Daphne opens her mouth to speak, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees the fair-haired assassin pushing himself up on his elbow, raising his pistol with the other hand, the barrel leveled right at her. Before she can react, he fires and her world goes quiet and fuzzy. Distantly, she looks down and sees blood blooming across the bodice of her dress.
Too much blood, she thinks, before her thoughts go dark.
The morning drags by with Beatriz and Pasquale locked in their rooms. Meals are delivered every few hours; maids tidy up the rooms and empty the chamber pots; a servant boy comes to tend a fire in the fireplace. They are still treated with respect and dignity, still given every luxury available. There is no sign at all that they are under arrest except, of course, the fact that they aren’t allowed to leave.
Just as they are preparing for lunch, there is a rap at the main door. They exchange looks across the room, him lounging on the freshly made bed with a book in hand, her at the desk, composing a letter to Sophronia she doubts will ever make its way out of the castle.
Before either of them can answer, the door swings open and Gisella slips in, crossing through the sitting room and through the open door to their bedroom, wearing a gown finer than any Beatriz has seen her in before—a day dress of pale blue silk, with a bodice embroidered with hundreds of seed pearls and dramatically voluminous sleeves that end above her elbows. Her pale blond hair is curled and coiled away from her face in an elaborate updo topped by a tiara of gold and sapphires that looks strangely familiar to Beatriz.
“Is that…are you wearing one of my tiaras, Gigi?” she asks, trying to keep her voice calm as she regards her former friend with a cold gaze.
Gisella ignores the acid in her voice, instead flashing Beatriz a blinding smile. “Technically, it was never your tiara. It belongs to Cellaria and the royal family, of which the two of you are no longer a part.”
“Good riddance to that,” Pasquale says under his breath.
“Careful, Pas,” Gisella says. “Your father may be dead, but you won’t be doing yourself any favors by speaking ill of him.”
“I doubt you’re here to dole out wisdom, Gisella,” Beatriz says. “Did you come to beg forgiveness like your brother did? I can’t imagine you intend to propose marriage to me as well?”
Gisella’s eyebrows arch. “Did he really?” she asks, sounding more tired than surprised. “I’m not sure who was the bigger fool—him for offering or you for refusing.”
“In my view, the biggest fool is you,” Beatriz says, leaning back in her chair, her eyes darting up to the tiara again. “Do you think you’re a princess now? That after all your scheming and betrayals, you are somehow safe? Above reproach? Untouchable? You aren’t, you know. All you are is alone.”
The words are daggers, and Beatriz can’t help but feel like her mother’s daughter for wielding them so expertly, for finding Gisella’s insecurities and hitting them, for reveling in the look of naked fear that flickers over the girl’s face.
“I’m not alone,” Gisella says, lifting her chin. “I have Nico, and we have power. There is no one to control our destinies anymore, no one who will force me to marry an ancient stranger or push him to grovel before an ungrateful king.”
Remembering how Nicolo looked last night, how quick he was to blame his sister, Beatriz wonders if Gisella really has him at all.
“At what cost?” Pasquale asks quietly.
Gisella shakes her head. “Do you think I celebrate bringing you low?” she asks. “I don’t. But I won’t apologize for seizing the only opportunity I was likely to get to climb.”
Beatriz wants to launch out of her chair and slap Gisella across the face, she wants it more than she’s ever wanted anything. But such an action would make her feel better only for a moment. In the long run, it would make their situation worse. So she grips the arms of her chair and fixes Gisella with a cool look.
“You were kind enough to offer us advice, so allow me to return the favor,” she says, each word sharp enough to cut through stone. “You think you are safe because you have power? You’ll never be safe, Gigi, no matter how many tiaras you wear, how close you are to the throne. Power is an illusion, and the more of it people think you have, the more determined they will be to tear you down. You should know that better than anyone, having been on the other side. How long do you think it will be before another you arrives with schemes and plots? You’ve climbed far, but that only means the fall will kill you.”
“You’re wrong,” Gisella says. “Nico is king now. Who would go against him?”
Beatriz laughs, but the sound is cruel. “Who wouldn’t?” she asks. “And you seem to forget that you are not king. You are not even a princess. You are the king’s sister and you have no power at all. Nico already resents you for your scheming—”
“I made him king!”
“—how long will it be before he turns on you as well? Before you are entirely alone?”
Gisella fixes Beatriz with a glare strong enough to bend steel, but Beatriz holds her gaze, matching her hate for hate.
“I wish you all the happiness you deserve, Gigi,” Beatriz says with a cold smile. “I think you can show yourself out.”
Gisella holds her ground, eyes locked on Beatriz and jaw clenched. “I didn’t come to fight with you. I came to let you know that the two of you will be leaving the palace in an hour, heading to the Fraternia and Sororia of the Alder Mountains.”
“I’d rather die than become a Sister,” Beatriz tells her.
Gisella lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m sure that could be arranged,” she says. “But I believe the words you’re looking for are thank you.”
Beatriz laughs. “Oh, I know I would rather die than say that.”
“Thank you, Gisella,” Pasquale says a beat later, his expression unreadable. “And pass our thanks along to the king, would you?”
Gisella looks at Pasquale, confusion etched into her expression, but nods. “Of course.”
She turns to go, but Beatriz gets to her feet.
“Wait, there is one more thing—I have a letter I’d like sent to my mother.”
Gisella turns and raises a single eyebrow. “You think I’ll help you plunge us into another war?” she asks.
Beatriz fetches the coded letter she wrote her mother and presses it into Gigi’s hand. “Go on, read it yourself.”
Gisella frowns, scanning the short letter and letting out a laugh. “You expect me to believe this? That you are asking your mother not to help you?”
“I don’t need my mother’s help,” Beatriz says, lifting her chin. “And I wouldn’t accept it if she offered. I’m trying to do you a favor—you think Nico’s reign can survive war? Two wars if he can’t settle things with Temarin? His own people would eat him alive under the slightest threat of that.”