There, in the box Daphne sent, she finds her sister’s letter and the sample of King Bartholomew’s handwriting. But the seal containing his blood is gone.
Friv’s sigil is the Northern Star—different from Temarin’s blazing sun, but Sophronia imagines them both in her mind, sees how, if it were her, she would take a needle to the seal’s wax before it hardened, shifting the star’s points into sun’s rays. If someone looked closely they might be able to see the difference, but why would they look at all? Not when it was Leopold’s name on the letter, Leopold’s signature, providing news that King Cesare must have expected and been working toward for so long.
It’s exactly what Sophronia would have done. But she didn’t. Which means someone else did.
* * *
—
Sophronia finds Violie in the small room next to Sophronia’s that she was given when she became her lady’s maid. Sophronia doesn’t knock, surprising Violie and causing her to jump up from her place on her bed, where she was sitting with an open book on her lap. A book Violie told Sophronia she couldn’t read.
But Violie doesn’t seem to remember that, or else she’s hoping Sophronia doesn’t, because she holds the book in front of her and smiles.
“Sophie,” she says. “I’m sorry—did you have need of me? I thought you were with the king.”
Sophronia’s eyes go to the book, then back to Violie. “I want you gone,” she says, her voice as calm as it is cold. “Now. You can have a few moments to pack your things and then I’ll have guards escort you out of the palace.”
Violie takes a step toward her, but Sophronia stops her with a raised hand.
“Sophie,” Violie begins.
“It’s Your Majesty,” Sophronia tells her. “I trust you’ll find your way back to Bessemia on your own. And when you see my mother, give her my regards. I hope whatever she offered you was worth it.”
Sophronia turns and starts back toward the door. When her hand is on the knob, Violie speaks, her voice soft.
“My mother’s life,” she says.
Sophronia glances back over her shoulder. “What?”
“It’s what she offered me,” Violie says. “My mother is ill—the physician said she had Vexis.”
Sophronia winces. Vexis is a disease of the brain, and though no one knows what causes it, as it progresses, the sufferer’s mind fractures. The past becomes the present, the present becomes the past; oftentimes people don’t know who they are or recognize the faces of their closest friends and family. It is almost always fatal, and there is only one cure.
“We couldn’t afford stardust, and it isn’t a sure thing anyway,” Violie says. “I thought that if I was going to steal stardust, I’d better get my hands on the strongest kind I could. So I broke into Nigellus’s laboratory at the palace. I was caught immediately,” she says with a bitter laugh. “I knew I probably would be. I just…didn’t care. I thought I’d be taken to prison, but imagine my shock when I was brought to the empress instead.”
“And she offered to cure your mother in exchange for what? Spying on me? Are there more of you, watching my sisters?” Sophronia says.
“No, only me,” Violie says, and she sounds ashamed, though that does little to soothe Sophronia’s ire. “You were the weak link, she said, the only one she couldn’t rely on. I was only supposed to watch you, to make sure you stayed on your path.”
“You’re the one who helped lead me off it,” Sophronia says. “You gave me those budgets.”
“Because you asked,” Violie counters. “What was I supposed to do, refuse you? I thought once your mother told you to drop it, you would—”
“But I didn’t,” Sophronia says.
Violie exhales, slumping down. “No,” she says. “So your mother asked me to do one more thing before she cured my mother. Find the seal she said was in your possession, forge a note in King Leopold’s hand, and declare war on Cellaria. It was such a small thing—I managed it in a few minutes.”
“How?” Sophronia asks. “How did you manage to forge his signature?”
“The same way you would have, I imagine,” Violie says. “I was in your mother’s employ for two years before I came here—many of the lessons you were given, I had as well. Forgery, lock-picking, disguises.”
“And you can read,” Sophronia says, nodding toward the book.
Violie offers her a rueful smile. “No one suspects an uneducated servant,” she says. “You were so busy trying to save me that you never thought…” She trails off, biting her lip. “I am sorry. I didn’t want to do it. I had no choice.”
Sophronia tightens her grip on the doorknob.
“You had a choice, Violie,” she says. “You traded your mother’s life for millions of Temarinians who won’t survive this war, won’t survive my mother’s siege. Who will die in battle or from starvation or disease. You saved your mother, but how many mothers did you kill?”
Violie blanches, but she holds her ground. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, but Sophronia knows that if she could, she’d do it all over again, exactly the same.
“Guards will be here in half an hour to escort you out,” Sophronia tells her, pulling the door open and stepping through. “If I ever see you again, I’ll have you arrested.” With that, she shuts the door with a slam.
There is one last hope, she thinks. She returns to her room, sits down at her desk, and begins writing to her sisters.
Daphne is just putting her satin slippers on when a maid walks in, holding a small box. “From your sister,” she says, and when Daphne raises an eyebrow, she quickly adds “Princess Beatriz.”
Daphne tries to appear pleased, but she’s already running late for her engagement ball, and Cliona’s list of names is weighing heavily on her mind. Whatever Beatriz wants—and Daphne knows her sister well enough to be sure she wants something—Daphne doesn’t have time for it right now.
“Thank you,” she tells the maid, taking the box from her. “Will you fetch my wrap? It’s particularly chilly this evening.”
When the maid goes to the wardrobe, Daphne opens the box to find a letter and a small vial of what appears to be red wine. The package doesn’t appear to have been tampered with, but that doesn’t surprise Daphne—Friv is a bit more lax in their security than Bessemia. She guesses that because it is a new monarchy, they haven’t yet learned to see enemies around every corner. Daphne supposes it makes things easier for her, though it also led to that assassination attempt.
She pushes the thought aside and opens the letter.
Dearest Daphne,