The room is two stories tall, with shelves that line each wall, full of more books than Daphne has ever seen in one place. So many books that it makes her dizzy trying to estimate how many there might be.
“Daphne,” King Bartholomew says, rising from the armchair beside the roaring fire. The furniture in the room is sparse, like in the rest of the castle, but it’s cozy—all overstuffed and upholstered in emerald-green velvet. When Daphne steps onto the rug spread out over the stone floors, her feet sink deep into the pile.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, mustering a sheepish smile. “I haven’t seen the library yet, but I was hoping to find a book of poetry.”
In truth, Daphne has no patience for poetry—that’s Beatriz, who would sneak small leather-bound volumes out into the garden to read aloud in the shade of the trees. Daphne had liked listening to Beatriz’s melodic voice reading from the books, but she’d never found much to enjoy in the words themselves. Pretty for pretty’s sake, nothing of value for her.
The thought of Beatriz is soured by the last letter Daphne received from her sister, and the last line in particular.
It is somehow even hotter in Cellaria than I expected. I can’t walk more than five minutes outdoors without sweating through my gown. I’m sure if you could you would pummel me all the way from freezing Friv for complaining, but I’m sure the cold suits you.
It is nothing to get annoyed about, Daphne knows this, but the words still prickle against her skin, the insinuation that she herself is cold. Beatriz has said similar things before, often calling her a cold, ruthless bitch—always teasing, the same way Daphne would call Beatriz a shameless harlot—but the irritation lingers longer this time, in large part because Daphne is beginning to suspect that it’s the truth. She hasn’t shed a tear over Cillian, the sympathy she feels for his parents is perfunctory at best, and even when she had a knife to her throat and thought she might die, she found herself more annoyed than frightened. Perhaps Beatriz is right and her heart is as frozen as the Frivian highlands in midwinter.
She pushes her sister’s letter to the back of her mind and focuses on the task at hand—another cold maneuver to take advantage of a grieving father.
King Bartholomew loves poetry—she remembers this from one of the many briefings she sat through with her mother’s spies. He and Cillian both spent hours in the library, reading poetry. She assumed that the king would be here, mourning his son, so here she is.
And just as Daphne knew he would, the king smiles and gestures her closer, lifting up the book he’s reading to show her the cover. She pretends surprise when she realizes it’s a volume of poetry—Verity Bates, one of Beatriz’s favorites as well. She’d even had Daphne translate a few volumes from the original Frivian for her to compare them to the official Bessemian translation. Daphne combs her memory for something she remembers.
“Oh, is that the one who wrote ‘A Mood Black and Waning’?” she asks.
“You’re familiar with Bates?” the king asks.
“She’s one of my favorites,” Daphne tells him, letting her smile broaden. “I find her use of color to indicate emotion so visceral.”
The way he returns her smile tells her this was exactly the right thing to say. Thank you, Beatriz, you shameless harlot.
“I have quite a few volumes—on the shelves there,” he says, motioning to a corner beside the window. “Please, help yourself to whatever you like.”
“Thank you, that means so much,” she tells him. With the first step of her plan complete, it’s time for the second.
She starts toward the corner he indicated but stops short halfway to unleash a sneeze so dramatic it sends a shudder through her entire body.
“Bless you, child,” the king says, looking up from his book once more.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m sorry, I think the Frivian air is taking some getting used to for me,” she says before shivering for good measure.
“Well, it’s no wonder, is it? Where on earth is your coat?” he asks, alarmed.
Daphne glances down at her day dress, the gray wool soft and warm enough that she would have been sweltering in Bessemia, but in Friv it’s not nearly enough to ward off the chill. Contrary to Beatriz’s dig, she does not like the cold at all.
“Oh,” she says, faking a laugh. “I’m always forgetting it—in Bessemia we never have any need for coats indoors—” She breaks off, sneezing again, this time even more loudly.
The king’s brow creases as he looks at her, the concern in his eyes so genuine that the slightest smidgen of guilt nags at her. She’s come into the place that most reminds him of his dead son, and now she’s faking an illness, which undoubtedly also reminds him of Cillian. She’s playing on his grief, using it against him. If Sophronia were here, she would give Daphne that look of hers, the kind that reeked of disappointment and disapproval, the kind that would linger with Daphne for days and weeks after, eating at her.
But Sophronia’s not here, so what little guilt Daphne feels slips away when King Bartholomew stands up and slips his jacket off, draping it over her shoulders.
“We’ve had enough illness in this family, Daphne,” the king says, his voice firm but kind. “You must take better care of yourself.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Daphne says, dropping her gaze. Her fingers graze the seal through the pocket of the coat, and she tries her best to look chastened.
He goes back to his chair and his volume of poetry, but when she makes her way to the shelf, he speaks again.
“It’s in volume two,” he says, though his eyes are still on his book.
“What is?” she asks over her shoulder.
“ ‘A Mood Black and Waning,’ ” he says. “It’s part of the collection she wrote after her brother’s passing. Cillian hated it, thought it was too dark and gloomy. Sometimes, though, there’s something comforting about seeing your grief mirrored in another’s. It helps us feel less alone.”
Daphne tries to think of something to say to that, but no words seem good enough. After a second, he looks at her over the top of his book.
“He would have liked you,” the king says.
Daphne swallows down her discomfort and tries to remember what Beatriz said about the poem.
“A Mood Black and Waning reminds me of my father, I suppose,” she says. “I don’t remember him, but sometimes I find myself missing him anyway.”
It’s another deception, another made-up vulnerability to endear her to a man she will eventually betray, but Daphne doesn’t feel bad about it—not even when the king gives her a tender smile, the way she likes to think her own father might have smiled at her. Perhaps Beatriz is right and she is a cold, ruthless bitch after all.
She turns back to the shelves, pretending to scan them while she works through the next part of her plan, the bit she’s truly dreading. She can’t make her wish if he’s here, and she doubts he’ll let her leave with his coat—besides the seal, she can feel the heavy ring of keys in another pocket, the rolled-up bits of parchment crushed beneath them. The coat is full of all kinds of things he’ll likely have need for.