“We’ll ship out our first troops tomorrow,” he tells her. “Since it doesn’t appear we can get out of this, I’d like the war over as soon as possible. If we ambush them on their land, we have a better chance of that.”
Sophronia nods, though her mind is elsewhere. Her eyes track Eugenia as she crosses the ballroom floor in a resplendent gold gown. There is nothing forced about her smile—she is absolutely beaming, happier than Sophronia has ever seen her. And why shouldn’t she be? In her mind, she is one step closer to getting exactly what she has been working toward—Temarin under Cellarian rule. Sophronia doesn’t doubt her mother has a plan for that, too, though, and it gives her some petty joy to know that Eugenia’s glee will be short-lived.
“Excuse me a moment,” she says to Leopold before following Eugenia.
She catches up with the dowager queen on the other side of the ballroom, linking their arms and falling into step beside her.
“I know what you did,” Sophronia tells Eugenia.
Eugenia rolls her eyes. “Please, my dear, this is a party. I’d like to enjoy it.”
“Then why don’t we get you a glass of sparkling wine? Tell me, was it bought from Cosella?” Sophronia asks.
Eugenia goes rigid for an instant before she laughs. “You truly are paranoid. No, as Leopold requested, any palace purchases that can be made in Temarin are. Including the sparkling wine. Might I suggest you partake in a glass?” she asks, plucking one from the tray of a passing server before handing it to Sophronia. “You really must relax.”
Sophronia grips the glass so tightly she worries it might break. “I know that you’ve been conspiring with your brother,” she tells Eugenia, barely bothering to keep her voice low. Eugenia narrows her eyes and tugs Sophronia away from the crowd, leading her out to the secluded balcony.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eugenia says, but it is the most blatant lie Sophronia has ever heard.
“I know that you’ve been intentionally bankrupting Temarin, that you drained our war chest, so that when this war came, Cellaria would be able to conquer us with ease. I have a letter from your brother to you, and if you aren’t gone from the palace tonight, I will show it to Leopold.”
It’s a bluff, but Eugenia doesn’t know that. Without the letter, Sophronia can’t prove Eugenia’s treason—not conclusively enough that Leopold will believe her over his own mother, not without revealing her own duplicity. But Sophronia wants her gone.
Eugenia looks at Sophronia for a long moment, but Sophronia doesn’t wither under her gaze. She holds it firmly.
“That’s funny,” Eugenia says finally, her smile a sprung trap. “Because your mother told me you sent the letter to her.”
The ground shifts beneath Sophronia’s feet. What did her mother say? Leave her to me. Before she can begin to wrap her mind around what those words actually meant, Eugenia continues.
“She explained that we had similar aims, she and I,” she says. “But she wanted to know why I was doing so much work to serve another king when I could serve myself. So we…reconfigured our plans. I must say, I like hers better.”
Through the open balcony door, Sophronia hears a wineglass shatter against the floor, but it feels like it’s coming from a world away.
“What, to drive us into war? It’s the same plan,” Sophronia says, but something isn’t right. She can feel it in the pit of her stomach.
“Oh, there won’t be any war,” Eugenia says, laughing. “You look absolutely parched, Sophie. Have a drink.”
It’s a bizarre non sequitur, but it isn’t until Eugenia’s hand closes around Sophronia’s where it holds the wineglass, forcing it to her lips as another glass crashes to the floor inside, this time followed by a scream, that she understands. She struggles to get away from Eugenia and the glass, but Eugenia has her backed against the balcony railing.
“It’s poisoned,” Sophronia manages to get out.
Distantly, she hears Leopold call her name but realizes that Eugenia has positioned them out of sight of the ballroom. Still, she’s relieved—if he’s calling for her, he must be all right.
“Your mother said you were clever,” Eugenia says through gritted teeth. “Ansel was so upset with Leopold, it was easy to convince him that the aristocracy was a threat that needed extinguishing. It was easy for him to convince plenty of other commoners.”
Sophronia manages to shove Eugenia’s arm with enough force that the glass goes flying, crashing against the stone floor, but she only takes two steps before Eugenia pulls a small pistol from the voluminous sleeve of her gown and levels it at Sophronia.
This time, though, Sophronia is ready. She lunges before Eugenia can take proper aim and grabs hold of the arm holding the pistol, wrenching it backward at a sharp angle that leaves Eugenia no choice but to drop the pistol and let out a scream of pain. Sophronia grabs the weapon from the floor and has it pressed to Eugenia’s temple in the space of a breath.
“I would kill you here and now, you know,” she tells Eugenia, “if I didn’t think I’d be doing my mother a favor.”
Instead, she changes her grip and brings the butt of the pistol down hard against Eugenia’s head, sending her crashing to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Leaving Eugenia behind, Sophronia starts toward the doors again, but as she draws closer, she sees that the ballroom has already been swarmed by a large group of what she assumes to be the peasant rebels Eugenia mentioned, some dressed in servants’ livery. They check the pulses of the fallen nobles. When the Duke of Ellory moves to sit up, a man standing over him removes a pistol from his jacket and shoots him in the chest, the sound of the gun echoing loudly. She doesn’t see Leopold, but there are so many bodies on the floor that it doesn’t give her much comfort.
Sophronia stumbles back from the door, looking around the balcony for another way out. She is only on the third floor—climbing down the wall might be her best bet. She’s about to hoist herself over the railing when she hears her name whispered from the darkened corner a few feet from the door.
“Sophie, through here,” the voice whispers, a little louder.
Sophronia tiptoes closer, but before she can see who it is, a hand grabs her arm and pulls her into a dark passageway she didn’t know existed. It’s only when the door closes again and her eyes adjust to the dark that she sees Violie.
“Where are we?” Sophronia whispers.
“Servants’ passage,” Violie whispers back, beginning to lead her down the corridor. Sophronia has no reason to trust her, but since there are no other options at present, she follows.
A million questions run through Sophronia’s head as they make their way in silence, but only one rises to her lips. “How did you get back in?” she asks. “I told you I’d have you arrested.”