“Better than I usually do,” he admits. “The elbow adjustment helped.”
“You’re welcome,” Daphne says before taking her own stance and raising her bow.
She runs through her inner checklist, making sure her shoulders are dropped, her elbow in place, her hips squared. She takes aim and releases the arrow, sending it flying into a perfect bull’s-eye.
When she catches sight of Bairre’s expression, she has a second of panic. His expression is unreadable, and she’s reminded of how Sir Aldric looked when she beat him, how he told her mother he found her unattractive because of it. For a second, she worries that her pride has ruined any feelings Bairre might have had—if they ever existed; worries that she’s killed her mother’s plans thoroughly.
But then something in his face shifts and he almost smiles.
“Impressive,” he says. “You might even have given Cillian a challenge. He would have been mad about you. He already was, just through letters, but in person he wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
Daphne glances away before she forces herself to meet his gaze.
“And you?” she asks him. “Do you stand a chance?”
Bairre holds her gaze for a moment before looking away, his jaw flexing.
“I’ll let you be,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She opens her mouth to tell him he’s not interrupting, to ask him to stay, but he’s already walking back to the castle, the answer to her question still locked away.
Sophronia dunks a miniature sponge cake into her cup of coffee and takes a bite without looking up from the page she’s been studying for the better part of an hour. The new draft of the updated tax code is a dense beast of a document—Sophronia suspects intentionally—and she’s found error after error. Does Lord Covier believe that if he drowns the important information in unnecessary words, she will miss it?
Actually, she wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what he believes.
She sets her coffee and cake down and picks up her quill, circling a particularly verbose sentence that rambles on long enough to take up half the page.
“What good will announcing lower taxes do if the people don’t understand a word of the new policy?” she grumbles aloud.
Leopold glances up at her from the other side of the sitting room, hunched over a piece of parchment with his own quill in hand.
“Perhaps it’s an issue of the language barrier?” he asks.
She shoots him an annoyed look. “I guarantee you, Leopold, my Temarinian vocabulary is larger than that of many villagers. How many do you think will know the meaning of verisimilitude?”
He frowns. “Did Covier throw that in there? I don’t even know what it means.”
“Neither does he, apparently, since he used it incorrectly,” Sophronia says, striking through that sentence altogether. “One would almost think he’s hoping no one understands a word of this. We should really think about replacing him and Verning,” she adds. She knows better than to even suggest he replace his mother, and besides, it is handier to keep Eugenia close. Sophronia hasn’t received a response from her own mother yet, and she’s sure the empress will have ideas of her own for how to keep Eugenia from ruining their plans.
“Let’s get through this afternoon first,” Leopold says.
This afternoon, they are to go down to Kavelle along with Eugenia and Leopold’s brothers to announce the lowered taxes. It’s something she’s both excited about and dreading, and she knows Leopold is anxious as well. He’s been tweaking his speech all morning, and he’s eaten nearly the entire plate of sponge cakes she made.
“You’re giving good news,” she reminds him. “They’ll be cheering your name by the time you’re through.”
There’s a knock on the sitting room door, and without waiting for an answer, Eugenia bustles in. Her eyes fall on Leopold first and she greets him with a broad, warm smile, but when she notices Sophronia it dies on her face.
“Oh, you’re both here,” she says. “How nice.”
“Actually,” Leopold says, glancing at the clock hanging above the marble mantel, “I’m late to meet Gideon and Reid—I told them I would walk them through everything today. Is it all right if I bring the rest of the cakes with me? Might help calm their nerves.”
“Yes, their nerves,” Sophronia teases.
Leopold kisses her cheek. “Are you done with that?” he asks, nodding toward her papers. “I can drop them off with Covier on my way.”
“Just about,” Sophronia says, striking through another sentence and passing the pile to Leopold. “Tell him it needs to be simpler—language that even children can understand. We don’t want anything misinterpreted.”
“I’ll tell him,” Leopold says. As he passes his mother on the way out, he stops to give her a quick kiss on the cheek as well.
“Not too many sweets for your brothers!” Eugenia calls after him, but the door shuts before she finishes. She sighs and turns back to Sophronia, and Sophronia can see the instant the facade falls and Eugenia goes from being a doting mother to being an adversary.
“Sophie,” she says, inclining her head.
“Genia,” Sophronia replies, matching the woman’s cold smile. “Today should be quite exciting—Leopold’s nervous, though. I couldn’t believe it when he told me he’d never given a speech in Kavelle before! One would think he’d be a familiar face to the people he rules over.”
Eugenia doesn’t respond for a moment. Instead, she tilts her head to one side and looks Sophronia over with a critical eye. “It won’t work, you know,” she says.
Sophronia frowns. “Lowering taxes? I don’t see why it wouldn’t, but we can go over the figures again if you like—”
“They’ll never love you,” Eugenia interrupts, coming to sit across from Sophronia and pouring herself a cup of coffee as if they’re discussing the latest fashions. “Oh, Leopold might be enamored at the moment, but we’ll see how quickly he tires of you once you’ve actually let him between your legs—don’t insult me by lying, servants talk, you know that.”
Sophronia, who had indeed been about to lie, closes her mouth again.
“And Temarin,” Eugenia continues, clicking her tongue. “If the hearts of kings are fickle, Temarin’s heart is downright tempestuous, especially toward foreigners.”
Something in her words digs beneath Sophronia’s skin, nettling her. It’s the bitterness in her voice, but more than that, the hatred. She’s heard Eugenia speak of Temarin with wariness before, but never with this level of vitriol. It occurs to Sophronia that this is the real Eugenia, the one plotting with her brother to conquer a country she hates. And if she is letting Sophronia see past all her illusions, it means she knows the game is up.