May the stars bless and guide you,
Cesare
Sophronia knows it’s dangerous to operate under the assumption that the letter is real. Her mother has always stressed the importance of validating any information received and considering the trustworthiness of its source. Sophronia doesn’t trust Sir Diapollio, so she isn’t sure she can trust the letter, damning as it is.
But Sir Diapollio was right about one thing—she can verify its contents, though it’s important she do so without raising any suspicions. And a queen from a foreign country, who has been on the throne for less time than the moon’s cycle, demanding to see defense budgets would certainly raise suspicions.
She’s spent the past two days trying to get information about castle budgets in more roundabout ways, but every time she’s approached the subject of money at any of her luncheons or teas or dinners, the courtiers have been quick to change the subject; she can’t pry more without again raising suspicions, so she’s been forced to let it go.
She rolls over in bed to look at Leo, fast asleep on his back, one arm bent behind his head. In sleep, he looks like the boy she believed him to be, the one she imagined when she wrote him letters. He looks open and kind and soft. His mother’s betrayal—if it’s true—will devastate him.
One cannot be soft and wear a crown, her mother has told her on more than one occasion, whenever Sophronia has expressed any kind of moral misgivings during her lessons. Or one will be crushed beneath its weight.
There is some truth to that—not just for her mother, or Leopold, or Queen Eugenia, but for Sophronia, too. She can feel herself hardening. Perhaps her mother is right after all—to wield power, one must be sharp-edged, ready to draw blood.
She rolls away from Leopold and closes her eyes. She won’t be sleeping tonight, she knows this. It’s something that happens from time to time when her mind becomes too busy to trade its thoughts for dreams. Back in Bessemia, she would sometimes go down to the kitchens, where the pastry chef, Madame Devoné, would be up well before dawn mixing and rolling and baking her creations. She’d had few qualms about putting an inquisitive princess to work, teaching her how to fold batter to keep a cake light and roll layers of butter between dough to add flaky layers to pastries. The monotonous, repetitive actions had always helped calm Sophronia’s mind.
It’s a shame she can’t do that now, she thinks, before catching herself. Why can’t she do that now? She is the Queen of Temarin—the only person who outranks her is fast asleep beside her, and even if Leopold were awake, she knows he wouldn’t tell her no.
Sophronia gets out of bed, finding her dressing gown hanging in the wardrobe and tying it over her nightgown before slipping from the room and into the hallway.
It’s strange to be in a kitchen again—and a strange kitchen at that. She’d grown familiar with the Bessemian palace kitchen. She knew where the grains were kept, how fresh the eggs were, that the oven was temperamental and always a few degrees hotter than it should be. This kitchen is a strange land, and it takes some time to acquaint herself with the landscape. The hour is somewhere between the night staff leaving and the early-morning staff arriving, so the kitchen is mostly quiet. The only other people around are a handful of servants cleaning.
When she asks one of them if it’s all right if she takes up a corner, the servant girl stares at her with wide eyes, not responding except to drop into a clumsy curtsy, which Sophronia takes as assent.
She has barely managed to gather her ingredients before Violie appears, still dressed in her own nightgown, with her blond hair in a single long braid that coils over her shoulder. Sophronia can’t quite manage to be surprised at her appearance—she’d guess that the second she arrived in the kitchen alone, one of the servants scurried off to find one of her maids. She’s glad they found Violie, who could prove useful if Sophronia manages it right.
“How do you feel about cake?” Sophronia asks her.
Violie blinks at her with tired eyes. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, Your Majesty,” she says. “A bit early for cake, or late, I suppose.”
“Don’t be silly, it will be several hours before it’s ready to eat,” Sophronia says, beginning to measure out the flour from a sack half as tall as she is. “Cake for breakfast.”
Violie considers the question, leaning forward and bracing her elbows on the island counter. “In that case, I’m all for cake,” she says. “Any reason in particular for this adventure?”
Sophronia shrugs. “Am I not allowed?” she asks, almost as a challenge.
“There’s no rule against it—though that may be because no queen has ever set foot in this kitchen before,” Violie says. “What can I do to help?”
They fall into an easy silence as Sophronia sets Violie up cracking eggs and measuring out milk. And as Sophronia begins to sift and whisk and fold everything together into a thick batter, her mind begins to calm enough that she forms a plan.
“How long have you been in Temarin, Violie?” she asks.
Violie seems somewhat surprised by the sudden question. “A year now, Your Majesty. I found work, briefly, in the kitchens, and then Duchess Bruna hired me just before King Carlisle passed away.”
“So you’ve spent all of your time in the palace?” Sophronia asks.
“I’ve run errands in Kavelle, but yes, I’ve lived in the palace since I arrived,” Violie says.
“You’ve still seen more of Temarin than I have,” Sophronia says, shaking her head. “May I confess something, Violie?” she asks, lowering her voice. This is one of her mother’s favorite tricks for gathering information—offer up a secret, not a real one, but something that gives the illusion of vulnerability. “I’m concerned for Temarin. The people seem unhappy—not within the palace, but in the city and, I’d wager, the rest of the country as well. From what I’ve gathered, they’re hungry, and all we’ve done is increase their taxes. Tripled them, last I checked.”
Violie blinks, looking surprised by Sophronia’s frankness. “Yes,” she says. “I believe that’s accurate.”
Sophronia shakes her head as if she’s trying to rid herself of these unpleasant thoughts before continuing. “I’d heard this before I arrived, but as far as I can tell, the palace itself has made no cutbacks—the royal and noble classes seem to be doing as well as ever,” she says. “I looked at the bill for my new wardrobe. It cost twenty thousand asters, not including shoes and jewelry. And if the gifts that have been sent to Leopold and me since our wedding are anything to go by, the rest of the nobles aren’t hurting either, even the ones I believed to be in debt.”
Violie says nothing, but she doesn’t need to. Sophronia can see that she’s troubled as well.
“Bessemia was not perfect, and I know plenty of our poor suffered there as well, but…” Sophronia trails off, shaking her head.