“I like the silver foliage. Don’t you agree, little sister?”
Levana tore her gaze away from the baby, who was laid out on an embroidered quilt in the center of the room as if this were a common day care and not a royal meeting to discuss the country’s upcoming anniversary celebration. There were a number of designers, florists, decorators, bakers, caterers, and artisans standing against the room’s back wall, each waiting to give their opinions and offer their expertise. It took a moment for Levana to realize her sister was asking about two enormous bouquets, almost identical but for some fuzzy silver leaves tucked into one, as opposed to more vibrant emerald green in the other.
“Silver,” she said. “Yes. It’s very nice.”
“In fact, add more,” said Channary, tapping a finger against her lips. “I want the whole room to sparkle. Is everyone listening?” Her voice rose. “Sparkle. Glitz. I want every surface to shimmer. I want every guest to be bedazzled. I want a reputation of throwing the best galas this city has ever seen. I want them to talk about it for generations. Is that understood?”
Nods of understanding were thrown around, but Channary had already stopped paying attention to them as she scanned the offerings before her. Platters of tiny desserts and cocktails with little ice cubes in them, each cube carved into the shape of the queen’s crown.
“No, no, none of this is good enough.” Channary grabbed a tray of hors d’oeuvres and tossed it against the wall. Everyone flinched. “I said I want it to sparkle—is that so hard to grasp? Are you all blind?”
No one pointed out that she had not told them this before. But of course, they should have known before coming to this meeting. Naturally.
Levana shook her head behind her sister’s back.
The baby started crying.
Wheeling around, Channary tossed her arm toward Levana. “Take the child.”
Levana blinked. “Me? Why me? Where’s her nanny?”
“Oh, for star’s sake, she only wants to be held.” Channary started to cough. She turned hastily away, coughing into her elbow, as ladylike as she could. It seemed to Levana that she’d been coughing a lot lately—for weeks, if not months—and though Channary insisted it was only a temporary virus, it seemed to go on and on.
A servant rushed forward with a glass of water, but Channary grabbed it and threw it at the wall, too. Glass shattered across the stone as Channary stomped out of the room, still coughing.
The baby’s screams grew more fervent. Levana approached her, hesitant.
Someone clapped. “Let’s adjourn for today,” said one of the event planners, ushering away the artisans. “Come back tomorrow with … your improved work.”
Levana stood over the child for one dread-filled moment, watching at how her face reddened and pinched, at how her chubby arms writhed against the blanket. Her tufts of dark brown hair wisped in every direction.
Though the child was seven months old and hinting every day that she was about to start crawling, Levana could still count the times she’d held her niece on one hand. There was always someone else there to take the baby, and just like with Winter, this child did not seem to be warming up to her at all.
Huffing, she squared her shoulders and crouched down, scooping up the baby as gently as she could. Standing, she nestled the child in the crook of her arm and did her best to coo comforting words at her, but the crying went on and on, little fists thumping the air, beating against Levana’s chest.
With an annoyed sigh, Levana paced back and forth through the room, before stepping out onto the balcony that overlooked Artemisia Lake. She could see members of the court milling about the lush palace gardens, a few of the aristocrats out in boats upon the lake’s surface. In the sky, the Earth was nearly full. Huge and blue and white and stunning amid the starscape.
Once, she had persuaded Evret to go out on a boat with her, but he’d spent the whole time wishing he was back home with Winter, going on and on about how quickly she was growing, and speculating on what her first word might be.
That seemed like a long time ago.
In fact, it had been a long time since they’d done much of anything together.
Bouncing little Selene as gently as she could, Levana examined the face of her future queen. She wondered if this child would grow up to be as spoiled and ignorant as her mother, who cared more about the flower arrangements than political policy.
“I would be a better queen than your mother,” she whispered. “I would be a better queen than you.”
The baby continued to wail, spoiled and stupid.
There was no point thinking it, anyway. Channary was queen. Selene was the heir. Levana was just the princess, with a guard for a husband and a daughter without royal blood.
“I could drop you over this balcony, you know,” she said, cooing the words softly. “You couldn’t do anything about it.”
The baby did not respond to the threat.