“A beauty!” he proclaims to the crowd, taking hold of Beatriz’s hand and holding it up. The crowd erupts again into cheers.
Cheers for her, cheers in her honor—but they feel hollow to Beatriz.
“My son is a lucky man,” King Cesare continues, taking Prince Pasquale’s hand in his other one and joining it with Beatriz’s. The prince’s hand is clammy in hers, but he gives hers what she imagines is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Halfhearted as it might be, she appreciates the gesture, but when she tries to meet his eyes, he continues staring out at the crowd, sweat beading on his forehead though the weather is mild and breezy.
“I know we all had our worries that a Bessemian princess would be too corrupted by magic to make an appropriate future queen,” King Cesare continues, and Beatriz feels a bolt of unease shoot through her, though she is careful not to lose her smile. She holds her breath and waits for him to continue.
“But Empress Margaraux has assured me that Princess Beatriz has been raised Cellarian in both customs and faith and she follows the true path of the stars. Isn’t that right, my dear?”
Beatriz opens her mouth to recite the line she’s been practicing for years, the denunciation of magic and Bessemia’s heathen ways. She is even ready to throw in some fist-shaking or dramatic swooning, depending on how the audience responds. But she never gets the chance.
“And why should we trust the word of that whore?” a man shouts from the crowd. “A woman who sleeps with a demon empyrea in exchange for her petty heart’s desires?”
Beatriz has to stifle a laugh at the idea of her mother and Nigellus together. She knows her mother has had many lovers over the years, but the thought of Nigellus among them is absurd.
“I would not,” the king says. “My ambassador has confirmed it, as have the spies we have in the Bessemian court. All have described Princess Beatriz as a pious and devout girl. While her heathen sisters used stardust to wish for ponies and jewels, Princess Beatriz refused every bit of stardust ever offered to her.”
It’s a lie—almost as laughable as the thought of her mother and Nigellus—but Beatriz knows that those ambassadors and spies are all hypocrites, all willing to tell the king whatever Beatriz’s mother ordered in exchange for a few vials of stardust of their own. Those who did refuse were met with horribly unfortunate accidents.
“It is true,” Beatriz says, looking out at the crowd from lowered eyelashes. “I have counted the days, waiting to be rid of that horrid place. I feel truly blessed to be here, before you, in a far more civilized country, and I am infinitely grateful to King Cesare and Prince Pasquale for rescuing me from such a nightmare. If I never see a mite of stardust again, I will thank the stars every moment of the rest of my life.”
It might be a tad overdramatic, but it does the trick. Even the man who shouted looks placated.
“A true treasure! If you aren’t careful, Pasquale,” King Cesare says, leaning close to his son’s ear, though everyone within fifty feet can hear him, “I might have to steal her away from you.”
Before Beatriz can process his words, the king places a hand on her backside in plain view of the thousands gathered and squeezes. She can barely feel his touch through the layers of petticoats and the bustle, but heat still rises to her face.
She shouldn’t be surprised—she’s heard more stories of his lasciviousness than she can count, stories about noblemen’s wives and scullery maids and seemingly every type of woman in between. Yet shock freezes her in place and for an instant, she feels like a doe before a hunter. But her mother didn’t raise does, she reminds herself, swallowing down the bile in her throat. She raised vipers.
“Your Majesty,” Beatriz says, forcing her mouth into a coquettish smile when all she wants to do is slap his hand away. “You ought to know that if you have to resort to stealing a girl, you’re doing something wrong.”
For a second, there is silence, and Beatriz worries that her mouth has gotten her into trouble, that she has shown her fangs and claws too early. Patience, her mother has always cautioned. Before she can apologize, though, King Cesare throws back his head and laughs loudly, dropping his hand.
“And a spitfire, too,” he says with an approving smile before his eyes shift to his petrified son. He lowers his voice, speaking this time only for Beatriz and the prince. “Perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two from her, my boy.”
The term of endearment doesn’t soften the words, and Prince Pasquale flinches like he’s been physically struck. King Cesare doesn’t see it—his attention is already focused once again on the crowd.
“These two lovebirds won’t have to wait too long—as planned, their wedding will take place tomorrow evening….” He trails off, glancing back at them with mischief in his eyes. “But for now, I don’t suppose a kiss would hurt anyone.”
This time when Prince Pasquale looks at her, fear is plain in his eyes. His hand trembles in hers.
Stars above, Beatriz thinks. He’s never kissed a girl before.
In all of her training for this, she has been led to believe that Cellaria is a land of pleasure and loose morals—completely at odds with its strict attitude about magic—and she expected to find a prince who was his father’s son, a confident debaucher with a string of broken hearts in his wake. Instead, Prince Pasquale is a nervous boy, looking at her like she’s some sort of dragon come to swallow him whole.
The crowd is waiting and watching them, excited for a show, and Beatriz is nothing if not a performer.
“Pull me close to you,” she whispers to Prince Pasquale, who stares at her, alarmed.
“Wh…What?” he asks.
“Just do it,” she replies.
Prince Pasquale swallows, eyes shifting to his father, to the crowd, then back to her. His hand still in hers, he pulls her toward him, and Beatriz presses her lips to his.
In the eruption of cheers and whistles, no one notices how uncomfortable a kiss it is, but Beatriz does. It isn’t just that it’s clumsy the way most first kisses are with a new person, it’s the fact that it’s cold—only lips touching, his hand dutifully placed on her back just so. There is no spark to it, no warmth, no romance at all.
But the crowd wants to see a great love story unfolding before their eyes, and Beatriz isn’t about to disappoint them. When they break apart, she smiles, biting her lip and summoning a blush to her cheeks just as she learned to do from the best courtesans in Bessemia.
You’re a toy to them, one of them, Sabine, told her. If you can become what they want you to be, they’ll burn the world down in your name.
She knows what Cellaria wants her to be, the passionate beauty, the blushing bride, the princess madly in love with her prince. Looking sideways at Prince Pasquale, she realizes she doesn’t have the slightest idea what he wants her to be. But she’s determined to find out.