Violie glances back at her and shrugs. “If we manage to live through this, you’re welcome to follow through on that threat,” she says. “But to answer your question—Queen Eugenia had me brought to her before I left the palace. Apparently, your mother told her about me and passed along one last task—smuggling in the rioters and the wine.”
Sophronia stops short. “You poisoned the wine?” she asks.
Violie glances back at her. “It was already poisoned, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t know what they had planned at first—your mother isn’t fond of being questioned, you know.”
Sophronia does know that, but still. “You didn’t assume there was a reason the wine needed to be smuggled in? Surely you must have suspected it was tainted somehow.”
Violie winces but doesn’t deny it. “I intentionally didn’t think about it,” she says. “But once I realized it would be lethal, that the plan was to kill every aristocrat in the palace, I came to find you. To save you.”
If she expects gratitude for that, Sophronia doesn’t have any for her. “Where’s Leopold?” she asks instead. “And what about his brothers?”
“Eugenia had the princes removed from the palace this afternoon—I’m not sure where, but I believe she did it to ensure their safety.”
When she doesn’t continue, Sophronia presses. “And Leo?”
“His was the only glass not poisoned,” Violie says after a moment. “When the bodies started to fall, Ansel had him brought back to your rooms and placed under heavy guard there.”
Sophronia’s immediate relief is quickly dwarfed by dread. “Why?” she asks, though she suspects she already knows the answer.
“His death needs to be public,” Violie answers. “It’s scheduled for the day after tomorrow at sundown. The rebels wanted to ensure there was time for word to spread. They want an audience.”
Sophronia stares at her for a moment, shock coursing through her. “No,” she says finally.
“Sophie—”
“No. That won’t happen. I’m not going to let it—we aren’t going to let it,” Sophronia says, shaking her head.
“There’s no stopping it,” Violie says. “He’s under heavy guard. I’m lucky I managed to find you. No, we need to get out of the palace, out of this city, out of this stars-forsaken country—”
“No,” Sophronia says again, shaking her head. “No, there must be a way.”
She does a quick inventory—she has Eugenia’s pistol, Violie with her knowledge of the palace’s servants’ tunnels, and a wish around her wrist.
Her fingers go to the bracelet her mother gave her. In case you have need of it. She knows this is not what her mother meant, but here she is, having need of a miracle.
A plan forms itself around that wish—a mad plan, yes, and one she needs Violie for. She reaches out and grabs hold of the other girl’s hand, squeezing it tight.
“I’m glad you saved me, Violie, but it doesn’t make us even,” Sophronia says. “It doesn’t come close to making up for your betrayal.”
Violie looks at Sophronia like she’s physically struck her, but after a second, she nods. “I know that,” she says. Sophronia prepares to hear more excuses, but none come.
“Help me save Leopold,” Sophronia tells her. “If you help me save him, I will forgive everything.”
Violie looks at Sophronia for a long moment and Sophronia worries that she is asking too much, but finally, Violie nods.
“What would you have me do?” she asks.
* * *
—
An hour later, Violie leads Sophronia down the deserted palace hallway with her hands bound behind her back by a strip of cloth from her dress and the pistol pressed to her temple. They stop in front of the hall that leads to the royal wing, where two men are standing guard—peasants, Sophronia guesses, based on their clothes and the mismatched weapons they carry. One holds a rusted ax, while the other carries a rifle.
“What’s this, then?” the man with the rifle asks, looking from Violie to Sophronia.
“This is Queen Sophronia,” Violie says. “I found her trying to sneak out of the palace. Apparently, she didn’t drink any wine, but I thought Ansel might want her executed alongside the king.”
The two men look at each other and shrug before letting Violie and Sophronia pass.
“This is a terrible idea,” Violie whispers as they make their way toward the rooms Sophronia and Leopold share. Sophronia tries to ignore her, though she worries she’s right. I can’t let Leopold die for my mistakes, she thinks, pushing her doubt out of her mind.
More guards are stationed outside the rooms, but when Violie repeats what she told the first set, one of the men slips inside, and Violie can hear a brief, muffled conversation before the guard returns, Ansel with him. When he sees Sophronia, his eyes light up.
“Ah, Your Majesty, we were worried we misplaced you,” he says, as if they are having a pleasant conversation over tea. Sophronia smiles tightly at him but doesn’t bother with an answer. Ansel turns to Violie. “Well done, Violie. Better to execute two royals than one.”
With that, he takes hold of Sophronia’s shoulder and shoves her into the room.
Sophronia stumbles into the parlor where just this morning she and Leopold shared coffee. The cloud of the coming war had hung over them as they anxiously waited for their mail to be brought in, hoping for word from Beatriz and Pasquale or Daphne. Now, she would give anything to go back to this morning.
Leopold is there, on the settee with his hands bound behind his back, but a quick survey tells her he’s unharmed—he’s still dressed in the suit he wore to the ball, and there isn’t so much as a tear or stain on it. Relief floods her, and she sees it reflected in his face when his eyes scan her, though his relief is quickly replaced by dread.
The door closes behind her and she hears the dull murmur of voices on the other side, Violie’s and Ansel’s.
“Sophie, thank the stars you’re all right,” Leopold says as she crosses the room to sit down beside him. It’s awkward with her arms tied behind her back. Violie left the knots loose so she can free herself easily—but not yet. “I was worried you drank the champagne.”
“No,” Sophronia says. They don’t have much time, and there is so much she needs to tell him. “Though your mother tried to force it down my throat.”
Leopold looks bewildered. “My mother did what?”
The urge to lie rises to her lips. It’s such a natural habit, and she knows she could spin a story for him that will shift all the blame onto Eugenia while keeping her own hands clean, but he needs the truth now, and Sophronia is so tired of lies.