She meets Queen Eugenia’s gaze and holds it for a moment, not letting her expression shift from a bright, vapid smile. They could be discussing the weather rather than crime and punishment.
“Well, we are not in Bessemia,” Queen Eugenia says, her voice sharpening at the edges in a way that makes Sophronia feel like a small child again, facing her mother’s scolding. “And we are not in Cellaria, for that matter. We are in Temarin, where criminals are punished.”
“Of course,” Sophronia says easily. “As I said, I am so new to all of this. I hope you don’t mind my asking questions.”
“Not at all,” Queen Eugenia says, though her tone makes it clear she minds Sophronia’s questions a great deal, and even Duchess Bruna looks from one to the other of them uncomfortably.
“More tea?” she asks, motioning to Violie, who rushes forward to refill their cups. In her haste, some hot tea dribbles out of the teapot and onto Duchess Bruna’s lap.
“Idiot!” Duchess Bruna screeches, leaping to her feet and slapping Violie so hard across the face that the sound echoes in the quiet room. Violie rears back, her hand flying up to her red cheek, but otherwise looks unsurprised.
“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” she mumbles.
“This gown is silk imported from the Alder mountains. Do you have any idea what it costs?”
“No, Your Grace,” Violie says quietly. “But I’m certain I will be able to get the stain out.”
“You’d better hope so—if not, the cost will come out of your pay!” the woman yells.
Sophronia doesn’t know how much Violie’s pay is, but she would guess it would take years for her to pay off the cost of the dress. When she catches Violie’s gaze again, the girl’s eyes are wide with fear and brimming with unshed tears as she hurries back to her corner, carrying the teapot in shaking hands.
Sophronia knows that look—she wore it often enough in Bessemia when she was the target of her mother’s tempers, though her mother never struck her daughters. Sophronia forces herself back into conversation with Duchess Bruna and Queen Eugenia—the topic of which has turned to gossip about which noblewoman’s husband was caught in a compromising position with his valet—but her mind is elsewhere.
* * *
—
As Sophronia and Queen Eugenia make their way back to the royal wing after tea, Queen Eugenia links their arms together and draws Sophronia close.
“I would appreciate it if you spoke more carefully,” she says, her voice softer than Sophronia expects. She was dreading a thorough dressing down, which her mother would surely have given. Instead, Queen Eugenia sounds only concerned, not angry. “Duchess Bruna has always hated me. She tolerates me now because she relies on her proximity to the crown and the allowance that comes with it, but she is always looking for ammunition to use against me.”
Sophronia frowns as if this hadn’t occurred to her, as if she hadn’t studied Duchess Bruna extensively over the years. “Oh, I didn’t realize,” she says. “What ammunition could she possibly have against you?”
Queen Eugenia smiles and pats Sophronia’s arm. “Against us,” she amends. “Temarin does not like outsiders. Oh, they like you more because they haven’t been at war with Bessemia since they won their independence from the Bessemian Empire, but make no mistake—they will always see you as an outsider.”
Her words make sense. So much so that Sophronia suddenly feels ashamed of trying to undermine her. Bessemia above all else, she reminds herself, before changing tactics.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just keep thinking about those boys—”
“Those thieves,” Queen Eugenia corrects.
Sophronia makes a show of hesitating before she nods.
“You are too kind,” Queen Eugenia says again. “But there’s no need for your worry—I’m sure by now those boys are out on the streets once more, back to their families.” She laughs at Sophronia’s surprised expression. “What were you expecting, my dear? That we would put them to death? As you said, they were children, even if they were criminals.”
That is exactly what Sophronia was expecting, and she manages a relieved smile. But all of her worries haven’t abated. She can’t forget the sound of Duchess Bruna’s hand connecting with Violie’s cheek, the red mark that was left in its wake, the tears in the girl’s eyes.
“I’m beginning to understand what you meant when you spoke of your homesickness,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Not that I’m not enjoying Temarin—truly, I’m so happy here—but there are things I miss from Bessemia. I don’t think I realized until I was speaking with Duchess Bruna’s lady’s maid. Did you know she’s from Bessemia as well?”
“I thought I detected an accent,” Queen Eugenia says, glancing sideways at her.
Sophronia shakes her head. “I know I’m far luckier than you were—I heard it said that you didn’t even speak the language when you arrived. I learned Temarinian right alongside Bessemian growing up, so it’s second nature for me. But still, it was nice to speak my mother tongue for a few moments with Violie. Especially since, as you said, I should try to distance myself from my homeland publicly. Do you think…Oh no, I couldn’t ask.” She glances away, the very picture of demure.
“Ask, Sophie,” Queen Eugenia says.
“Just how angry do you think Bruna would be if I hired her lady’s maid as my own?” she asks. “It’s just…it would be nice, to have a bit of home around.”
Queen Eugenia fixes her with a frank look. “You cannot save every maid with a cruel mistress.”
“I know,” she says quickly.
Queen Eugenia lets out a long exhale. “I imagine she’ll be a bit piqued, though I’d wager she only hired a Bessemian maid to endear herself to you, so she has no one to blame but herself. And, to be honest, I am petty enough to revel a bit in her irritation. Send her a gift—I know my sister-in-law is particularly fond of rubies—and I’m sure she’ll forgive you fast enough.”
Sophronia nods. “Thank you, Queen Eugenia.”
The woman waves her words away. “We can’t keep calling one another Queen, Sophie. It’s dreadfully confusing. Call me Genia.”
* * *
—
When Sophronia comes back to her room after dinner that evening, she finds Violie sitting beside the fire, one of Sophronia’s new gowns laid over her lap and a needle in hand, though she isn’t sewing. Her eyes are far away, staring into the fire, but when she hears Sophronia come in, she hurries to her feet and dips into a curtsy.
“Good evening, Your Majesty,” she says.
“Good evening,” Sophronia says, somewhat surprised. She had a maid deliver her request, along with a ruby bracelet from the royal jeweler, just after tea, but she didn’t expect Violie to be switched into her household so quickly. Sophronia’s eyes fall to the gown Violie is holding. She switches to Bessemian, not realizing until she begins speaking just how much she’s missed it. “Was something wrong with it?”