He considers this for a moment before his full mouth curls into a smirk. “And here they call you charming,” he says dryly.
“You don’t want me to be charming. You want me to be honest,” she tells him. He doesn’t deny it. “So here’s the truth—everyone wants power.”
“That’s just it,” he says, leaning his head back against the stone. “I don’t. I was perfectly happy in Cillian’s shadow, perfectly happy as the bastard brother.”
Daphne stares at him for a moment, her eyes tracing the lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the flare of his nostrils.
“You’re a liar,” she says, pushing off the wall and coming to stand in front of him.
“Pardon?” he says, his eyes meeting hers.
She waves her hand at him. “All of this—the sulking, the bitterness. It isn’t resentment, it’s guilt. Because you weren’t happy in your brother’s shadow, because you desperately wanted all of this. And now you have everything you wanted, and your brother is dead.”
Bairre stares at her, speechless, with such an intense loathing in his eyes that it knocks the breath from her lungs.
“You don’t know me,” he says.
“No,” she agrees. “No one really does, I’d imagine.” She pauses, something inside her breaking open. She knows what it is to be jealous of siblings: she’s spent her life envious of Beatriz’s confidence, of Sophie’s effortless kindness. Though the mere thought of them leaves her winded. If anything were to happen to them, she doesn’t know what she’d do.
“You didn’t kill him,” she says, her voice softening. “If envy alone were enough to kill, there would be no one left in the world. Maybe he was the one born for this, maybe he would have been a better prince, but he’s dead and you aren’t. You can skulk around feeling sorry for yourself, or you can fill that role in a way that would make him proud. That’s up to you.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, his eyes downcast. Finally, he looks at her again, his expression one of a pure, naked vulnerability that makes something in her chest crack.
“I don’t know how,” he says quietly.
She takes a step closer to him, holding out a hand. She tells herself it’s part of her plan to earn his trust, to seduce him, part of a long game. Deep down she knows it isn’t the whole truth. “Well, as you pointed out, I do. So tomorrow, we will go hunting with Lord Cadringal and I will help you act like the prince you’re meant to be.”
He looks at her hand for a moment, as if it might be holding a knife, before eventually taking it in his. She can feel the rough calluses of his palm against hers. It isn’t as unpleasant as it should be.
Beatriz reads Sophronia’s letter so many times she knows it by heart, but the words never quite make sense.
I couldn’t go through with our plan. I know Mama will think me weak for it, but I believe you’ll at least understand. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t worth the cost. I couldn’t do it.
But it seems Mama knows me too well and she’s taken that choice from me. I’m sure by now you’ve received Leopold’s declaration of war. It’s a fake, but that won’t matter. My only hope is if you release Lord Savelle and send him home. I have no right to ask this of you, I know that, but I think deep in your heart you know this is wrong as well.
I don’t think either of us stands a chance against Mama, not on our own, but if we work together—if by some miracle of the stars Daphne works with us—I think we have a chance to break Mama’s hold. Freeing Lord Savelle is the first step, and I promise you, I will stand by you no matter the consequences.
I love you and I trust you and I miss you.
Parts of it aren’t surprising—their mother has always called Sophronia soft, though Beatriz thinks sensitive might be a better word. Either way, it isn’t a quality that serves a Bessemian princess well, and the empress has done everything she can to harden Sophronia. It has never quite worked.
No, what surprises Beatriz is the strength in Sophronia’s words. Not just the guilt or the hand-wringing over whether what they’re doing is right—that, Beatriz might have expected from her sister. But action? That Sophronia has actually stood up and refused their mother? That is unfathomable from the girl Beatriz knew.
But of course that rebellion has been for nothing—Sophronia should have anticipated as much. All their lives, their mother has been a step ahead of them, always seeming to see everything and know everything. But then, Beatriz supposes she has always been the one pushing back, the one rebelling.
I think deep in your heart you know this is wrong as well. Those words linger in Beatriz’s mind, long after she burns the letter in her fireplace and readies herself for bed. Does she know it’s wrong? Yes, she’s been plagued by guilt over framing Lord Savelle; yes, she’s been haunted by thoughts of him imprisoned, of him burned, because of her. But it’s an ugly necessity, isn’t it? A way to save her own life, yes, but also a way to save Cellaria—to save other people like her and Lord Savelle’s daughter and all of the others who have been or will be executed for acting against Cellaria’s strict laws. Beatriz might not agree with her mother about much, but she believes that Cellaria will be better off under her rule. Isn’t that worth the cost of one man’s life?
Beatriz isn’t sure anymore.
“You look troubled,” Pasquale says, coming into the room from the parlor, still dressed for dinner. He’s been dining with his uncle—Gisella and Nico’s father—as well as some other members of the royal council. By his expression, she doubts it went well.
“So do you,” she points out. “I wish I could have gone with you.”
“Believe me, I do too, but they were very insistent about talking to me alone. They might have suspected you’d manage to charm a few of them over to our side,” he says with a wry smile.
“Our side?” Beatriz asks. “Have we taken sides?”
“I think there’s something seriously wrong with my father. I think that war with Temarin is the last thing anyone needs. Our truce has been good for both of our countries—it’s imperative that it holds. They disagree. My uncle, specifically, seems determined to go to war. So I suppose there are sides now,” Pasquale says, collapsing into bed beside her. “I know my father, Triz. I know his moods. I know his temper. But this is something else. He’s sick. I know it, and I think they know it too but they can’t admit it.”
“Of course not,” Beatriz says with a snort. “Their power is reliant on his. It’s why no one tells him no.”
Beatriz suddenly wonders if her mother is responsible for the king’s worsening condition. She wouldn’t put it past her, and a mad king would serve her purposes. It would be easier to gain the loyalties of the hostile country if she liberated them from such a tyrant. I think deep in your heart you know this is wrong as well. Sophronia’s words echo in Beatriz’s mind again.