For my brother, Jerry.
Because even when we fought with each other,
it was always us against the world.
It is said that the stars shine brighter on the princesses’ birthday, but the princesses themselves think that is balderdash. The stars look the same as they always do, and this year, on the night before the three of them leave their home and one another for the first time in their lives, everything—the stars included—seems far darker.
The sounds from the party drift through the palace as the clock nears midnight, but the princesses have abandoned the celebration, Daphne plucking a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket while Beatriz bats her eyes at the server and Sophronia keeps a lookout to ensure that their mother doesn’t see them. They have done their duty, danced and toasted, shaken hands and kissed cheeks, smiled until their faces ached, but they want to spend their last few minutes of girlhood the same way they came into the world sixteen years ago: together.
Their childhood rooms haven’t changed much since they were moved there from the nursery—still three identical white rooms connected to a shared parlor, each with the same white canopied bed piled high with silk pillows, the same birch desk and armoire, inlaid with gold in a pattern of vines and flowers, and the same plush rose-colored rug stretching across the floor. The shared parlor is full of overstuffed velvet seating and a grand marble fireplace carved to represent the constellations that moved across the sky at the time of their birth—a full moon of inlaid opal at the center, surrounded by the constellations: the Thorned Rose, the Hungry Hawk, the Lonely Heart, the Crown of Flames, and, of course, the Sisters Three.
Rumor has it that Empress Margaraux had tasked the royal empyrea, Nigellus, to use magic to ensure they were born when the Sisters Three crossed overhead, but others say that’s ridiculous—after all, why would she have wished for three girls when a single boy would have been far more helpful?
Others whisper that the Sisters Three was the constellation that Nigellus had pulled a star down from to grant the empress’s wish for children, though none appear to be missing. But she must have wished, on that everyone agrees. How else could the emperor have suddenly fathered three daughters, at the age of seventy, when his last wife and his countless mistresses had never fallen pregnant?
And then there is the matter of the princesses’ eyes—not their mother’s brown or their father’s blue but the startouched silver that only graced those conceived with magic. Those with stardust running through their veins.
Sitting on the rug before the mantel, Daphne can’t help but glance at the constellations as she adjusts the skirt of her green organza dress around her like flower petals.
Babies born beneath the Thorned Rose are known to be beautiful.
Those born beneath the Hungry Hawk are ambitious.
Lonely Heart children are known to sacrifice more than others.
The Crown of Flames offers its offspring power.
And the Sisters Three bestow balance and harmony.
There are exceptions, of course—Daphne knows of plenty of people born beneath the Thorned Rose who did not grow up beautiful and many born beneath the Crown of Flames who became chimney sweeps and cabbage farmers. But still, more people believe in the omens of the stars than don’t—even Daphne, logical as she is about most things, takes the daily horoscopes laid out with her breakfast to heart.
Her eyes keep drifting to the mantel as she struggles to open the stolen bottle of champagne with her glass nail file. After some digging, the stopper comes loose with a loud pop that makes her shriek in surprise, the cork careening into the air and hitting the chandelier above, making the crystals chime together. The champagne bubbles over onto her dress and the rug, cold and wet.
“Careful!” Sophronia cries out, hurrying to the adjoining powder room for towels.
Beatriz snorts, holding three delicate crystal glasses to the mouth of the bottle, letting Daphne fill them up almost to the brim. “Or what?” she calls after Sophronia. “It isn’t as if we’re going to be here long enough to get in trouble for ruining a rug.”
Sophronia returns, towel in hand, and begins mopping up the spilled champagne anyway, her brow furrowed.
Seeing her expression, Beatriz softens. “Sorry, Sophie,” she says before taking a sip from one of the glasses and passing the others to her sisters. “I didn’t mean…” She trails off, unsure of what, exactly, she did mean.
Sophronia doesn’t seem to know either, but she drops the sopping towel on the floor and sinks down on the sofa beside Beatriz, who drapes an arm over her shoulders, rustling the taffeta of her rose-pink off-the-shoulder gown in the process.
Daphne looks at them over the rim of her champagne glass, downing half of it in a single gulp before her eyes fall to the wet towel.
By the time that’s dry, she thinks, we’ll have left this place. We won’t see one another for a year.
The first part is tolerable enough—Bessemia is home, but they have always known they would leave when they came of age. Beatriz south to Cellaria, Sophronia west to Temarin, and Daphne north to Friv. They have been preparing for their duties for as long as Daphne can remember, to marry the princes they’ve been betrothed to and drive their countries to war against one another, allowing their mother to sweep in and pick up the shattered pieces and add them to her domain like new jewels for her crown.
But that’s all for the future. Daphne pushes her mother’s plots aside and focuses on her sisters. The sisters she won’t see again for a year, if everything goes to plan. They haven’t spent more than a few hours apart in their entire lives. How will they manage an entire year?
Beatriz must see Daphne’s smile wobble, because she gives a dramatic roll of her eyes—her own tell for when she’s trying not to show her emotions.
“Come on,” Beatriz says, her voice cracking slightly as she pats the sofa on her other side.
Daphne stands up from the rug for an instant before falling onto the sofa beside Beatriz gracelessly, letting her head drop onto Beatriz’s bare shoulder. Beatriz’s strapless sky-blue gown looks terribly uncomfortable, its corseted bodice digging into her skin and leaving behind red indents that peek over the top, but Beatriz doesn’t appear to feel it.
Daphne wonders if hiding her feelings is a trick Triz picked up during her training with the palace courtesans—a necessity, their mother said, to fulfill her own objective in Cellaria—or if that is simply how her sister is: only two minutes older but always managing to seem like a woman, when Daphne still feels like a child.
“Are you worried?” Sophronia asks, taking the daintiest of sips from her glass.
Despite the fact that they are triplets, Sophronia has a lower tolerance for alcohol than her sisters. Half a glass of champagne for her is the equivalent of two full glasses for Daphne and Beatriz. Hopefully one of her attendants in Temarin knows that, Daphne thinks. Hopefully someone will keep an eye on her there, when Daphne and Beatriz can’t.