She shakes the thought from her mind and crosses to the mahogany desk in the corner, snatching a bejeweled letter opener and holding it up to her palm.
“If they want blood, we’ll give them blood,” she says to Prince Pasquale. “How much is there usually?”
He takes the letter opener from her before she can make the cut. “Not too much,” he says. “It’s a good idea, but if it’s from your hand they’ll notice.”
She nods. “What do you propose, then?”
The prince props his left leg on the bed and holds the letter opener to the back of his calf with his other hand. “Rip a scrap of cotton from one of my tunics, would you? And find a pair of trousers?”
Beatriz nods, hurrying to the wardrobe; she finds a plain black tunic at the back and rips a strip of fabric from the hem. After a second of thought, she rips a second strip as well and grabs the first pair of trousers she sees.
When he makes a small cut on the side of his calf, about an inch long, she watches, both horrified and entranced. The prince lets out a low hiss of pain before passing her the clean handle of the bloodied letter opener and gathering the blossoming beads of blood on his fingers. He smears the blood on the middle of the bed, staining the white sheets crimson.
He does it twice more, until he’s satisfied with the size of the stain, then takes the scrap of fabric Beatriz holds out and ties it around the cut, pulling on the trousers she passes him to hide it. She wraps the letter opener in the second strip of fabric and hides it in a desk drawer.
He starts toward the door, ready to let the crowd in. But something isn’t right. She remembers her visits to the brothels, how the people who visited would look when they came in, pulled together and neat, and how they looked when they left.
“Wait,” she hisses.
He pauses and looks back at her with a furrowed brow.
She steps toward him, hastily unbuttoning his tunic and rebuttoning it so a few buttons are askew. Reaching up, she runs her hands through his black hair, rumpling it.
“If we’re going to do this,” she tells him, releasing her own hair from its braid and mussing it up, “we have to be convincing.”
He nods and considers her for a moment before tugging the sleeve of her nightgown down so her right shoulder is bare.
“Good,” she says, pinching her cheeks so they flush. She climbs back into the bed, careful not to touch the bloody spot before nodding to Pasquale to open the door.
Noblemen flood in—at least twenty, Beatriz would guess, led by the king himself. King Cesare is dressed in a red silk doublet, his dark brown hair oiled and slicked back, eyes bright and growing brighter when they land on Beatriz, who has pulled the covers up again, covering her bare legs and the bloodstain, though she’s sure both will be revealed in a moment. She’s not shy about her body, but she feels like she’s supposed to be, so she plays the part.
“I hope you two had a happy wedding night,” the king says, turning his gaze from her to his son.
Prince Pasquale withers a bit under his father’s gaze but manages a nod. “We did, Father. Thank you.”
The king looks him over, taking in his tousled hair, his misbuttoned shirt. He purses his lips. “Well then. Let’s see it.”
Pasquale nods, hurrying to Beatriz’s side of the bed to help her up. When she takes hold of his arm, she feels it shake beneath her touch. She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring squeeze. As soon as she gets up, standing before the crowd of men clad in only her nightgown, a round of cheers and whistles goes up.
Beatriz has never been modest—Daphne has even called her shameless plenty of times—but this is different. Now she is on display, a thing to be consumed, and suddenly she doesn’t feel shameless at all. Shame burns through her, hot and painful, and she has to fight the urge to cover herself.
Prince Pasquale must see this, because he steps in front of her, shielding her as best he can from the looks. He pulls back the duvet, baring the bloodstain for all to see. For a moment, no one speaks, and Beatriz holds her breath, waiting for someone to call it a fake, to realize their marriage is unconsummated, unverified.
After what feels like an eternity, though, the king claps his son on the shoulder and beams.
“Well done, my boy,” he tells him. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Of course, with a bride as lovely as this, how could you resist?”
Prince Pasquale manages a smile. “Thank you, Father.”
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” the king says, looking at Beatriz again. His gaze makes her skin crawl. “I remember what it was to be young and newly wed.”
* * *
—
When the king and his men have gone and it is only Beatriz and Pasquale alone in the room again, Beatriz sits down on the edge of the bed with a sigh of relief.
“It worked,” Prince Pasquale says, mostly to himself, sounding like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“It worked,” she echoes, looking at her new husband. “But I don’t understand why you wanted it to. You clearly have no desire to be married to me—now you’re stuck,” she adds.
He looks down at the floor, unable to meet her eyes.
“It’s not that,” he says slowly. “We just…we don’t know each other, do we?”
“No,” she agrees. “Though I never expected we would get that luxury. Pasquale—is it all right if I call you that?”
“You can call me Pas, if you like,” he says. “Most people do.”
“Pas, then. We might have tricked your father today, might have kept court gossip at bay for a few months. But we are young and healthy, and they will expect children to come soon,” she says slowly. It’s a bluff—Cellaria will fall and she will be back in Bessemia long before a child takes root in her womb; there are vials of herbs hidden away in her jewelry box to ensure just that; but she, too, needs the marriage to be consummated. Her mother was clear on that front. No one can ever doubt that this marriage is legitimate.
Pasquale doesn’t respond for a moment, but his skin goes a shade paler.
“Pas,” she says again, making him look at her. She holds his gaze the way the courtesans taught her, boldly and conspiratorially, like they are sharing a secret. He looks away almost immediately. “You don’t want to bed me, do you?” she asks him.
“We barely know each other,” he says again, cheeks going red.
“That doesn’t matter. You want someone or you don’t. And you don’t want me,” she says.
He doesn’t respond for a moment, looking everywhere but at her. “You’re awfully blunt,” he says finally. “Has anyone ever told you it’s a bit off-putting?”
“Constantly,” she says, shrugging a shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but finally he sits down on the chaise, slumped over with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.