Daphne can’t help but laugh. “Please,” she says. “Even Nigellus couldn’t manage a wish that large, and he’s the greatest empyrea on the continent.”
At that, Cliona’s eyebrows arch high. “Is he? Says who?”
Daphne opens her mouth to answer but quickly closes it again. Everyone said it in Bessemia, she supposes, but no one ever offered any proof of it. Nigellus is simply notorious. But it occurs to her that another empyrea could claim that title and no one could very well prove it false.
“Star magic in Friv is…wilder than what you’re used to,” Cliona continues when Daphne doesn’t respond. “Up in the north, when the aurora borealis is overhead, the power of empyreas goes erratic. Sometimes they get stronger, sometimes weaker, but it is impossible to predict.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Daphne admits, though as she says it, it occurs to her that she doesn’t know much about empyreas at all. She knows about stardust, of course, and that empyreas are able to pull stars down from the sky to create bigger bursts of magic, but she understands it the same way she understands the sea—she knows what it is as a concept, but she’s never seen it firsthand. “They say that there are far more starshowers there than anywhere else on the continent,” she manages, desperate not to appear totally oblivious.
For a moment, Cliona looks wistful. “It’s truly a sight to behold,” she says. “Perhaps one day you’ll see it yourself.”
Daphne hopes not—if Friv is this cold in the south, she doesn’t know how she would survive the north.
“And the stardust they bring tends to be more potent than anything you’ve used—I’ve seen it used to cure serious illnesses and make seeds take root in barren ground. It’s even been used to get messages to people hundreds of miles away.”
That piques Daphne’s interest. “Really?” she asks skeptically.
Cliona nods. “I’ve never seen that done myself, only heard about it. They say the messenger and the target both need to be star-touched themselves in order for it to work.”
Daphne files that bit of information away. She herself is star-touched, and so are her sisters. If she could talk to them…“So it’s possible, then,” she says, returning to the subject at hand. “The right empyrea, on the right night, making the right wish on the right star, could have won Friv for Bartholomew.”
“That’s the rumor,” Cliona says carefully. “People like looking for an excuse for their failures. And if they can blame a woman, all the better. The empyrea they lay the blame on is a woman. Aurelia. I don’t know about your Nigellus, but Aurelia is the greatest empyrea I’ve ever heard of, though no one’s seen her since the war ended.”
“Magic that big comes with a cost, depending on the size of the wish,” Daphne says. “The only time I saw Nigellus use his power like that, he wished for the drought in Bessemia to end. It rained that very day, but he couldn’t get out of bed for weeks afterward. A wish big enough to make Bartholomew king might well have killed her.”
Cliona fixes Daphne with a meaningful look. “The stars exact a cost, yes, but Aurelia might not have been the one to pay it.”
Daphne inhales sharply. “You think that’s what killed Cillian? He wasn’t even born yet—not even conceived yet.”
Cliona shrugs. “But you could say Bartholomew paid a price all the same. That’s the rumor. The queen seems to believe it, and the king thinks it best if she goes to visit her sister in the north for a few weeks. He thinks it will be easier to get her to leave the castle without you and Bairre about.”
They pause in front of a sign that proclaims the shop to be Nattermore Dressmakers, and two of the guards disappear inside to inspect the space.
“Where is Bairre, then?” Daphne asks Cliona while they wait. “I assume he didn’t get roped into a shopping expedition.”
“No, he’s hunting with my father and some other noblemen. He has a lot of favor to earn now that he’s the heir,” Cliona says.
The guards reemerge, one giving a nod that seems directed more at Cliona than at Daphne.
“Come on,” Cliona says, pulling her toward the door. “I heard they just got lace in from Cellaria.”
* * *
—
The tailor’s shop is cramped but bright, lit by the storm-tinged sunlight shining through the large picture window and a half dozen oil lamps set on shelves and tables to lend light to the bolts of fabric that cover every available space. They line the walls, lean upright in corners—a few even rest on the single overstuffed sofa, yards of steel-gray velvet pouring onto the carpet below.
It is the opposite of the tailors in Bessemia, with their immaculate studios and plush chaises, their neatly organized catalogues of fabric samples, and the waifish, sharp-featured shopgirls who can sell you a new wardrobe or destroy your self-esteem with only a few loaded words. Daphne has a hard time imagining that anyone will be offering them champagne during their appointment today.
A petite, gray-haired woman with a wool shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders emerges from the back room, a cup of tea in one hand and a measuring tape in the other. When she sees Cliona and Daphne, her eyes narrow.
“You’re late,” she tells them.
“Apologies, Mrs. Nattermore,” Cliona says, dipping into something that might be described as a curtsy, though the woman has no title and Cliona is the daughter of a duke.
Mrs. Nattermore barely spares Cliona a glance, instead turning her attention to Daphne, though as soon as she does, Daphne desperately wishes she would look anywhere else. Her scrutinizing gaze is so heavy that Daphne finds it difficult to breathe, though she forces herself to keep her back straight and her chin raised. She is a princess of Bessemia, the future queen of Friv—the future empress of this entire continent—and she refuses to cower before a dressmaker.
“So,” Mrs. Nattermore says, the weight of an empire resting behind that single syllable. “You’re our new princess, are you? You don’t look like you’ll last the winter.”
Daphne opens her mouth to protest but quickly closes it again, forcing it into what she hopes is a pleasant smile.
“I’m in need of new dresses,” she tells the woman.
“And a wedding gown,” Cliona adds.
“I have a wedding gown,” Daphne says, frowning. It’s been hanging in her wardrobe since she arrived, deep green velvet with gold beaded flowers.
“You can’t very well wear that now,” Mrs. Nattermore says. “Everyone will say it’s cursed, bad luck. A shame, too—my fingers are still numb from all that beadwork.”
“I’m…sorry?” Daphne says. She doesn’t mean to apologize—knows there is nothing for her to apologize for. But the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, the woman’s steely eyes drawing them out of her practically against her will.