She shakes the thought from her mind. No. She doesn’t need him to agree. She needs to do what she was sent here for, so she can return home as quickly as possible.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a man steps into the entrance to the corridor, a cautious expression on a face she knows right away from sketches.
“Apologies, Your Highnesses,” Lord Savelle says, offering a bow. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I wished to see if you were all right. That was quite an ordeal for you.”
Beatriz forces a smile, wiping at her eyes to catch any tears that might have escaped. “Thank you, that’s very kind,” she says, pretending not to know exactly who he is. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir.”
“Triz, this is Lord Savelle, the ambassador from Temarin. Lord Savelle, my wife, Princess Beatriz,” Pasquale says.
Lord Savelle bows again. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Lord Savelle,” Beatriz says with what might be her first true smile of the day. “I apologize for losing my composure—”
“No apology necessary, Princess,” Lord Savelle says, waving her words away. “I’ve been in the Cellarian court for two decades now—I understand better than anyone what a…shock certain practices can be to a person. Which is why I sought to offer my compassion.” He pauses. “I also bring word of your sister—Lady Gisella said you might welcome the news?”
“Sophie?” Beatriz asks, her heart rising into her throat. “Is she well?”
“Married,” he says. “A day before you were, I believe. I’m told she and King Leopold are the very stuff of love ballads and poetry.”
Beatriz smiles, though inside she hopes that Sophronia is keeping her wits about her. Still, her sister deserves a little happiness, if she can reach it. “I’m very glad to hear it.” She pauses, as if an idea has only just occurred to her. “Please, you must join us for dinner soon so that Pasquale and I can show our gratitude.”
Lord Savelle bows again. “I would be honored, Your Highness.”
Perhaps, Beatriz thinks with a flutter of triumph, home isn’t so very far away after all.
Cliona’s missive arrives just shy of midnight the day after their shopping trip, a note tied to the open window with black ribbon, fluttering in the slight breeze. Since Daphne’s bedroom sits on the third floor, whoever left it would have had to scale the castle walls without being noticed—a feat even Daphne has to admit is impressive. The message inside is short, in hasty but delicate writing.
Steal your marriage contract. It’s kept in the king’s study, but you said that wasn’t an issue.
She isn’t surprised Cliona wants to see the marriage contract—after Daphne told her that King Bartholomew and the empress were merging the countries, of course Cliona wants proof. Proof doesn’t exist; there’s no formal agreement, because the king would never willingly join his country to Bessemia. But Daphne can fix that easily enough. She might not be as good at forgeries as Sophronia, but she can certainly manage.
She pulls her dressing gown over her nightgown, tucking the missive into her pocket.
A thrill runs up her spine as she steps into the empty hallway with her candle, closing the door softly behind her. Dangerous as this may be, playing two sides and serving two agendas, she can’t deny that a part of her enjoys the risk.
A week after Cillian’s death, the castle has begun to come alive again, so she must be more careful than the last time she went sneaking about. Servants will be up, stoking fires and cleaning. The hallways near the kitchen in particular will be bustling.
When she reaches the office door, she sets down her candle, pulls the pins from her hair, and gets to work. Now that she’s picked the lock once, the second time goes much quicker, and in just a few seconds, she’s pushing the office door open and slipping inside.
She makes her way straight for the desk and begins rifling through the drawers, looking for the marriage contract. When she finds it, she sits down at King Bartholomew’s desk and picks up his quill from its inkpot, flipping through with her free hand until she reaches the end.
This agreement is made in good faith and in the best interests of both Friv and Bessemia.
It is easy enough for Daphne to change that period into a comma. She studies the rest of the handwriting, noticing the precise, unadorned script—easy to read and easy to imitate—but with a few markers to set it apart. The way the a’s and o’s slope slightly, how the t’s and f’s cross slightly higher than they should.
Once she’s satisfied she can mimic the handwriting, she takes a deep, steadying breath and begins.
This agreement is made in good faith and in the best interests of both Friv and Bessemia, and the united country they will one day form, to be ruled by Prince Bairre and Princess Daphne upon the deaths of King Bartholomew and Empress Margaraux.
It is a tight fit to squeeze in a couple of extra lines above the place where Daphne’s mother and King Bartholomew signed and left their seals, but when Daphne replaces the quill in its pot and sits back to peruse the document, nothing looks amiss.
As she waits for the ink to dry, she considers Cliona’s instruction to steal the contract. What if the king notices it’s missing? That’s cause for concern, but not Daphne’s—if the king does notice, he won’t blame her, so what does it matter? Her duty will be done.
Footsteps patter down the hall, and Daphne goes still for an instant before scrambling into motion. She touches the ink and finds it dry, so she rolls the contract up with Cliona’s missive, tucks it into her pocket, and blows out her candle, shrouding the study in darkness.
The footsteps grow louder and louder—boots. Heavy ones. A guard? The steps sound regimented enough, evenly paced, rhythmic. Her mind spins with excuses, reasons for her presence in the king’s office, but all of them sound suspicious, even to her own ears.
Just when the footsteps can’t get any louder, they pass the office, fading away as they continue down the hall. Daphne releases a breath and sags against the desk. She waits until the footsteps have died away entirely before crossing quietly to the door and slipping back into the hall.
As soon as she’s closed the door, though, the footsteps are back, coming toward her once more. Her fingers fumble with the hairpins, but there’s no time to lock the door again. As the footsteps round the corner, she hastily shoves the hairpins back into her bun.
“Hello?” a voice calls out in the dark.
A familiar voice.
“Bairre?” she whispers.
The sound of a match striking, then flame as he lights a candle, illuminating his bewildered face. His overgrown chestnut hair is windblown and wilder than usual, in desperate need of a comb, but it suits him.