“If I may, Your Majesty,” Violie says. “Do you remember…five years back now? Bessemia faced a hard winter followed by a cruel drought. The harvests were all pitiful.”
Sophronia nods. She was eleven at the time, old enough to begin sitting in on her mother’s council sessions. And it was impossible to forget how Nigellus had eventually used his power to end the drought.
“The effect of it rippled all over the country. No one was spending money, so no one was making money,” Sophronia says.
“I don’t know enough about the current situation,” Violie says. “But I’d imagine it’s something similar here. It happens. Economies rise and fall. The Bessemian economy rose again—flourished, even. I’m sure the Temarinian one will rise again as well.”
Sophronia considers this as she pours the batter into the two prepared pans. Violie might be right, but if the letter is to be believed, there may be something more sinister at work. Sophronia glances at the large clock hanging above the stove. It’s nearly dawn, which means the rest of the palace will be waking up soon.
“We cut taxes,” Sophronia says, bringing the conversation back to her intended purpose.
Violie looks up at her, bewildered. “Pardon?”
“In Bessemia,” Sophronia says, remembering how she and her sisters sat in on those meetings, how Beatriz was bored out of her mind and Daphne more focused on saying the right thing to impress the empress than on listening. Sophronia, though, was fascinated, reading through the proposed palace budget cuts and new tax laws until she’d all but committed them to memory. “My mother ordered that taxes should be cut. She also used money from the royal treasury to set up a fund to assist those who had lost their jobs or otherwise couldn’t pay for necessities. She pressured every noble family to do the same. They weren’t happy about it—they’d already given up a large share of the income they received from the taxes their estates took from the villages on their property—but she forced their hands. I remember my sisters’ and my birthday that year—instead of the usual elaborate ball, we had a small tea party. My mother said that if Bessemia was suffering, we were all suffering.”
Violie looks at Sophronia, understanding lighting in her eyes. “And Bessemia recovered,” she says. “By the next year, most everything was back to normal.”
Sophronia nods. “I find myself curious, Violie, if similar measures have been taken in Temarin. But no one I’ve spoken to seems to know the first thing about taxes or budgets.”
Violie bites her lip, looking uncertain. “Are you asking me to find those documents?” she asks.
Sophronia smiles. “We’re both strangers here, Violie,” she says. “But this is our home now—I think we both want what is best for it.”
Sophronia hasn’t said the words, but she knows Violie heard them.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Violie says.
“Excellent,” Sophronia says, straightening up. “Queen Eugenia told me that she likes to rise before the sun to best seize the day. Will you please send her an invitation to have breakfast with me in my sitting room?”
“Will an invitation suffice?” Violie asks, raising her eyebrows. Clearly, Eugenia’s avoidance of Sophronia hasn’t gone unnoticed.
Sophronia purses her lips. “It can sound like an invitation, but see that she understands it’s an order. From her queen.”
* * *
—
Sophronia and Eugenia sit across from each other in Sophronia’s sitting room, a round table between them set with cups of hot coffee and slices of cake. Neither has spoken since Eugenia arrived ten minutes ago, though both have finished their first cups of coffee and half of their cake. Sophronia meets Eugenia’s gaze and gives her a placid smile, which only seems to bewilder the woman more.
Finally, Eugenia gives in and breaks the silence.
“This cake is divine, isn’t it?” she says, trying for a conversational tone that might fool anyone else, but Sophronia hears the tension in her words. “The chef must be trying out a new recipe—is that cinnamon, do you think?”
“Cinnamon and blueberries, yes,” Sophronia says as a servant steps forward with a fresh pot of coffee to refill their cups. Sophronia adds a cube of sugar to hers, but Eugenia leaves it black. “I made it, actually,” Sophronia adds.
She expects Eugenia to be surprised, but she merely raises an eyebrow.
“Every queen has her hobbies,” she says, shrugging. “I prefer gardening.”
“Among other things,” Sophronia says, keeping her voice light.
Eugenia’s eyes narrow and she sets her fork down. “You did not see what you think you saw, Sophronia,” she says firmly.
“It was quite dark,” Sophronia agrees. “Perhaps I should tell Leopold what I think I saw—and heard—and ask for his opinion on what it meant?”
“Ah,” Eugenia says, leaning back in her seat and eyeing Sophronia warily. “So that is where we are.”
Sophronia feels a stab of guilt. She doesn’t hold Eugenia’s having a paramour against her—stars know her mother has had plenty of lovers. But if Sophronia is going to take power in Temarin, Eugenia will have to give hers up. And if Eugenia is truly plotting with her brother to overtake Temarin, well…Sophronia won’t feel guilty about it at all.
Sophronia smiles and leans forward. “Friends keep secrets for each other, don’t they? And I think we are friends.”
“You are like the daughter I never had, Sophronia,” Eugenia says, matching her smile, though there is ice behind it. “And I would hate for any of my…poor decisions…to reflect badly on you and Leopold, should they come to light.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry yourself about that, I’m sure we would manage,” Sophronia says, shrugging. “But as I said, friends keep secrets. They also support each other, don’t you think?”
“I suppose they do,” Eugenia says slowly, lifting her coffee cup to her lips, though Sophronia notices that her hands shake slightly. It’s strange, how powerful that makes her feel. It’s alarming how much she enjoys it.
“Leopold has asked me to join in on his council meetings, to offer my thoughts and opinions on how Temarin is being run,” Sophronia says. “I trust I can count on your support in those matters. It will take all of us together to make Temarin the best it can be. Don’t you agree?”
Eugenia’s jaw tightens, but she manages a smile and a curt nod.
“Wonderful,” Sophronia says, beaming. She lifts her coffee cup for a toast. “To making Temarin strong and prosperous.”
The evening Beatriz and Pasquale are meant to dine with Lord Savelle, Beatriz finds Pasquale in bed, clinging to an empty water basin with a sweat-sheened green pallor to his face. She pauses in the doorway and wonders whether she might have overdone it with the ravelroot in his afternoon tea—she wanted him too sick to attend dinner, not at death’s door. But then, she’s never had Daphne’s gift for poisons.