“At least take a pillow,” she tells him, though the words don’t feel like hers. She’s already half asleep, falling deeper with each second. “And a blanket.”
She’s asleep before she knows whether he heard her.
Daphne expects it to only be the king and queen at tea the morning after her arrival, but when she steps into the parlor she finds Prince Bairre there as well, sitting across from his father at a small round table, Queen Darina between them, all of them dressed in black. The sight of Bairre glowering into a delicate porcelain teacup is almost enough to make her laugh, but he looks so adrift that all she feels is pity.
When Daphne steps into the sitting room, the king rises to his feet, followed belatedly by Bairre.
“Daphne,” King Bartholomew says. He tries to smile but fails as he gestures for her to join them.
“Thank you for thinking of me in this difficult time,” Daphne says.
“Of course,” the king says, taking his own teacup into his hands. “I wanted to let you know that the new marriage contract has arrived from Bessemia, ready for your signature, and Bairre’s. It’s happening quickly, I know. But it’s in Friv’s best interests to see this settled.”
And in Bessemia’s, Daphne thinks.
At the mention of the prince’s name, Queen Darina lets out a whimper, setting her teacup down with a clatter that echoes in the silent space. King Bartholomew sets his free hand over hers, holding it tightly. Queen Darina has covered her face with a black veil that falls to her collarbone, allowing her expression to be visible but casting it in shadow. Daphne can just make out sharp features, bone-white skin, and dark eyes that focus on nothing.
“I’m not sure we will ever stop reeling,” King Bartholomew continues. “But Friv depends on us, so we must carry on. Bairre, you’re my child by blood and the only one I have left.”
“According to a note, on the word of a whore,” Queen Darina bites out, her voice sharp-edged and brittle.
The king flinches, but he holds his ground. “It’s what Cillian would have wanted.”
Daphne might not know much about Bairre, but she knows this is a cruel card to play. Bairre goes a shade paler, though after a moment, he inclines his head in assent.
King Bartholomew gets to his feet and crosses the room to a writing desk in the corner, where he picks up a piece of parchment and a quill in an inkpot, bringing them back to the table and laying the document between Daphne and Bairre.
“After Cillian’s death, the country is holding its breath, waiting to see what will become of it,” King Bartholomew says. “I would like to reassure our people that we are still here, that we still have a plan to ensure that Friv remains secure not just for my lifetime but beyond.”
Daphne scans the document. Though it’s written in elaborate Frivian script, she understands it well enough. It appears identical to the contract her mother signed as her guardian when she was mere weeks old, betrothing her to Cillian. She’s seen it a few times in the years since, her mother bringing out her copy of it for Daphne to read once she was old enough to understand what it meant.
Don’t sign anything unless you know it forward and back, her mother’s voice whispers through her mind.
Daphne picks up the piece of parchment, reading it more closely, but it’s all there—the outline of the alliance, the trade route provisions, promises of support in the face of war.
When Daphne finishes reading, she takes the quill from the inkpot and touches it to the line awaiting her signature. It’s only then that she looks at Bairre, who is watching her every movement with wary eyes.
For just a second she hesitates. She doesn’t want to bind her life to his, doesn’t want to call him her husband.
But a prince is a prince, and she will do her duty.
She signs her name in jet-black ink before holding the quill out to Bairre.
He doesn’t take it right away, and for a moment she thinks he might refuse—and what would happen then? He looks at her and she tries to smile, to reassure him, to entice him, maybe, but his expression remains stony and closed off, a fog-draped thunderstorm.
Finally, he exhales and presses the tip of the quill to the parchment, signing his own name beside hers.
She looks at them together, the delicate looping letters of her full name, Daphne Therese Soluné, Princess of Bessemia, and there, beside it, a simply scrawled Bairre, with a Prince of Friv hastily added after it.
King Bartholomew takes the contract and draws something out of the pocket of his jacket. When he holds it up, a jolt goes through Daphne—his seal. It is a heavy gold thing the size of a lemon with a long handle and a flat end. She can’t see the design of the seal itself, so she watches as the king places a ball of wax below the signatures and holds the seal up to the flame of the candle for a moment, letting it grow hot. When he’s satisfied, he presses the seal into the wax. Daphne watches, rapt. She’s heard about the seal, but it is a different thing entirely to see it in action. King Bartholomew must feel her eyes on him, because he looks up at her.
“An invention of Fergal, our court empyrea,” he tells her, releasing the seal and holding up the contract so she can see. “I understand your mother has one as well.”
“Yes, but she’s never let me see it up close,” Daphne lies.
“No? Here, take a look, it’s quite impressive.”
The seal is still warm, the yellow wax glistening, pressed into the crest he designed for himself when he took control of Friv—the Northern Star. The star looks easy enough to replicate, but that isn’t what gives Daphne pause. At the center of the seal, a few drops of crimson have mixed in with the wax, blossoming over the yellow.
“For authenticity’s sake. See the barrel here?” He motions to the handle of the seal. “It holds a store of my blood mixed with a pinch of stardust.”
He passes the contract to Daphne so that she can see the seal up close. What looked like a drop of crimson from afar is, in fact, an incandescent violet shimmer that reminds Daphne of a bruise.
“How will anyone know it is your blood?” Daphne asks. “It could be anyone’s, no?”
“As of now, the only three people who own seals like this are me, King Leopold, and, of course, your mother. If one of us needs verification, an empyrea can provide it with a bit of stardust. Now it is official,” he continues, looking from Daphne to Bairre. “We will declare Bairre a prince of the realm tomorrow evening, and the two of you will be wed in a month’s time.”
A month. Not ideal, but Daphne can’t exactly protest. Not that she gets the chance. The queen stands up so suddenly her teacup topples over, spilling the weak tea all over the white tablecloth.
“You brought this curse on all of us,” she tells King Bartholomew, each word laced with poison. “This was your doing. You might as well have killed our boy with your own two hands.”