t allow pictures of him displayed anywhere, only his formal oil portrait in the hall of Etanian kings. Yet here he is—the real him, not in paint, hidden away with dried, sacred orchids. No one is supposed to pick those flowers. It’s considered unlucky to do so. But they’re here. He’s here. In my hand. A playful quirk to his smile, the gentleness I’ve tried to cling to with all my being, and all I want is to hold him forever.
There are other pictures, too, of Reni and me as children. Mother and Father riding horses together. She never rides, not that I’ve seen, but she looks confident in the saddle, and wearing pants. Unladylike pants.
Of course she’d keep that from me!
A feather curves along a photograph at the back, vibrant blue, half-covered behind the others, and I pull it free. It’s a woman with golden hair, her eyes like the sea. Though the photo is faint with age, her shy gaze meets mine, her head tilted to the side, blonde strands captured and held in place by the beautiful feather. Beyond her, grey water meets a rocky shoreline. A friend of Mother’s from long ago? I don’t know why else she’d be here, though she’s no one I’ve seen at court, nor does she look Resyan. The words “Sapphie elski’han” are written in cursive along the bottom, and I sound them out beneath my breath.
Sapphie elski’han.
They carry a familiar, lilting Southern tune.
Pulling myself together, I place the photographs back into the box, memorizing the precious details of Father’s face, then I yank open the final drawer and discover my instinct is right. My mother and I are too similar. Hidden beneath an underslip, poking out invitingly, is the edge of an envelope.
Who else would dare venture here?
I open it quickly.
Sinora,
Forgive me for coming to you this way, but I have no other choice.
Seath wants more. His plans are not what we thought and he grows impatient. Your brother refuses to discuss terms—I know he doesn’t trust me. Please find a way to meet me alone. I’m concerned for what’s next, with Dakar, but I have a proposition.
Gref
My breath cartwheels to a halt in my chest. All air leaves my lungs, the names Seath and Dakar lighting up like electricity, brightening and searing through my brain.
My hand shakes more than when it held my father’s face.
I’m ready to be ill.
The whole world feels suddenly hot at my neck, guilt and fear needling my skin, and I refold the letter, shutting the drawer wildly. I rise from my aching knees and stumble for the door, but then remember my ruse.
I drop the painting on my mother’s bed.
Then I flee like a caught spy, switching off the lights, returning the room to shadows, and fly out the door.
I run right into Reni.
“Ali?” he asks, arms outstretched to stop me. He stares in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
My head struggles to work properly as I glance right and left down the empty night hall. “I made Mother a painting. That’s all.”
“A painting?”
“Yes. Because it’s been ten years.”
He nods. He knows that today is all about forgetting, even though we can’t.
But then I realize he’s alone as well, no sign of Mother or Uncle. “And what are you doing here?”
At this, my ever-confident brother blanches. I’ve caught him off guard and he has no time to concoct his story. He didn’t plan ahead for this, evidently.
“You’re here to find the letter, aren’t you?” I whisper.
“And you’re not?” he hisses back.
“Either way, you’re too late. It isn’t there.”
Reni frowns, peering at me closely, though I’ve never given him a reason to doubt me. I long to tell him what I’ve read. The dark words that threaten to tie our own mother to Seath. Seath of the Nahir! Leader of the Southern uprising and the last person a Queen of the North can be associated with. It must be him—how many Southern men go by that one name alone? But I can’t tell Reni. Though he carries the blood of kings, though he’s the one who will take the throne and continue our line into another generation, he is also my brother, and I know him too well. This letter would spark him to reckless action, and I can’t be responsible for dividing our family even further.
“Very well, then,” he says. “But we must keep our eyes and ears open—you with Havis, can you do it?”
I nod, since now Havis holds even more danger than a marriage proposal.
He wants more than my hand in this game.