A small court of ladies, officials, and entertainers attended her. The only one Isabelle recognized, by dint of the silver tiara in her braided black hair, was the queen’s stepdaughter-in-law, the crown princess Xaviera, whose lean, heart-shaped face was marred by a rigid expression that suggested a statue brought almost to life. It was generally hard to tell what the Glasswalkers were looking at with their silvered eyes, but Isabelle felt the pressure of Xaviera’s gaze the instant she came into view.
Isabelle had been informed by her Aragothic handmaidens that the crown princess was far too mannish, blunt, brash, and bellicose. Isabelle was instantly intrigued—she sounded like a kindred misfit spirit—but her curiosity was tempered by the likelihood that they were destined to be on opposite sides of a civil war.
In defiance of all tradition Xaviera wore a sword on one hip and a pistol on the other. Her skirts, though elegant, were not of a standard cut and probably concealed modifications that would allow her freedom of movement. Underneath the silk and satin, she was stretched taut as a bowstring.
Notably absent, again, was Príncipe Julio. Yes, this was technically a ladies’ court, but that did not mean men were entirely forbidden. Kantelvar had accompanied her in, and Margareta had a bodyguard, a knife-faced man with skin the color of chestnuts, armed with a sword, a dagger, and a brace of pistols. His high collar bore a whole regiment of dueling pins.
Isabelle curtsied before the queen. Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth, but she no longer had the option of silence’s shield. “Your Majesty.”
“Princess Isabelle,” Margareta said. “Rise and be welcome.”
Isabelle stood. “I bring greetings from my cousin, His Célestial Majesty Leon XIV, le Roi de Tonnerre. He bids you peace and prosperity.”
“An awkward wish, as peace and prosperity are ever at odds,” Margareta replied. “But we do not hold the message against the messenger. On behalf of my husband, His Majesty King Carlemmo II, el Rey de los Espejos, and myself, I welcome you, at long last, to our humble house.”
Isabelle extended her good hand toward Kantelvar. “If I may present my credentials as Célestial ambassadress.”
Margareta curled her fingers. Kantelvar clanked forward and handed the scroll to the bodyguard, who opened it and showed it to Margareta. She gave it a cursory glance and said, “Everything seems to be in order.”
Isabelle felt she ought to say something, but she had no idea how to begin negotiating for peace. The only way she could see to avoid a war was if the brothers agreed not to fight, but neither one of them was accessible … except here through wife and mother. From everything Isabelle had heard of Margareta, she seemed unlikely to abort her grab for power, but what about Xaviera? Could she negotiate on her husband’s behalf?
No sooner had Isabelle turned her thoughts in that direction than Margareta gestured to Xaviera. “Princesa Xaviera, make yourself known to soon-to-be–Crown Princesa Isabelle.”
In her lap, Xaviera’s hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. “My lord and husband commands me to bring you greetings, Princesa.”
Margareta scowled, and Isabelle judged it was because Xaviera had obeyed her command while simultaneously denying her authority.
Isabelle caught Xaviera’s silver gaze as best she could. “I … Please give your husband my thanks. I pray you are reunited soon in happiness and health.”
Margareta said, “Alas, that is a prayer unlikely to be answered. Xaviera does her best to project hardiness but her fitness is doubtful.”
Xaviera’s sinewy features grew even harder. Her reflective eyes had a blue patina Isabelle had not seen on any other Aragoth, like tarnished silver. Her painted lips were also creased around the edges like an old woman’s.
“You question my fitness and yet you would let this in.” Xaviera’s hand jerked toward Isabelle. “Misbegotten and malformed.”
Isabelle’s cheeks burned.
“Xaviera! That is uncalled for,” Margareta snapped, but the crinkles around her eyes were smug.
She set this up. Of course there was nothing Margareta would like better than for Isabelle and Xaviera to be at each other’s throats.
Isabelle let go a long breath and began peeling off her right-hand glove.
Xaviera was riveted, but Margareta leaned forward. “Isabelle, what are you doing?”
“The truth of a thing is never as horrible as the anticipation of that thing,” Isabelle said, a steady mantra in her life. She had been cursed with the title of Breaker’s get since she was too young to understand anything but its hateful tone. To this day, she remembered clinging to Jean-Claude’s leg, weeping herself insensible while he stroked her hair and made her say a hundred times that she was not touched by the Breaker. It ought to have been easier to deal with by now, but some types of pain just got worse over time.
She pulled her wormfinger from her glove and held it up for display. It wriggled like a worm on a fishhook.
Xaviera growled, “You are Breaker touched, unclean.”
Margareta relaxed.
Kantelvar stepped up from behind Isabelle as if to shield her. “She has been tested and found untainted.”
Xaviera sneered at him. “Tested by you, oh web spinner. Your threads dangle from every ear—”
“Silence,” Margareta said to Xaviera. “One more outburst from you and I will have you removed.”
Xaviera’s hands twitched, but she kept them carefully clear of her weapons.
Isabelle cleared her throat and stepped around Kantelvar. She held up her hand and examined it as if seeing it for the first time. “The womb injury to my hand is a fact, nothing more.” Then she swiveled her gaze to meet Xaviera’s squarely. “People have been judging me by my hand for my whole life, as if it is the only thing about me that matters.” Then she placed her hand over her belly, her womb, that organ that had failed Xaviera so bitterly and for which she had been roundly condemned. “I know exactly how much that hurts.”
Xaviera caught the implication straight to the gut and recoiled into her chair. Isabelle kept her gaze fixed, trying with all her might to convey, We are not so different, you and I.
At last, Xaviera recovered, squared her shoulders, and addressed Kantelvar. “Your Exaltedness, I apologize. Truly none can find fault with you. You are always to be thanked when victory is to be celebrated or justice is said to be done. I believe there is not a soul in this kingdom that does not owe you some small favor.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Margareta. “Some owe you their whole status and station. I am sure that the rumors that you seek to advance your own cause over all others are completely unfounded. They are merely the mumblings of those who lack your favor, as are the accusations that you grant no favor you cannot take away again, thus binding your supplicants to your will.”
Though Xaviera spoke to Kantelvar, Isabelle felt the words smite her in the chest, a warning, but was it a gift in earnest or an attempt to divide her from an ally?
Margareta said, “Xaviera, you are overwrought. Go to your room and stay there until summoned.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Then she met Isabelle’s gaze again and said, “I am pleased to meet you, Princesa Isabelle.”