I came across a Cellarian cure for migraines and wanted to pass it along to you—I know yours cause you such trouble when they come about. The king himself swears by this mixture, though I haven’t the slightest idea what is in it. Of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if you puzzled out the recipe. I’m happy to send you more if you need any.
Your sister,
Beatriz
Daphne searches for a sign of what code the letter is in, but none appears. She rolls her eyes. Just like Beatriz to forgo coding the letter—she was never as gifted at it as Sophronia and Daphne. Daphne reads it again, picking out the lies in an effort to see the truth.
First, Daphne has never suffered a migraine in her life, and to the best of her knowledge, the king of Cellaria doesn’t suffer from them either. Surely that would have been mentioned in the spy reports.
I wouldn’t be surprised if you puzzled out the recipe. That’s it, then. The king is drinking whatever’s in the vial, and Beatriz wants to know what it is. A couple of logical steps have been skipped, she knows, but she knows her sisters even better. Sometimes they don’t need logic. In Bessemia, they would often have conversations without any words at all. It’s comforting to know that even with all these miles between them, some things haven’t changed, but Daphne’s irritation outweighs that. She has plenty on her own plate without doing Beatriz’s work as well. She puts the vial into the drawer of her desk and tosses the letter into the fire.
She has a rebellion to infiltrate, she thinks, letting her maid drape the ermine wrap over her shoulders. Beatriz is just going to have to figure it out for herself.
* * *
—
The Frivian castle has been quiet as a crypt since Daphne arrived, but she hadn’t realized just how quiet it has been until she steps into the banquet hall where her betrothal ball is being held. The large room is packed full with groups from the twelve visiting highland noble families, six lowland noble families, and every castle-dwelling noble who had been observing the mandated monthlong mourning period.
Daphne has heard that Friv is a wild, unrefined place, but she hasn’t fully understood what that meant until now, when she finds herself enveloped by the overwhelming smells of ale and roasted meat and the sounds of countless conversations, all loud and some conducted in accents so strong she can’t begin to pick apart the words.
The large room is packed with bodies, most of them far taller than any Bessemian, all dressed in wool and velvet. The men all look in desperate need of a haircut, the women wear few jewels. Daphne spent most of her life learning about Frivian customs and celebrations, but it is another thing entirely to find herself thrown into the center of them. She’s careful to school her expression into a polite smile and hide any hint of her distaste as she scans the room, looking for a familiar face.
“Ah, Daphne!” a voice calls. Daphne follows it and finds King Bartholomew standing near the center of the room, with Bairre as well as two men she does not recognize. When she goes to join them, the king makes quick introductions.
“Lord Ian Maives and Lord Vance Panlington,” he says.
Daphne curtsies toward each man in turn. She has all but eliminated Lord Maives already from Cliona’s list, but it is still good to put a face to his name, and Lord Panlington must be Cliona’s father.
“It was very kind of you to send Lady Cliona to accompany me on my journey to Friv,” she tells him, offering up her most charming smile. “We became the fastest of friends.”
She watches his expression carefully—Mrs. Nattermore implied he was the head of the rebels, so he must know about what happened at the dressmaker’s and her own involvement now, but Daphne also wonders if he knows something about the assassination attempt on her. She believed Cliona when she swore she wasn’t involved, but it is possible Lord Panlington didn’t wish to entangle his daughter in such nasty business.
But if Lord Panlington knows anything about her at all, he doesn’t give it away. Instead, he bows low and kisses her gloved hand.
“I’m very glad to hear it, Your Highness,” he says.
Finally, she turns toward Bairre. She hasn’t seen much of him over the last week, not since they met on the archery fields. He’s been holed up in meetings with his father, trying to make up for missing a lifetime of princely training and elbow-rubbing in a few short days.
He cleans up quite well, dressed in midnight-blue velvet that fits him better than anything else she’s seen him wear—she wonders if it’s the first thing he’s owned that was made specifically for him. His hair is brushed, though still overgrown. Daphne finds that she’s relieved he didn’t cut it. It suits him.
“Prince Bairre,” she says, curtsying again.
Bairre bows in turn and mumbles something that sounds like her name. He’s nervous, she realizes, and she can’t blame him. Daphne has been trained for events like these, to smile and mingle and make a favorable impression. Bairre has been raised to linger on the outskirts, watching but not participating. He must be miserable.
“The children should start the dancing, Bartholomew,” Lord Maives says, clapping the king on his shoulder.
If anyone dared touch her mother like that, Daphne reckons they would lose that hand, but Bartholomew only smiles.
“Of course,” he says, lifting his goblet high in the air. In seconds, everyone falls silent. When he speaks again, his voice is booming, loud enough to reach the farthest corners of the room. “I won’t drone on and keep you from eating, drinking, and merriment,” he says, gazing around the room. Daphne looks as well, searching for the slightest hints of resentment. She finds plenty, but Bartholomew gives no indication that he notices. “It has been a difficult time for my family and for our country, but I hope that today marks the turning of a corner for all of us. I hope that you will join me in welcoming Princess Daphne to Friv and to my family, and join me in wishing her and my son, Prince Bairre, a star-blessed union. To Daphne and Bairre.”
“To Daphne and Bairre,” the crowd echoes, raising their own goblets toward her and Bairre. With everyone’s attention on her, she decides to give them a show. She slips her hand into Bairre’s and flashes him an adoring smile. For an instant, he’s shocked, but then he returns it, somewhat warily.
“A dance!” Bartholomew calls out, and from the corner, a quartet picks up their instruments and begins to play. She recognizes it as a carrundel and lets out a quiet groan. Bairre hears it and glances at her, eyebrows raised.
“I’m not very good at this one,” she admits. She was taught the traditional Frivian dances alongside Bessemian ones, but her feet never took to them the same way. She found them rough and erratic, with none of the softness and grace of the ones that played out in Bessemian ballrooms.
“Then I suppose you’ll have to follow my lead,” he says, lifting their joined hands to walk her out to where a small space has opened up in the center of the room.