Beatriz snorts. “What on earth would I be nervous about? At this point, I feel as if I could seduce Lord Savelle in my sleep.”
Lord Savelle is the first part of the empress’s grand plan—the Temarinian ambassador in Cellaria, he has been responsible for keeping the peace between the countries for the last two decades, the longest they have gone without war in centuries. In compromising him, Beatriz will reignite that conflict and add a few extra logs to the fire.
“Cellaria alone would make me nervous,” Sophronia admits, shuddering. “No empyreas, no stardust, no magic at all. I heard King Cesare had a man burned alive because he thought him responsible for a drought.”
Beatriz only shrugs. “Yes, well, I’ve been preparing for it, haven’t I?” she says. “And the king’s increasing paranoia should make it even easier to incite war. I might beat both of you back here.”
“Sophie would be my bet,” Daphne muses, sipping her champagne. “She’s the only one of us marrying a king instead of a mere prince, and I’m sure Leopold would declare war on Cellaria if she simply fluttered her eyelashes and asked it of him.”
Though she means the words as a joke, they’re followed by an uncomfortable silence. Sophronia looks away, her cheeks turning bright red, and Beatriz shoots Daphne a dirty look. Daphne feels as if she’s missed something, though it isn’t the first time. The three of them are close, but Beatriz and Sophronia have always been just a bit closer. Which is fine by Daphne—after all, she has always been the closest with their mother.
“Beatriz is the prettiest of you—she will have no trouble swinging the hearts of the Cellarians. Sophronia is the sweetest and she will win over the Temarinians with ease,” the empress said to Daphne just the day before, her voice like that of a general dispatching troops. The words deflated Daphne, until her mother leaned toward her, pressing her cool palm to Daphne’s cheek and blessing her with a rare full smile. “But you, my darling, are my sharpest weapon, so I need you in Friv. Bessemia needs you in Friv. If you’re going to take my place one day, you must prove you can fill it.”
Shame and pride go to war inside Daphne and she takes another sip of her champagne, hoping her sisters don’t notice. She supposes she can’t fault them for keeping things from her—she has her own share of secrets.
Logically, she knows her mother was right to ask her to keep that from them—she has never mentioned making one of them her heir, and knowing it will be Daphne will only stoke jealousies. Daphne doesn’t want that. Not tonight, especially.
She lets out a sigh, slumping farther into the sofa’s cushioned back. “At least your princes are handsome and healthy. One of the Frivian spies says Prince Cillian has been leeched so many times, his skin is covered in scabs. Another said he’s unlikely to live another month.”
“A month is plenty of time to marry him,” Beatriz points out. “If anything, it should make your job much easier. I can’t imagine he’ll get in your way, and Friv is such a young country as it is, it will be easy to take advantage of the chaos surrounding the death of the only heir to the throne. Maybe you’ll be the first one of us home.”
“Hopefully,” Daphne says. “But I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck in cold, miserable Friv while you’re off relaxing on sunny Cellarian beaches and Sophie gets to attend those legendary Temarinian parties.”
“It’s not like we’re going to relax on beaches or enjoy parties, is it?” Sophronia reminds her, but Daphne waves the words away.
“Well, it will make for a better backdrop than snow, gray skies, and more snow,” she grumbles.
“No need for dramatics,” Beatriz says, rolling her eyes. “Besides, you have the easiest assignment of all of us. What do you have to do? Steal the king’s seal? Forge a few documents? Admit it, Daph.”
Daphne shakes her head. “You know Mama—I’m sure there will be more to it than that.”
“Stop,” Sophronia interrupts, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s our birthday. Shouldn’t we at least make it about us and not her?”
Daphne and Beatriz exchange a loaded look, but Beatriz is the first to speak.
“Of course, Sophie,” she says. “Shall we toast?”
Sophronia considers it for a moment before raising her glass. “To seventeen,” she says.
Daphne laughs. “Oh, Soph, are you sloshed already? We’re sixteen.”
Sophronia shrugs. “I know that,” she says. “But sixteen is when we have to say goodbye. By seventeen, we’ll be back here again. Together.”
“To seventeen, then,” Beatriz echoes, raising her own glass.
“To seventeen,” Daphne adds, clinking her glass with theirs before the three of them gulp down the last of their champagne.
Sophronia leans back against the sofa cushions and closes her eyes, apparently satisfied. Beatriz takes Sophronia’s empty glass and sets it with hers on the floor, out of the way, before leaning back beside her, staring at the vaulted ceiling, where whirling arrangements of stars have been painted in glittering gold against a deep blue background.
“Like Mama always says,” Beatriz murmurs. “We’re three stars of the same constellation. Distance won’t change that.”
It’s a surprisingly emotional sentiment coming from Beatriz, but Daphne feels a bit sentimental herself right now, so she curls up beside her sisters, throwing her arm around both of their waists.
The tall, marble-faced clock in the room strikes midnight with a loud chime that echoes in Daphne’s ears, and she pushes her mother’s words from her mind and holds her sisters tight.
“Happy birthday,” she says, kissing each of their cheeks in turn and leaving behind smears of pale pink lip paint.
“Happy birthday,” they each reply, their voices weighed down with exhaustion. In seconds, they’re both asleep, their quiet, even breaths filling the air, but try as she might, Daphne can’t join them. Sleep doesn’t claim her until a sliver of dawn sun is peeking through the window.
Sophronia can’t cry, not in the presence of the empress, not even in the carriage on the way to the center of Bessemia, the place where she and her sisters will say their final goodbyes. Tears sting at her eyes, make her throat burn, but she forces herself to hold them back, aware of her mother’s critical gaze, always hungry to find fault—in Sophronia, it seems, more so than in Daphne or Beatriz.
“Tears are a weapon,” Empress Margaraux likes to say, her full, painted mouth pursing. “But one that is wasted on me.”
Sophronia doesn’t intend to use her tears as a weapon, but she can’t help the torrent of emotions ripping through her. She forces herself to hold on to her composure, aware of her mother sitting on the bench across from her, silent and steadfast and strong in a way that Sophronia has failed to master, no matter how many lessons she’s had.