“I should think you would be more focused on this ghastly murder under your roof.” Saoirse’s voice is in A chord—high and tinny, with that same pretentious lilt her father uses. “To think, another tributary used to—”
“What do you want?” Annika cuts her off sharply. “You are ruining an otherwise lovely walk through the grounds with your chatter.”
I barely stifle my laugh. Annika is nothing if not blunt.
Saoirse’s responding smile is smug. “I was giving the others a history lesson.”
“Still not exciting.”
“We have an outstanding library in Kettling. Even better than the one in Cirilea.”
“Thank you for informing us. I’ll be sure to tell Zander, so he can appropriate the best of your collection.”
Saoirse’s lips tighten with annoyance, either because of Annika’s constant interruptions or the clout she casually tosses around. “Anyhow, there is an entire section dedicated to King Ailill and Queen Isla, some of the texts written by my own ancestors. I was perusing the oldest of them not long ago—”
Annika rolls her eyes.
“—and there was mention of a gift given to King Ailill by Malachi himself. A set of cuffs made from a token to entrap the key caster Farren and suppress her power. They were assumed destroyed when she died.” Saoirse’s eyes flash to me, then to my wrists. “Those are Ailill’s cuffs that you are wearing, are they not?” she asks with mock innocence.
“You will address Her Highness suitably,” Elisaf says, cordial but with a rare edge to his tone.
She curtsies formally, but her lips curl with disdain.
I hesitate, fighting the urge to check Annika’s face for the right answer. Wendeline said most people would have no idea what these cuffs were, but it’s not surprising there would be books written about them, or that someone with aspirations for the throne would educate herself. “They are,” I say evenly. Lying is pointless when you are caught.
She makes a point of flashing a shocked glance at her friends. “It’s odd that the king would feel the need to restrain his betrothed, if she is innocent of the high treason she was once accused.”
Clever. She’s planting seeds of doubt. Her hens will run off and scatter that whisper in every direction.
Annika’s eyes narrow. “How dare you—”
“Zander did not require that I wear them. I suggested it,” I cut off Annika’s admonishment. While it might feel good to berate Saoirse, it’ll only give whatever rumors she’s cultivating faster legs.
Saoirse’s eyebrows arch with surprise. “You chose to weaken yourself in such a way?”
“Yes.” My mind is working fast over my story. We should have had one already. Then again, I wasn’t supposed to engage with this serpent. Oddly enough, my heart rate is not spiking with panic as it usually does. Instead, I feel a surge of courage channel through me, much like what I feel whenever I’m reaching for a necklace. “As a testament to my loyalty.”
She presses her palm against her chest. “So you are admitting that the king doubts your loyalty?”
She deserves an award for her display, and for putting words in my mouth. “Zander does not doubt me for a second. But I’m sure there are those in the court willing to believe all sorts of unflattering lies about me, especially those who are trying desperately to take my throne next to his.”
Anger flares in her eyes, as I expected it to with those words. I’m an outsider, a Ybarisan taking an Islorian’s seat of power. I tamp down the urge to smile.
The women surrounding Saoirse exchange nervous glances. It can’t be a surprise to them or anyone in this court what Lord Adley or his daughter are after.
Saoirse lifts her chin. “I haven’t heard of someone suggesting such a thing.”
Beside me, Annika chortles.
“I guess your sources aren’t reliable.”
“Dare I say, I think they are quite so.” Her gaze darts to my shoulder.
Does she know the truth about the daaknar attack? Or is she trying to con me?
I was proficient at swindling people in my old life. It went hand in hand with thieving—assuming fake identities, gaining people’s trust. There was always an endgame with dollar signs. Here, it’s about gaining information, about seeing a person’s cards without them realizing it. Regardless, the fastest way to force someone to show their playing hand is to bluff. Maybe that’s what she’s doing.
Unfortunately for her, I have a bit of practice with that as well. “Then I guess they would have also confirmed that an esteemed member of the court was seen with a Ybarisan, and given the only source of deliquesced merth would be from the Ybarisans, it would stand to reason that we should suspect that court member of having a hand in poisoning Lord Quill. Isn’t that right, Annika?”
Annika’s eyes widen, but her blond head bobs. “My brother the king was suitably appalled when he heard who was conspiring against him.”
“Who is it?” a willowy brunette whispers, and then clamps her lips as if having forgotten herself.
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly share names. Not yet anyway.” Annika’s frown is masterful. “Could we, Romeria?”
I mimic her expression. “No, certainly not until the king decides how he wishes to proceed. And we wouldn’t want to take that pleasure away from him.”
“Unlike Ybarisans, Islorians do not govern based on hearsay.” Saoirse holds her chin especially high, but in her coal-black eyes, I catch the faintest, fastest flicker of something.
“I wouldn’t call it hearsay, given it’s coming right from the source.”
Her eyes bulge with shock before she smooths her expression. “The prisoners have broken their silence?”
I hesitate, wondering how far down this bluff I should go.
“I believe the king has requested your presence at this hour.” Elisaf’s voice cuts through the tension as surely as if he’d swung his blade through the air. Bells toll in the distance.
“Always a delight, Saoirse.” Annika strolls on, and I quickly follow, not daring to steal a glance over my shoulder.
“Did Zander actually want me for something?” I whisper.
“He did not summon you.” Elisaf’s lips curve. “But I imagine he will want to learn of the trouble you and his sister have concocted.”
I replay the conversation in my mind, trying to find holes I might have inadvertently stepped in. “I just wanted to find out what she knows. And shut her up.”
Annika cackles. “I think I dislike this version of Romeria less than the other one.”
“Thanks?” Worry edges into my thoughts. “Is that vein in Zander’s forehead going to throb again?”
Elisaf’s smile widens. “I imagine so, Your Highness.”
Blades clang and shouts ring as I’m sketching Korsakov’s left eye—slightly higher than his right, the outer lid drooping thanks to a four-inch scar at the corner. I always wanted to ask where he earned that mar, but I never had the nerve. Korsakov didn’t like being questioned.
My ear catches approaching footfalls from the direction of Zander’s terrace. Zander normally moves like a wraith; he never makes a sound. But I know without looking that it’s him. I’ve been waiting for him since Elisaf deposited me into my room an hour ago, my anxiety growing with each passing minute as I pondered how angry he might be with me for provoking Saoirse. That I hear his slow, measured footsteps now must be intentional on his part, and it means one of two things—he doesn’t want to frighten me.