“Daphne,” he says, the way he always says her name—as if the effort of being in her presence has already exhausted him. “What are you…” He trails off, looking at the door behind her. The crease in his brow deepens.
“I was trying to find the kitchens for a glass of water,” she tells him before his thoughts can lead him further. She bites her lip, putting forth her best ingenue impression. “I thought maybe that led to a hallway, but it just seems to be a study of some kind. This castle is still such a maze, and it’s hard to see much of anything in the dark.” She holds up the extinguished candle and shrugs. “It went out a few minutes ago.”
Bairre reaches behind her, trying the door to the king’s office. It gives easily and swings open.
“That should be locked,” he says, more to himself than her. For an instant, her heart goes still, but then he shakes his head. “The whole castle has been a bit distracted lately, I suppose.”
“How did your hunting trip go?” she asks him, hoping to divert his attention from the unlocked door. He’s been gone the last two days, since her shopping trip, hunting with the heads of some highland clans.
He frowns and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Well enough; we hunted. Got a few stags, even a boar.”
“You weren’t there to hunt, though,” she says. “How did you get on with the rest of the party?”
“Why are you so concerned?” he asks, though the tension in his jaw gives away the answer.
She blinks. Why is she so concerned? She will be stuck with him once they’re wed, she supposes. She’d expected that Cillian wouldn’t live long into their marriage, but Bairre seems to be in perfect health. And once her mother leaves her the empire, Daphne imagines she’ll run it herself while he…while he does what? She supposes she shouldn’t care, but he will be her husband, so maybe she should. “Because the whole purpose of the trip was for them to see you as the crown prince and not the king’s bastard, but I’m guessing that didn’t work.” She pauses, fixing him with a look. “Whether you like it or not, you’re a prince.”
“No one sees me that way,” he says, shaking his head.
“Because you don’t see yourself that way,” she says. “My mother was a tailor’s daughter and an emperor’s mistress. No one wanted to see her as a ruler either, but she didn’t give them a choice.”
For a moment he doesn’t say anything, but then he nods down the hall, back in the direction she came from. “It’s that way.”
She glances down the dark hallway, then back at him. “What is?” she asks.
His eyebrows lift. “The kitchens. I thought you were thirsty.”
“I was,” she says quickly. “I am. You just distracted me.”
She starts off down the way he pointed, and he falls into step beside her. Though she won’t admit it, she’s grateful for the light he brings with him.
“There’s a bell, you know,” he says. “You can ring if you need anything.”
“I did,” she lies. “No one came.”
He seems to accept that, and they continue to the kitchens in silence.
“You stay here,” he tells her when they’re just outside the door. “They know me, but the sight of the princess at this hour will get them flustered.”
She nods. “Thank you.”
He pauses for a second, eyeing her uncertainly. “Anything else?” he asks her. “Truffle cheese or spun-sugar pastries? Caviar?”
“I find caviar gauche, actually,” she says with a bland smile. “Water will do.”
“You sure you don’t want pearl powder in it?” he continues, clearly enjoying this. “I hear your mother boils pearls in her tea to make her beautiful.”
“Pearls don’t boil,” Daphne says before she can stop herself. “But they do dissolve in vinegar, under the right circumstances, and the effect makes for quite a show of wealth and power for an upstart queen dining with foreign dignitaries who are trying to undermine her. Perhaps there’s a lesson there for you.”
That wipes the smirk off his face, and he ducks into the kitchen without another word. When he appears a moment later, he presses the glass of water into her hands.
“You can find your way back?” he asks.
She nods, taking the glass from him and turning away without another word.
* * *
—
Back in her room alone, Daphne fishes the rolled-up marriage contract from her pocket. She crosses to the window and opens it, leaving the contract on the sill just where she found the missive, then shucks off her dressing gown and finally climbs into bed.
Exhausted as she is, she should fall asleep quickly, but instead her mind whirls over her conversation with Bairre. She tells herself she accomplished her goal: she distracted him—he never truly suspected what she was really doing in the king’s study—but she didn’t have to give him advice. What the court thinks of Bairre isn’t her concern. Friv isn’t her concern. Her concern is getting through the wedding, stealing the king’s seal, and doing whatever else her mother demands of her. It would be better if Bairre liked her, but that’s not likely to come about when she’s insulting him.
So why did she do it?
Daphne falls asleep before she arrives at an answer.
* * *
—
She wakes at dawn to a draft coming in from the open window. She knows she closed that window the night before, and latched it for good measure. But now it’s open and there, on her vanity, are another note and a small vial of shimmering powder.
The stardust.
She stumbles out of bed and crosses to the vanity, picking up the vial and turning it over in her hands. She sets it back down and picks up the letter, unfurling it and scanning it quickly. It’s only four words, but they feel like a lead weight dropping into her stomach.
Well done. More soon.
Sophronia can’t sleep. The moon is high in the sky, shining through her bedroom window and turning the gilded furniture silver and ghostly—appropriate, she thinks, as she’s been feeling more ghost than girl the last few days. Ever since she caught the dowager queen with Sir Diapollio, Eugenia has been avoiding her altogether. There have been no more invitations to tea, no more walks in the garden catching up on gossip. When they are forced to be in the same room for banquets or balls, Eugenia won’t even look her way. Which is just as well, since Sophronia wants to avoid Eugenia, too, after reading the letter her brother wrote her. The words still haunt her.
My dearest sister,
The news in your last letter is as welcome as you will be in Cellaria when you return home. We are close to being ready now—I daresay we could attack Temarin tomorrow and emerge victorious before the spring, but I would like to make quicker work of it. I fear Temarin’s defenses are still too strong to fall easily. A little more work on your end and they should crumble under the slightest breeze.