Sophie knew that meant she had made up her mind. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Then you shouldn’t have taught us so well.”
Her mother laughed. “I should have locked you up in a tower when I had the chance.” Her smile died. “Are you truly happy about this marriage, darling?”
Sophie nodded. “I think he’s a good man. Honestly, I would prefer a little more time to get to know him better, but in the current circumstances, that seems unlikely. The queen-to-be is keen to get everything settled again. But you don’t need to worry. I’m not putting on a good face. I think Lieutenant Mackenzie and I will suit each other. Which is probably more than some royal witches can say.”
“My little girl, a royal witch.” Her mother shook her head. “It seems so odd. It was barely yesterday you were toddling around the garden and making mischief. Still, if you say you are happy, then I am satisfied. And I will invite your Madame de Montesse to the house. Did you have a day in mind?”
“The queen-to-be said she was going to announce my betrothal at the audience on third day. I told her you had a dress made for my birthday that would be suitable for court, so I’m sure I’ll be able to get away to see you second day. Tomorrow will be too full with the funeral and everything that comes with it. Funerals,” she amended softly. “Lord Inglewood is to be buried tomorrow as well. After the king. And Lord Farkeep. And others.” She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat and the prickle in her spine. So many dead. She kept forgetting, being caught up in everything that was happening to her. Which somehow made it worse when she did remember.
“A hard day,” her mother agreed, her pretty face full of sadness. She sighed, then straightened her shoulders. “But only a day. Funerals are an ending and a beginning. Remember that. We have to let go and move on. Easier said than done, perhaps, but no less true for that.”
Her sad expression brightened suddenly. “And look, here comes your father. Head still safely attached to his shoulders, so it seems he neither exploded nor provoked the queen-to-be too badly. That’s a relief.”
First day was as grim as Sophie had feared. She sat in the temple behind Eloisa with the other ladies-in-waiting as the rites for King Stefan were held. Eloisa sat like a statue, head held high, during the entire ceremony. In contrast, Margaretta had wept against her husband’s shoulder for the entire length of the rites. Toward the end of the ritual, Sophie found herself wishing someone would slap the princess. She could at least try to maintain her composure when her sister was not in the position to be able to share her display of grief. It seemed selfish somehow. But that was Margaretta. It was just as well for Anglion that she was the younger sister.
After the rites, the ladies accompanied Eloisa and Margaretta and the invited members of the court to see King Stefan interred in the Fairley vault in the catacombs beneath the temple, which was a singularly unpleasant experience. Sophie had never been into the catacombs before, and she fervently wished she would never have to do so again. Not that that wish was likely to come true.
The tunnels, lit with earth-lights, were too dim and too narrow. And despite the bowls of scented oils and hanging bunches of herbs everywhere, the stink of death was unmistakable. Decay and old rot. A dry, sour smell that made Sophie want to retch. But she bit her cheek and tried to breathe shallowly, determined not to make a spectacle of herself as Margaretta had.
When they emerged back aboveground, she almost gave in to the urge to cry in relief. Instead she took refuge in one of the bathrooms, to splash her face with water and try to wash some of the stink she was sure lingered on her skin away before the ritual meal of salted bread and wine. Both of which stuck in her throat, though the wine at least offered some relief, just strong enough to put a warm glow of distance between her and the rest of the afternoon, when they all sat through several more sets of rites. Lord Inglewood’s, Lord Farkeep’s, and then the rest of the Farkeep family.
Sophie tried not to watch Cameron during his father’s rites, afraid that her face might give away how much she wished she could sit beside him, hold his hand. Do something to ease the pain she had seen in his blue eyes when he’d passed her as he and his brothers had escorted their father’s coffin into the temple.
He didn’t look at her, either. Which made it both better and worse. She gulped the wine a little more eagerly at the completion of those rites. And was spared another trip down to the catacombs—the Mackenzies having chosen to have only family present, as was their right.
By the time she reached her room much later that night, the wine she had drunk and the sheer exhaustion of the strain of the day sent her down into the deepest sleep she’d had for days.
Sophie woke on second day feeling better than she had any right to. Sleep, it seemed, could cure an untold number of ills, including too much funeral wine. Plus, today was the day she was going to talk to Madame de Montesse.
Her cheerful mood lasted until she reached Eloisa’s chambers. The atmosphere there was still distinctly somber, and everyone was on edge and fractious as they tried to do all the tasks that needed to be done before tomorrow’s audience. In the midst of it, Eloisa was very cool and calm, but that didn’t ease Sophie’s mind any. Surely it would be more normal if Eloisa lost her temper, just for an instant.