None of the drawers are locked, but none of them contain the king’s royal seal, either.
She could keep looking, try another room, but it is nearly morning now, and the castle will be waking at any moment.
She leaves the office just as she found it and slips from the room, making her way back to her bedroom to get a measly hour or so of sleep before dawn.
The wedding happens more quickly than Sophronia expected. No sooner does she arrive at the palace than she is accosted by a group of servants and shoved into a gold silk gown that fits her perfectly. She has a thousand questions on her lips, but as she is herded down the Temarinian palace’s gilded hallways there is little opportunity to ask them, and she is suddenly so nervous she worries that if she opens her mouth, she won’t be able to control what comes out.
Two guards stand at the end of the hallway, and when they see her and her retinue of maids approaching, they offer low bows before pulling open the tall filigreed doors behind them.
The royal chapel is full with more people than Sophronia can count, all dressed in elaborate finery—embroidered gowns of bright silk, tailored suits edged with precious metals, and so many jewels that Sophronia’s eyes hurt just looking around the room. It’s almost enough to outshine the night sky above, showing through the glass roof. When she looks up, she understands the haste. The sky is littered with stars in their various constellations, but Sophronia can make out the vague shape of the Lovers’ Hands—a constellation that is said to look like two hands clasped together, though Sophronia can never quite see it. Regardless, it is the sign of romance and unity and an ideal sign to marry under. Already, she can see the Stinging Bee rolling into view from the east and the edge of the Wanderer’s Wheel encroaching from the south. In just a few more moments, the Lovers’ Hands will be gone.
Sophronia quickens her pace as she walks past hundreds of Temarinian courtiers, feeling their eyes on her all the while, toward where Leopold is waiting at the front, dressed in a suit of white and gold with a yellow satin sash over one shoulder and a gold crown around his brow. With his suntanned skin and burnished bronze hair, he looks every inch the gilded king.
She has imagined this moment more often than she would ever admit aloud, even to her sisters, back when Leopold was a hazy idea made up of pretty words on paper. She thought she would be giddy to find herself walking toward him, that she would catch his eye and they would smile at each other, and the rest of the chapel would fall away.
But the truth of it is not so romantic. She’s far more aware of the crowd around her, their heavy gazes and murmured words, than she is of Leopold, and even when he does catch her eye and smile, it doesn’t feel like a comfort. It feels like a lie.
Which is a good thing, she reminds herself. It is a lie, and so is she.
Sophronia reaches the front, coming to stand beside Leopold, who takes her hand in his. She barely hears the royal empyrea—Valent, she remembers from her lessons, Temarin’s version of Nigellus—give his speech about partnership and unity and the bright future of Temarin. He places a hand on Leopold’s shoulder and a hand on hers.
“It is time for blessings,” Valent says, looking from one to the other. “Your Majesty, what do you wish of the stars?” he asks, his gaze settling on Leopold.
Leopold tears his gaze away from Sophronia and looks at the empyrea, clearing his throat.
“I wish the stars to grant us trust and patience,” he says, the words unwavering.
Sophronia’s heart stutters. Trust and patience. It is what a peasant might wish for on their wedding. Every wedding she has attended among the nobility in Bessemia brought less sentimental wishes—many were blunt enough to simply wish for children, but others wished for wealth or fortitude. She has heard men wish for their wives to stay beautiful and women wish for their husbands to stay faithful. But never has she heard someone wish for trust or patience, let alone both.
Her own prepared wish suddenly seems crass—I wish the stars to grant us prosperity. Her mother worded it for her, crafted it to seem about their marriage as well as Temarin as a whole. Now, though, it doesn’t seem right at all. Saying that will make her sound cold. Her mother has always said that the best-laid plans are the most adaptable ones.
“I wish the stars to grant us love,” she says, holding Leopold’s gaze. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she worries it was the wrong thing to say, that it makes her sound too naïve or unworldly, not at all like the queen she will be in just a few short moments. But then Leopold smiles at her and the gathered crowd lets out a cacophony of sighs and pleased murmurs and Sophronia realizes that the lovestruck princess is exactly what they all want her to be.
Valent lifts both of their hands up toward the stars, tilting his head back the way she always saw Nigellus do when he communed with the stars on her mother’s behalf.
“Stars, bless this couple—King Leopold Alexandre Bayard and Princess Sophronia Fredericka Soluné—with trust, patience, and love as they are joined together under your holy light as man and wife.”
There is thunderous applause as Valent releases their hands and Leopold kisses her in front of the entire court. It is a chaste thing, just a brush of lips that barely lasts a second, but it’s enough to seal their vows and make her now, officially, Queen of Temarin.
* * *
—
Afterward, at the wedding ball, Sophronia sits on a throne beside a husband who is far more of a stranger than not, and she can’t stop stealing glances at him while the dance floor below fills with whirling courtiers dancing in a jewel box’s array of silks and sipping from delicate crystal flutes of champagne. In his wedding regalia, grinning like a fool, Leopold is so handsome and boyish that Sophronia can’t quite reconcile him with the king who had children thrown in prison just a few hours ago.
Unaware of the torrent of thoughts tearing through her mind, he takes her hand in his and kisses the back of it, letting his lips linger just a second too long on the silk of her glove.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks.
Yes, she should say, but after all the letters they exchanged, she suspects Leopold knows her better than almost anyone, so she offers him a shade of truth.
“It’s a bit overwhelming,” she says, lowering her voice to a murmur. “I only entered Temarin this morning, and now I’m its queen. And we’re married. A few hours ago, we’d never even met in person. It all happened so quickly.”
Leopold frowns slightly. “Do you wish we’d waited? I thought—”
“No,” she says quickly, offering him a smile she hopes is bright enough to mask the lie. “No, I’m glad to be your wife, and your queen. I’ve been looking forward to it for so long. It’s just so much change in such a short period of time. It almost doesn’t feel real.”
He smiles back and shakes his head. “I know what you mean,” he says before pausing. “Do you remember what I told you about when my parents took me on a trip to the Cellarian border to meet my uncle Cesare and my cousin Pasquale for the first time?”