He raps his knuckles against the window and a guard opens the door, helping them out of the carriage and into the bright afternoon sun. Sophronia takes Leopold’s proffered arm and they make their way toward the towering gates that lead to Kavelle. Just through the golden curlicues, Sophronia can see a crowd of people gathered. Leopold was right—there are more people than she can count waiting to hear him speak.
A wall of guards guides them through the gates and up onto the platform, and Sophronia gives Leopold’s arm one last squeeze of reassurance before letting go and stepping back to stand beside his mother and brothers. The noise from the crowd is deafening, but she can’t tell if it’s made up of cheers or curses. Both, perhaps. But when Leopold clears his throat and lifts a hand, the crowd falls silent.
For a long moment, he freezes, staring out at the crowd. Though she can’t see his face, Sophronia notes the tension in his shoulders, how they hitch up toward his ears. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.
“Good afternoon, good people of Kavelle,” he says before clearing his throat again. “I know that Temarin has been facing difficult times, and nowhere is that more clear than here in the capital, but as your king, I will be doing everything in my power to see us through this.”
“Horseshit!” a man cries out from the middle of the crowd. Sophronia’s eyes find him quickly, as do the guards making their way through the crowd. When one of them grabs the man’s arm roughly, Leopold holds his hand up again.
“Release him, please,” he says, and after a second of confusion, the guard does as he’s told. Even the man looks bewildered.
“I have been…lax in my duties since taking the throne, and I can’t blame you for not believing me, but I assure you I’m in earnest. Starting next month, the taxes you owe will be halved.”
There are whispers at that, a swell of quiet voices that buzz through the space until they nearly drown Leopold out altogether. “We will also be setting up a food distribution system through which those in need will be able to pick up rations, free of cost.”
There is more murmuring at that. Sophronia scans the crowd, trying to discern whether the people are pleased or not, and her eyes snag on a familiar face. There, near the front of the crowd, is Violie. It isn’t surprising—there are other palace servants she recognizes dimly, come to hear news that affects them as much as anyone—but the surprising thing is that Violie isn’t alone. A boy of about eighteen stands just behind her left shoulder, whispering something in her ear that seems to annoy Violie. She frowns and she says something back—something, Sophronia thinks, that appears unpleasant. A lovers’ quarrel, perhaps. Another secret Violie has been keeping.
Sophronia takes note of the boy’s face—sharp angles and dark brown eyes, black hair in need of a cut, skin gold from the sun, a pale white scar across his left cheek. Violie catches her watching and turns a shade pinker before offering her a smile. Sophronia forces herself to return it before turning her attention back to Leopold.
“Temarin has faced troubled times before, and we have always come out the other side of them—stronger and united,” he says.
There is a smattering of applause—some of it even seems genuine, but it isn’t enough to cover the jeers. Certainly not loud enough to cover up the woman screaming “Liar!” at the top of her lungs as she pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She is slight in stature, with wiry gray hair pulled back from her face and partly covered by a dusty blue kerchief. Her wrinkled face is bright red from the effort of yelling, but her eyes are determined and focused on Leopold.
The guards in the crowd start moving toward her, but again, Leopold raises his hand to stop them, allowing her to come to the platform.
“How many won’t come out the other side of this, Your Majesty?” she demands, her voice dripping with derision. “How many of our sons have been killed for stealing to survive, all the while you’ve been stealing from us to fill your coffers? How many parents have starved so that their children are fed? My own daughter died in labor because she couldn’t afford to pay for a doctor after your men took her last penny in taxes. How many others have stories like hers?”
The crowd close enough to hear her nods, and Sophronia wonders just how many of them have lost people they loved because of Leopold’s naïveté. It is one thing to understand the cost in terms of ink and paper, but another to see it reflected in the eyes of so many people.
Leopold must feel it as well, because he has no answer for the woman. Sophronia isn’t sure she does either, but before she knows what she’s doing, she’s stepping up beside Leopold, placing her hand on his arm.
“We’re sorry to hear about your losses—about all of your losses,” she says, surprised at how clear and level her voice comes out. “King Leopold and I will do everything we can to—”
Before she can finish, someone in the crowd throws a stone—a small thing, the size of a fat grape—and it strikes her cheek. It surprises her more than anything, but when she lifts her fingers to her face, they come away bloody.
“Sophie!” Leopold exclaims, pulling her behind him as more stones begin to join the first.
“Seems only fair,” a man near the front yells, throwing a larger stone that hits Leopold square in the shoulder, knocking him back a step, “to repay death with death!”
“Get back to the gates,” Leopold says to her as guards begin to close in around them and the crowd becomes more agitated. He keeps hold of her hand as they hurry toward Eugenia and the princes. When they meet, Sophronia grabs hold of Reid’s hand and the five of them huddle together. Another stone hits Sophronia’s hip, a third smacks the back of her head hard enough that she sees stars, but she forces herself to ignore the throbbing pain and keep moving, putting her arm around Reid’s shoulders to shield the boy from the attacks.
The guards form a tight circle around them, but the barrier doesn’t hold—before they are even off the platform, three guards have fallen, one stabbed with a dagger, one clobbered over the head, and a third dragged down into the crowd. Sophronia’s heart thunders in her chest as the people get closer, shouting curses and threats and Temarinian words she doesn’t recognize but that don’t sound positive. Someone grabs hold of her gown, tearing the hem. Another person pulls at Leopold’s arm, knocking him off-balance before a guard pushes them away.
They are nearly to the gate when Reid is torn away from her, one moment standing beside her, the next gone altogether, her hand suddenly empty.
“Reid!” Sophronia screams, but the guards are already pushing them through the gate, the iron bars slamming closed as soon as they’re through, but even the gate isn’t enough to stop the crowd. They reach through the bars, throw stones, shout.
“Reid,” she says, pulling Leopold to face her.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, looking dazed. He’s been hit as well, a streak of blood marring his temple. “What about Reid?” he asks, frowning. “Where is he?”