Sophronia nods. Pasquale will be Beatriz’s husband, if they haven’t already married. She remembers comparing her letters with Beatriz’s, noting how the two princes expressed similar feelings of excitement and nervousness about meeting each other, though Leopold had sent Sophronia five full pages, while Pasquale barely managed to fill one.
“I looked forward to it for months,” Leopold says. “And the entire week of the summit passed in a blur. I know I had fun, I remember playing on the beach with Pasquale and hiding under the banquet tables at night so that we could avoid our bedtime, but it all went so quickly. That’s a bit what this feels like.”
Sophronia bites her lip. He sounds like the boy who wrote her letters. But that boy doesn’t exist, and neither does she, really. Not the Sophronia he thinks he knows, at least. If he knew her—really knew her—he would run away screaming. But strangers or not, it is their wedding, and she is meant to be the lovestruck young bride. “Then we should ensure that we enjoy every moment of it,” she tells him.
Leopold grins and rises to his feet, pulling Sophronia with him. “A dance, then?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Sophronia says, following him out onto the dance floor, where the other couples give them a wide berth. The orchestra begins to play a glissant—Sophronia’s favorite. She notices Leopold watching for her reaction. “You told them to play this for our first dance,” she says, her smile feeling slightly more genuine.
“It’s your favorite,” he says, lifting their joined hands and settling his other on the curve of her waist. She rests her free hand on his shoulder and they begin to twirl across the dance floor.
It feels like she’s danced with him a hundred times before. They move together perfectly, and though Sophronia has danced more dances than she can count over the years, this is the first time she’s truly felt comfortable with a partner.
Love is an illusion and a weakness, her mother is fond of saying. And I will not tolerate weakness.
Sophronia shudders.
“Are you all right?” Leopold asks, concerned.
“Fine,” she says, a little too brightly. “Just tired—it’s been such a busy day.”
Leopold looks like he doesn’t quite believe her, but before he can press her further, the song comes to an end and there’s a tap on her shoulder, and she turns to see a boy of around fourteen with the same bronze hair and sharp features as Leopold.
“I was wondering if I might have the next dance with my new sister?” he asks.
Sophronia smiles. “You must be Gideon,” she says, letting go of Leopold’s hand to take his. “And I would be honored.”
“Try not to break her toes, Gid,” Leopold says, pressing a quick kiss to Sophronia’s cheek before leaving her to dance with his brother.
The orchestra begins to play a much faster devassé, and Sophronia lets Gideon sweep her through the quick steps and turns. He’s a couple of inches shorter than she is in her heeled slippers, but they make a good go of it and by the time the song ends, Sophronia is breathless and giddy, and then Leopold’s other brother, Reid, is there to take the next dance. He is barely twelve and blushes madly the entire time, tripping over his own feet twice and hers three times.
“Sorry,” he mumbles to her, staring down at the floor studiously. “This is the first ball I’ve been allowed to attend—I should have paid better attention in dancing lessons.”
“You’re doing fine,” she assures him. “At my first ball, I knocked over a bowl of punch and then slipped in the puddle. The court spoke of nothing else for an entire week.”
Reid glances up at her and smiles shyly. “I’ve always wanted a sister,” he admits.
“We’re a good match, then,” Sophronia tells him. “You with two brothers, wanting a sister, and me with two sisters, wanting a brother.”
He smiles at her, looking somewhat more relaxed. When the song ends, she’s intercepted by a tall, stately woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a sweeping chignon, topped with a demure tiara. Even without it, Sophronia would have recognized her from the sketches made by her mother’s spies: Queen Eugenia—the dowager queen, now that Sophronia is here.
She thinks of her mother’s instructions, the specific ideas on how to push Temarin into war with Cellaria. Leopold rules Temarin, but Eugenia’s hand is in every action he takes. In sowing tensions, start with her—many have not forgotten their hatred of the onetime Cellarian princess.
As Sophronia stands before Eugenia now, she finds herself unimpressed. She expected Queen Eugenia to have the same energy as the empress—the kind that radiates power and influence. But if she weren’t wearing a crown, Sophronia suspects the dowager queen would all but disappear.
“Your Majesty,” Sophronia says, dropping into a curtsy.
“Your Majesty,” Dowager Queen Eugenia replies, one corner of her mouth quirking up in an amused smile as she dips into her own curtsy. She glances at her youngest son.
“It’s time to say good night, Reid. It’s past your bedtime,” she says.
“Yes, Mother,” Reid says, giving Sophronia one last bow before skittering away.
“You must be positively exhausted after the day you’ve had, my dear,” Queen Eugenia says, guiding Sophronia off the dance floor. “I’ve sent Leo to fetch some water for you, but would you like to sit with me while we wait for him?”
“That sounds lovely,” Sophronia says, following Queen Eugenia back toward the thrones. A servant is quick to bring another chair for Queen Eugenia and set it beside Sophronia’s, and though it looks plush and comfortable, Sophronia is all too aware that a year ago, the throne she is sitting in belonged to Eugenia.
“You and Leo seem quite taken with each other,” Queen Eugenia says.
“I feel so relieved,” Sophronia tells her, remembering that the dowager queen was once in her position. She knows she can endear herself to her through that connection. She lowers her voice to a whisper, like they are two friends sharing secrets. “You wouldn’t believe the thoughts that went through my head—that he would be hideous or cruel, that all this time it was his valet writing me those letters.”
“I’m sure he had some similar thoughts,” Queen Eugenia says. “Stars know I did when I came here close to two decades ago, though I admit I was…less relieved.”
She says the words carefully and Sophronia glances at her with a furrowed brow, as if she doesn’t already know how unhappy their marriage was. “In his letters, Leopold mentioned that his father could be a difficult man,” she says cautiously.
“We came to understand each other, eventually,” Queen Eugenia says. “Admiration and respect grew, even if romance never did.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this—just to say you aren’t alone, I suppose. I’ve been where you are now, only younger and with a husband who terrified me, in a court full of people who hated Cellaria after a decade of war, and hated me for my association with it.”