“Cellaria would be a far better place with a pig on the throne,” Lord Savelle says, and, more out of habit than true fear, Beatriz casts a glance around to make sure no one else heard that. Lord Savelle notices and laughs. “I’m already due to be executed, Beatriz. There isn’t much point in holding my tongue.”
Beatriz reaches the last key on the ring, but that doesn’t work either. She frowns. Did she miss one? Perhaps the lock stuck and she should have tried harder? There isn’t time to try them all again—the guards will be waking up any moment now, and if Gisella doesn’t manage to subdue them both on her own…she pushes the thought from her mind. She will not let her friend pay for her mistake.
As if summoned by her thoughts, she hears the sound of heavy boots pounding against the stone floors, coming toward her. She lets out a string of words that were decidedly not a part of her Cellarian lessons.
“Leave me,” Lord Savelle tells her, his eyes somber. “Perhaps if you hide somewhere, they’ll think—”
He breaks off when Beatriz drops the keys, her fingers going to the bracelet around her wrist. Use them wisely, her mother said. Break the crystal and make your wish. But Beatriz knows that if her mother could see her now, wise is the last thing she would call her. Beatriz doesn’t care. She drops the bracelet to the ground.
“Find my sister,” she tells Lord Savelle. “Tell her I sent you. Tell her…tell her I tried.”
Lord Savelle opens his mouth to say something, his brow creased in confusion, but Beatriz doesn’t give him a chance. “I wish Lord Savelle could make his way safely to the docks, and on to Temarin.”
“Beatriz—” Lord Savelle begins, but before he can say more, lightning strikes out of a clear sky, hitting the stone wall of the dungeon and creating a crack in the narrow space of Lord Savelle’s cell, just wide enough for him to slip through. Shouts go up from the other prisoners, and the rhythm of the approaching footsteps grows faster—several sets, she thinks. “Go,” she tells Lord Savelle. “Or they’ll kill us both. There’s a boat waiting in the city harbor. Run.”
Lord Savelle hesitates only a second, but he must hear the boots as well, know how close they are, know that there is nowhere for Beatriz to hide. He gives her one quick nod before forcing his way through the crack in the wall and disappearing from sight.
A mere heartbeat later and the guards round the corner and come into sight. Beatriz turns to meet them, forcing herself to appear calm despite her racing pulse. She holds her hands up to show that she is unarmed.
One guard steps forward, a golden stripe on the sleeve of his jacket marking his higher rank. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in the empty cell with the hole in its wall, and Beatriz with stardust at her feet. His eyes scan her face, and she feels him searching through the layers of cosmetics, though he seems already to know what he will find.
“Your Highness,” he says, his voice not wavering even when she meets his gaze with a challenge. “You’re under arrest for treason.”
She doesn’t protest as the guard takes hold of her arm while another binds her wrists. All she can do is hope that the others are safe, that Ambrose and Lord Savelle got away, that maybe Pasquale decided to join them—he’s surely safer there than here.
But as the guards lead her down the hallway toward the entrance, she hears the guard’s words again. You’re under arrest for treason. Not for breaking a man out of prison, not for using magic—though she’s sure the latter at least will be added to her charges—but for treason. For plotting against the king.
Only four people know of her treason, the four who participated in it with her. By the time they reach the dungeon’s entrance, Beatriz isn’t quite surprised to see Gisella and Nicolo standing near the door, their heads bent together as they speak in whispers. Both of them look up as the guards lead her past, and Nicolo, at least, has the grace to look away, too ashamed to meet her gaze. Gisella doesn’t. Her dark brown eyes hold Beatriz’s, unflinching and unapologetic. She lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and it is all Beatriz can do not to launch herself at the other girl and strike her however she can. Even with her hands bound, she’d bet she could manage to hurt her. Not enough, though.
So she looks away from both of them and focuses her gaze forward, keeping her head held high and her mouth closed, and goes to meet her fate.
Daphne sits before the fire in her room, the letter from Sophronia in her hand. She’s read it once but can’t bring herself to read it again. I need your help, Daph, Sophronia has written, outlining how everything has gone sideways in Temarin—how Sophronia has tipped everything sideways by going against the empress’s plan. You must have seen how wrong she is now, how wrong we are to do her bidding.
It’s ludicrous to Daphne, who has seen nothing of the sort. What she has seen is that Friv is a wild land, in need of a stronger hand than King Bartholomew possesses. She can’t understand why Sophronia couldn’t simply do as she was told. Daphne did her duty, she stole King Bartholomew’s seal, had a knife pressed to her throat, ingratiated herself with rebels she’s fairly certain want her dead—Daphne has gone above and beyond what she was instructed to do. Sophronia couldn’t even manage to forge a simple letter, to lead the king who is supposedly madly in love with her into war.
And what about Bairre, a voice whispers in her mind, though she is quick to quiet it. What about Bairre? He doesn’t want to rule, he said so himself. In some ways, she’ll be doing him a favor.
I cannot depend on your sisters, the empress told Daphne shortly before they left to meet their destinies. Sophronia is weak and Beatriz is flighty. You, my dove, are the one I can depend upon, and the only one I trust to rule in my stead when I’m gone.
Daphne considers sending the letter on to their mother so that she can deal with whatever problems Sophronia has caused, but she hesitates. It sounds like the empress already has the situation in hand, and Daphne doesn’t want to get Sophronia in any more trouble with their mother, no matter how angry she is. But she can’t write back to Sophronia either, certainly can’t offer her any kind of help. She feels only a quick pang of guilt as she tosses Sophronia’s letter into the fire before getting to her feet and calling for a maid to help her change into her riding habit.
* * *
—
“You must remember never to promise anything—not even the asters in your pocket. I know you and Lord Cadringal are friends, but things have changed. You’re both now responsible for many more people than just yourselves,” Daphne tells Bairre while they wait for the Cadringals to meet them at the border of the castle’s hunting grounds. Lord Cadringal and his five siblings arrived an hour before dawn, so the hunt has been arranged for the afternoon, giving them plenty of time to rest and recuperate from the trying trip. Daphne struggles to push Sophronia and her letter from her mind, to ignore the guilt nagging at her. It occurs to her that the advice she’s giving to Bairre applies to her as well—she loves her sister dearly, but if Sophronia has diverged from their path, Daphne cannot follow her. Her mother is depending on her. Sophronia will come around, she tells herself. She’ll realize her error and their mother will forgive it, eventually.