“Never mind the fact that their king is mad, magic is outlawed, and they’ve imprisoned the last ambassador we sent them,” Sophronia says, biting her lip to keep from laughing. She can only imagine how Bruna took that offer.
“She was…less than enthused,” he admits. “Gave me three hundred thousand asters to change my mind. I didn’t even know she possessed that much money, considering how she’s always asking for an increase in her allowance.”
“I’d wager she has far more than that if she was willing to part with it so quickly,” Sophronia points out. “How much did you raise altogether?”
“Nearly two million,” he says, looking a bit smug. “Enough to budget for five food depositories throughout Temarin—just like that one,” he says, directing Sophronia’s attention back out the window to the gathered crowd. “In the five biggest cities now, but I’m hopeful soon we’ll be able to expand the program into smaller towns and villages.”
“How does it work?” she asks.
“Every morning, a line will form, and everyone will take a set amount of rations depending on the number of people in their household—a collection of produce, meat, and grains procured from local Temarinian farmers.”
Sophronia glances back at Leopold. “And how is that going?” she asks.
He shrugs. “It’s a work in progress. We first opened yesterday morning, and it was chaos—no one was keen to form a neat and orderly line. But when it became clear that it was the only way they’d receive food, things calmed down a bit. There’s some conflict now about how to verify that people are taking only what they need. I heard word that there were some who took extra rations and tried to sell them to those who missed out, at an astronomical markup. It isn’t a perfect system, but we’re working on it.”
Sophronia feels a smile tug at her lips. “Look at you,” she says.
His cheeks flush, but he’s smiling too. “Yes, well, it turns out I have a knack for this. No one is more surprised than I am,” he says before pointing once again to the square, where several larger shapes move toward the shop. It takes a second for her to realize what they are.
“Wagons?” she asks, frowning.
“Indeed. Carrying fresh game. Ansel introduced me to a group of unemployed workers from various backgrounds. Their skill sets differ, but it turns out with a bit of training from my kitchen staff, they’re all quite capable of putting together a decent stew.”
Sophronia watches the wagons approach. “There are so many,” she says, glancing back at him. “Where did you find so much game?”
“I issued a challenge,” he says, practically beaming. “It’s the end of the week, the court gentlemen tend to want to hunt. So I said that whoever ended up with the most weight by three o’clock would win a prize. They were all quite motivated.”
“How did you convince them to donate their quarry?” she asks.
He shrugs. “Technically, it isn’t their quarry. It was caught on the palace grounds, so it belongs to me. Or, rather, it belongs to us. And besides, I allowed them to keep the pelts and they know where their next meals are coming from, so no one had any complaints.”
“And the prize?” she asks. “As you said, they seem to have been quite motivated. And since money is so tight—”
“The prize cost us nothing,” he says. “But I thought we might use your late-night kitchen excursions—they were quite interested in the possibility of serving a cake baked by the queen at their next party.”
“Oh, I like that idea,” Sophronia says with a grin.
“I thought you might,” he says before his expression wavers. “What do you think of the rest of it?” he asks, almost tentatively, as if he’s afraid of her answer.
Sophronia steps closer to him and lifts her hand to cup his cheek. “I think it’s brilliant—you’re brilliant,” she says.
He covers her hand with his and sighs. “Thank you for telling me not to declare war on Cellaria. You and Ansel were right. I hate that things got as bad as they did,” he says. “I don’t know how…” He trails off, shaking his head. “That’s not true. I know exactly how.”
“Your father died suddenly,” Sophronia says. “He was young and healthy, no one expected him to fall off his horse—”
“Yet you were plenty prepared. Even though you aren’t even in line to inherit your mother’s throne, she prepared you,” he points out.
Sophronia bites her lip to keep from blurting out the truth—that she was prepared for something else entirely. Something she has now gone against. She still can’t believe she’s done it, but she has, and she is not foolish enough to believe there won’t be consequences.
“My father never prepared me to be king,” he continues. “I don’t think he believed I was capable of it.”
“If he saw you as a child, Leo, it’s because that’s what you were,” she says softly. “He set you up with a council—”
“My mother put together the council,” he interrupts. “It turns out, my father couldn’t even do that much.”
Sophronia frowns. “She said your father personally asked Covier and Verning to guide you,” she says. More than that, Eugenia blamed King Carlisle for their incompetence.
Leopold shrugs. “I thought so too. I suppose she was trying to protect me from the truth of my father’s antipathy. But Covier let the truth slip this morning—she brought him and Verning in after my father died. I know they’re lacking, but my mother’s like me. She never had to be political either—I’m not surprised she didn’t know better.”
Sophronia doesn’t say anything, the gears of her mind turning. She’s already had suspicions that Covier and Verning are working toward Eugenia’s aims, but to what end? How would giving Temarin over to Cellarian rule serve them?
“But you were right,” Leopold says, drawing her out of her thoughts. “The past can’t be changed. Only the future. I want a new council, one with you and Ansel—maybe someone from the merchant class as well?”
Sophronia is careful to school her expression into something neutral at the mention of giving Ansel so much power. She supposes he’s the first commoner Leopold has ever had a conversation with, and she has to admit Ansel has wormed his way close to Leopold brilliantly, saving his brother and standing up to Leopold just enough to seem brave and bold. Of course Leopold is naïve enough to fall for it, but Sophronia isn’t.
“And my brothers,” Leopold continues. “I want to ensure that I don’t make the mistakes my father did. And as of now, Gideon is next in line for the throne. If something were to happen to me, I’d want him to be prepared.”
“I think that’s a fine idea,” Sophronia says, smoothing her thumb over his cheekbone. “Though Gideon won’t be next in line forever,” she adds.