“Depends on the objective,” Pasquale says with a grin. “You and Gigi are tied for having the most to drink—some might say you’re winning.”
It’s hard to tell in the moonlight, but Beatriz could swear a light flush works over Ambrose’s skin.
Pasquale holds the bottle of wine in one hand, leaning back on the other elbow and staring up at the sky for a second before shaking his head.
“I don’t want to be king,” he says finally.
A beat of silence follows his words before Gisella laughs.
“Everyone wants to be king,” she says. “Bluff.”
Ambrose and Nicolo agree with her assessment, both casting their votes for bluff, but Beatriz hesitates. He’s never said those exact words to her, but she feels certain he’s spoken around them, leaving the outline of a truth. Pasquale doesn’t want to be king—he doesn’t even want to be a prince.
“Truth,” she says softly.
Pasquale meets her gaze over the smoldering fire and she sees his surprise there, and an instant of vulnerability before he seals it away behind a grin and shakes his head. “Of course it’s a bluff. Like Gigi said—who doesn’t want to be king?”
He takes three drinks before passing the bottle to Beatriz so that she can take her drink as well.
For a second, she considers calling him out on the confession. She knows liars, after all, and the lie Pasquale just told was so palpable, so glaringly obvious, that she’s surprised no one else caught it. But perhaps they don’t want to see it. Nothing good will come of her pushing the matter, so she forces a smile and takes her drink without complaint.
“You were doing so well, Triz,” Gisella says, shaking her head. “But I suppose Nico won that round, didn’t he?”
“I didn’t realize there were winners or losers,” Nicolo says. “And like Pas said—I don’t feel like much of a winner, being the most sober one here. Pass the bottle, would you, Triz?”
She does, and for a second their fingers brush and he lingers, or maybe she lingers. She isn’t sure, but she knows it goes on a heartbeat longer than it should before the contact is broken. She knows that she regrets the loss of it when it is.
* * *
—
Ambrose is the first to call it a night, just after the clock tower strikes midnight, citing the need to be up early the next day. Gisella follows half an hour after that, saying she needs her beauty sleep. Pasquale makes it until nearly two in the morning before he begins drifting off on the beach and Beatriz has to insist he goes to bed, promising to join him soon.
Then it is only Beatriz and Nicolo, passing the last bottle of wine between them until they run out of things to talk about and just sit together in silence.
“It is late,” Beatriz says finally. “Will you walk me back to my rooms?”
Nicolo nods and gets to his feet, holding a hand out to help her stand. She’s unsteady on her feet—after all the wine it’s hardly surprising—but Nicolo keeps his hand around hers. Even when she finds her footing, he doesn’t let go for another few seconds, and when he does, Beatriz wishes he’d held on longer.
They start back toward the palace, walking side by side.
“I’m sure Pas is missing you,” Nicolo says when silence stretches out between them.
Beatriz gives a snort of laughter before she catches herself and offers him a sheepish smile. “I’ll admit, it’s nice to have a few hours apart,” she says, shaking her head. “No one tells you that when you get married, you never have a moment alone. I thought being a triplet was one thing, but at least I slept in my own room, my own bed.”
She realizes how bitter she sounds and quickly amends her remarks before he can see the truth of her marriage. “I love Pasquale, truly, but it’s nice to have a moment with just my thoughts.”
“I’m sure they’re fascinating,” Nicolo tells her with a small smile.
Beatriz hesitates, eyeing him in the moonlight, the way his face is cast in high relief. He is all sharp angles and dark eyes and full lips. Handsome.
Sophronia always liked to say Beatriz made poor decisions in the presence of handsome faces. If she were here, she might tell Beatriz to let him walk away, because he is a dangerous sort of handsome.
But Sophronia is not here to talk sense. Silence falls over them as they make their way back into the now-quiet palace—even the servants seem to be asleep, and not another soul is around. It’s almost eerie, given the life and energy usually flooding the palace halls, but it’s also peaceful.
“Are you still missing them? Your sisters?” Nicolo asks, jerking her out of her thoughts.
“Wouldn’t you miss Gigi?” she asks.
“Sometimes, I’m sure,” he says. “But also, sometimes I probably wouldn’t.”
Beatriz bites her lip. “I used to crave a little distance, you know,” she admits. “When we were growing up, I would get so annoyed. They were always so close. Sometimes it felt like they were smothering me. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to leave and come here and see all manner of new and exciting things.”
“And now?” he asks.
She considers the question carefully, aware that even if she likes Nico, she can’t trust him. He is a social-climbing boy, determined to win the king’s favor. She suspects he would sell her out if he had the chance, and even though she respects him for that, she certainly isn’t about to be that chance.
“I miss them—of course I do—but Cellaria is a heady daydream of a place. It’s everything I imagined growing up. I always wanted to see more of the world.”
He laughs. “It’s funny—I have as well, but nothing seems more exotic than Bessemia. To me, Cellaria is boring. Give me mild weather and dry air and glittering white palaces. It sounds like a fairy tale.”
“It is,” she says, smiling softly before shaking her head. “There are so many places I’d like to see if I could—Friv and Temarin and the eastern isles, not to mention all of the places beyond that, places we don’t even have names for.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and she worries that she’s said too much, been too open, that she’s frightened him somehow.
“Sometimes,” he says finally, “I feel like I’m so hungry for the world that I would swallow it up whole if I could.”
Beatriz’s mouth stretches into a grin. “You’d have to share it with me,” she says. “Half and half.”
He glances sideways at her, a wide smile tugging at his lips as well. And in that look, Beatriz feels like he sees her entirely, every inch of her inside and out. They’re walking through the royal wing now, both nodding at the guards posted outside the entrance, though even those guards seem half asleep and barely spare them a second look.