Sophronia tries to imagine what that was like—fourteen years old, in a strange and hostile land. Eugenia hadn’t been raised for it the way Sophronia has been, trained from birth in Temarin’s language and customs, taught to navigate court politics and control every situation she found herself in, taught not just how to survive in a foreign country, but how to conquer it. Eugenia had only been a girl—young and frightened and cut off from everything and everyone she knew.
“When I was young,” Queen Eugenia continues, “my mother told me that a queen always hopes for sons—not just to ensure the line of succession, but because it’s easier. Sons you can keep, daughters you only borrow. I don’t think I understood her at the time, but I never saw her again after we said our goodbyes on the Cellarian border.”
Sophronia thinks of saying goodbye to her own mother just a few days ago. Had the empress been sad to see Sophronia, Daphne, and Beatriz go? It would only be a year, but that was a year longer than they’d ever been separated before.
“Perhaps I was lucky, after everything,” Queen Eugenia says, giving Sophronia a smile that reminds her of Leopold. “I had three sons. None of them will be sent off to foreign lands, never to be seen again. And now, I have a daughter I get to keep.”
Queen Eugenia takes Sophronia’s hand in hers and squeezes it, sending a bolt of guilt through Sophronia, though she manages to hide it with a smile.
“I would not wish my first years here in Temarin on anyone, Sophronia, and I will do everything in my power to ensure you have an easier time than I did.”
A lump rises in Sophronia’s throat and she looks down at their entwined hands, suddenly struck by the urge to cry. She has known Queen Eugenia for only a few minutes, but already the queen has shown her more affection than her mother ever has. It will make it that much harder to betray her.
* * *
—
It’s nearly dawn before Sophronia and Leopold are able to escape the party and make their way to their bedchamber. It’s the first time Sophronia has seen it. The room is large, with a ceiling so high it is cast in shadow. The walls are painted a soft cream color, complemented by gold molding and polished oak furnishings. The oversized four-poster bed is dressed in gold silk.
The bed.
In all the chaos of the day, Sophronia nearly forgot to worry over this. She is a married woman now, and that marriage isn’t official until it’s consummated. Her mother has emphasized the importance of consummation so often, Sophronia knows it by heart. If their marriages aren’t consummated, nothing else they do will matter. The sooner it is accomplished the better.
“Alone, finally,” Leopold says. He takes her hand and pulls her toward him, into a kiss. It’s nothing like the kiss they shared during the wedding ceremony—that was only a quick press of lips; this is something so much more. Leopold kisses her like he wants to devour her, his arms twining around her waist to hold her close. And she finds herself kissing him back, even enjoying the feel of his mouth against hers. There was a time when she looked forward to this.
She knows what comes next. Her mother sent Sophronia and her sisters to lessons with courtesans so that they wouldn’t freeze in this exact situation. She learned all about the mechanics of the act, but nothing can prepare her for when his hands move over her hips, up the curves of her waist, when her hands move of their own volition, sinking into his bronze curls, anchoring his mouth to hers as if she will die if he stops kissing her…
Then she thinks of those thieves—those boys—in the woods. She imagines them huddled together in a cold, dank prison somewhere, frightened. She thinks about the blood and tears of Leopold’s people, the people he doesn’t care about at all. He cares about her, that seems obvious, but it isn’t enough to erase the rest. It isn’t enough to dull the repulsion she feels when he touches her.
And that is why she forces herself to break the kiss, bringing a hand to Leopold’s chest to put some space between them.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s been such an overwhelming day and I’m so tired and we don’t really know each other yet, do we? Can we…wait?”
She almost expects him to say no—the courtesans told her and her sisters that some men could be forceful—but instead Leopold smiles and kisses her forehead.
“Don’t apologize. We have the rest of our lives, Sophronia. We’ll only sleep,” he tells her, nodding over her shoulder to one of two gilded doors. “Your dressing room is through there—there’s a bell you can ring to summon a maid to help you change into your nightgown.”
Sophronia watches him leave through the doorway to his own dressing room, relief flooding through her. Soon, the marriage will have to be consummated. But not tonight.
A lady never drinks so much that she loses her wits, Beatriz’s mother was fond of saying, her gaze always lingering a bit longer on Beatriz than her sisters, as if she somehow knew that Beatriz always ended up drinking the most, though Beatriz doesn’t think she’d ever really lost her wits.
Now, though, she feels the edges of her mind blurring, turning malleable and hazy as she sits beside her skittish new husband in the banquet hall, Cellarian courtiers approaching every few minutes to offer their congratulations and, she suspects, to try to pick up more gossip.
Prince Pasquale fidgeted throughout the wedding ceremony, his hands twisting in front of him, and though his suit is made from light linen and the air in the chapel was cool, he was dripping in sweat. The worst, though, was how clear Prince Pasquale’s hesitation was when he said, “I do.”
Beatriz is an unwanted wife, and everyone at court knows it.
She needs her wits about her, and she knows her mother was right. She shouldn’t drink any more—should certainly eat something—but when a servant brings her a fresh glass of red wine muddled with berries and citrus fruit, she takes another sip. Then another.
If Daphne were here, she would take the glass from her hand. She would call her self-destructive. She would tell her to focus, that somewhere in this thick crowd of courtiers is Lord Savelle—and the sooner she makes his acquaintance, the better.
But Daphne is not here and Beatriz does not want to focus. If she does, she will feel the eyes of the Cellarian courtiers measuring every inch of her, looking for the flaws that have the prince so disinterested in her. She will be aware of the whispers, the speculating that has already started, that will only grow wilder and louder. This is not how this night was meant to go.
Beatriz understands rumors, how they work, how to start them. She knows that the right rumor, wielded with precision and the right timing, can be enough to bring a person to ruin. She can do it herself, with such grace that it is practically an art form. But she’s not sure how to weather that weapon being turned against her.
Beside her, Prince Pasquale is nursing the same glass of muddled wine he was initially served, and when the servant offers to refill it, he shakes his head and waves them off.