“Yes,” Cliona says slowly. “But I haven’t asked for anything yet, have I?”
“There,” Daphne says, pointing at her. “Maybe I don’t know much about friendship, but I do know that friends don’t go around threatening each other.”
Cliona only laughs. “Please, you know you’d be hopelessly bored without me to keep you company, threats or no.”
Daphne grits her teeth, but she realizes she can’t deny it.
* * *
—
When they’ve gotten through Daphne’s correspondence, Daphne and Cliona take a walk through the castle. With Daphne’s wedding fast approaching, everything is in a state of chaos; twice as many servants as usual bustle about, and the visiting highland clans are everywhere Daphne looks. Cliona introduces her to everyone they pass, and though she recognizes the names from her studies, she pretends she doesn’t. She also realizes that their accents have become a little clearer to her. When she says as much to Cliona, the other girl laughs.
“Just wait until they get some ale in them,” Cliona tells her. “Even I can’t understand them when they begin drinking.”
Daphne smiles and they duck into the castle chapel, where she will marry Bairre in just three days. It’s a strange thought, though she doesn’t know why. She was ready to marry Cillian when she first arrived in Friv, and she feels she knows Bairre better than she ever knew his brother. And it’s the last thing she needs to do to further her mother’s plan. Still, she feels a sense of trepidation as they step into the space.
The glass roof lets in the light of the morning sun, making the space feel a little warmer than the rest of the castle. A dozen servants are hard at work, stringing up flowers, polishing candlesticks, laying a golden rug down the center aisle for her to walk on. She takes it all in, trying to imagine what it will look like when they’re done, what it will look like the night of her wedding, with the stars shining down on her in her wedding gown, while Bairre waits at the front. She hopes no one forces him into a haircut before then—she’s grown quite fond of his hair the way it is.
She’s drawn out of her thoughts by the distinct feeling that she’s being watched. It shouldn’t unsettle her—of course she’s being watched, she’s the princess. Every servant’s eyes were glued on her from the second she stepped into the chapel. But something about this gaze raises the hairs on the back of her neck.
“I think it will look splendid when it’s done,” Cliona says beside her, looking around the chapel.
“Yes, I suggested the white lily garlands—the florist said they were used for mourning in Friv, and it seemed like a fitting tribute to remember Cillian as well,” Daphne says, though she barely hears her own words. She’s following Cliona’s gaze, taking in the details of the space, but also looking for anything more.
There he is, standing in the front pew with a broom in hand. Average height, with fair hair and broad shoulders. She doesn’t let her gaze linger on him, but she doesn’t need to. She recognizes him instantly.
“Cliona,” Daphne says, letting her voice drop even as she maintains her bland smile and roaming gaze. “Do you see the man sweeping the front pew? Don’t let him know you’re looking.”
Cliona shoots her an indignant glare at the last bit but then passes her gaze over the chapel. “Yes, I see him. Why?”
“Is there any chance he’s one of your father’s rebels?” Daphne asks.
“No,” Cliona says without hesitation.
“You’re sure? You can’t know all of them.”
“I promise you I can. I like knowing who I can and can’t trust. Why? Who is he?” Cliona asks.
Daphne steers Cliona back toward the chapel entrance, dropping her voice even lower. “He’s the man who was pretending to work in the stables, who set me up with a wild horse and a broken saddle. That,” she adds, to be perfectly clear, “is the man who tried to kill me.”
* * *
—
Cliona waits around the corner from the chapel, using a hand mirror to keep an eye on the door in case the would-be assassin leaves. Daphne hurries back to her rooms as quickly as she can, casting her eyes to the clock hanging on the wall. It’s nearly noon, when the servant shifts change and the day workers take their lunch break. She doesn’t have much time.
She rifles through her jewelry box, taking a large emerald ring with a hidden needle and a well of poison inside the gem and sliding it onto her right hand before delving into the hidden compartment and slipping a vial of truth serum into her pocket. She hates acting without a plan, but she also knows to take opportunities when they come, and she’s not about to wait for another attempt on her life.
She pulls two fur cloaks from the wardrobe, one white and one gray, before leaving the room and running straight into Bairre, who steadies her with his hands on her shoulders.
“Daphne,” he says. “I was just coming to tell you that the seamstress has arrived for your final wedding gown fitting. Should I send her up?”
She forces a smile. “Actually, can you make my excuses to her? I told Cliona I would help her with something.”
Bairre frowns. “With what?” he asks, looking down at the cloaks draped over her arm. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Just for a walk,” she says, her voice breezy.
“A walk is more important than your wedding dress fitting?” he asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
Daphne opens her mouth, ready to argue, but the sound of the clock chiming interrupts. Which means the morning shift is over, which means the man who tried to kill her will be leaving the castle for the next hour. Which means there’s no time to argue.
“Yes,” she says, pushing past him and hurrying down the hall, but Bairre matches her step for step and she realizes he isn’t going to be swayed by anything but the truth. So she gives it to him as quickly as she can.
“We have to tell my father,” he says when she’s done.
Daphne snorts. “He didn’t help much the last time, did he?”
“What do you think you can do instead?” Bairre counters.
“Follow him. See where he goes, who he talks to.” She doesn’t mention the daggers hidden on her person, the poison ring, the vial of truth serum.
“You’re going to follow someone who wants to kill you, alone—”
“Not alone,” she interrupts. “Cliona is coming as well.”
He doesn’t look terribly relieved by that.
“I don’t suppose I can convince you not to join us,” Daphne says.
“No, I don’t suppose you can,” he says with a heavy sigh.
They round the corner and find Cliona standing exactly where Daphne left her, the hand mirror still held up. When she hears them approach, she turns, taking in Bairre’s presence with raised eyebrows.