* * *
—
That night, at Sir Diapollio’s concert, Sophronia can’t focus enough to enjoy the singer’s talents. She knows he sings well and she can appreciate his good looks, even though he’s several decades her senior. She can’t enjoy Leopold’s hand in hers, either, or the way he leans close to whisper in her ear as the night goes on. She has to force herself to laugh when he points out how all the ladies of the court hang on Sir Diapollio’s every note. She has to force herself not to flinch away when he tells her she looks beautiful.
After what feels like an eternity, Sir Diapollio performs his final song and takes a great sweeping bow while Sophronia, Leopold, and the entire court applaud him.
“Can we go meet him?” Sophronia asks Leopold, offering him a bright smile that feels hollow, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I should have known better than to invite him—even my own wife isn’t safe from the famous Diapollio charms,” he says, shaking his head. “Why don’t you go on ahead—I need to have a quick word with Lord Fauntas first. But Diapollio should be recovering in the parlor on the left before the banquet,” he adds, pointing the way for her.
They go their separate ways, and Sophronia hurries past the mingling crowd toward the door Leopold indicated, having to stop several times to gush over the concert with courtiers who pull her aside. When she finally reaches the door, it’s ajar and she pushes it open, stepping into the dimly lit room.
“Sir Diapollio?” she asks.
There’s a bit of mumbled Cellarian that Sophronia is fairly sure is a curse, then the rustling of silk and hasty footsteps. As her eyes adjust to the dark, she can make out two figures hurrying to distance themselves—little good that it does. Sophronia may still be an innocent, but she’s spent enough time among the Bessemian courtesans to know exactly what she’s interrupted.
“You didn’t lock the door?” a familiar voice snaps at Sir Diapollio, and Sophronia’s body goes rigid. Eugenia steps out of the shadows, smoothing her hands over her wrinkled skirts. When she sees Sophronia, she stops short, her eyes going wide and her mouth gaping open, making her look, Sophronia thinks, a bit like a dying fish. She opens her mouth once, twice, three times, but words don’t come out. Finally, she draws herself up a little straighter and walks past Sophronia, keeping her gaze leveled straight ahead and her chin high.
Sophronia turns her attention to Sir Diapollio, who doesn’t look surprised at all at her interruption. Instead, he looks at her with knowing eyes and gives a small, mocking bow, and she understands.
“My mother’s gift?” she asks, stepping farther into the room and closing the door behind her.
Sir Diapollio inclines his head. “She said you would know what to do with it.”
Sophronia nods. She imagines herself going to Duchess Bruna, biting her lip, and confessing that she witnessed something but isn’t sure whether she should say. That would pique Duchess Bruna’s interest, and she would surely worm the whole encounter out of Sophronia before their tea had cooled. The entire castle would know in less than an hour’s time, and Queen Eugenia would be ruined. Leopold would have no choice but to send her away from court, leaving a gaping wound in Temarin’s power structure that Sophronia could quickly fill.
Still, Sophronia is disappointed that her mother’s gift has nothing to do with Beatriz after all.
“Do you have any word of my sister Beatriz?” she asks.
Sir Diapollio’s smile grows more lecherous. “A beauty, isn’t she? I sang at her wedding. Everyone was enchanted by her—except the prince, of course.”
“I’ve had letters from my sister that have told me far more than that,” Sophronia says.
Sir Diapollio’s expression shifts, the smile sliding off his face as he leans toward Sophronia, his voice dropping to a whisper even though they are the only ones in the room. “Of course. Siblings would exchange letters, wouldn’t they? I know King Cesare and Queen Eugenia exchange plenty—I deliver them myself during our encounters.”
Sophronia steps back from Sir Diapollio in surprise. “Letters?” she asks. “Another gift of my mother’s?”
He shakes his head. “This gift, Your Majesty, is all mine, though it does come with a price.”
“So not a gift, then,” Sophronia says, though she knows that no matter the price, she’ll pay it. Secret letters between King Cesare and Eugenia. Her mind is already a whirl of possibilities. Whatever they contain, she’s sure her mother would tell her to do whatever necessary to secure them. But that thought raises a question.
“I’m surprised my mother wasn’t interested in these letters as well,” she says. It’s possible he is trying to double-charge her, or perhaps the letters are forgeries and he thinks her more gullible than the empress.
Sir Diapollio smiles. “A man with my talent is limited by time, my dear. Already, my…charms are fading, and with them my audience. I decided long ago to accumulate secrets to sustain me. I sold your mother one, but now I find myself willing to part with another. For the right price. You see, Eugenia left in such a hurry, she forgot to ask me for her brother’s latest missive.” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a rolled letter with a red seal bearing the Cellarian royal sigil of the crescent moon.
“And how do I know the letter is authentic?” Sophronia asks. “The Cellarians don’t use stardust seals. You could have written the letter yourself.”
“You’re cleverer than I expected,” he says with a laugh. “But alas, I can’t prove its validity. Yet I’m sure you can, once you read its contents. Consider it a compass, leading you in the direction of the truth.”
“And how much will this compass cost me, considering it very well may be broken?” she asks.
“I rather like your ring,” he says, his eyes dropping to her hand where it holds the letter. At first she thinks he means her wedding ring, but instead he’s looking at the ring she wears on her smallest finger—a teardrop ruby set in a band of gold, studded with diamonds. It was part of the Temarinian royal jewels she inherited when she became queen, not something she’d part with under any normal circumstances, but she doesn’t have a choice. Violie will notice its absence, but she can claim it fell off her finger without her noticing—small as it is, that will be a believable lie. She slides the ring off her finger and passes it to him, exchanging it for the letter.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Sophie,” Sir Diapollio says, and Sophronia cringes at his use of her nickname. He doesn’t notice. All of his attention is focused on the ring in his hand. “I’ll give your regards to your sister when I see her next.”
Sophronia barely hears him, already on her way out the door, desperate to get away from the singer as quickly as possible, shoving the folded letter into the top of her bodice as she goes.