Thora—
I’m sorry for abandoning you the other day, but I hope you enjoyed the tour. Allow me to make it up to you with lunch before I leave?
—Søren
I read the words twice, looking for hidden meanings, but only see exactly what is written. It’s the sort of letter Cress receives from boys who are trying to court her. Could it be that Blaise was right about the way the Prinz looked at me? The letter lacks the usual poetry and flattery of a love missive, but that’s not surprising, considering Søren’s demeanor. I doubt he would know a poem if one was written on the sails of his precious ships. But I cannot ignore the last line—the invitation to spend time alone together.
I know this opportunity to gather more information is one I can’t pass up, yet I still feel guilty. I imagine Cress pacing her own rooms over the last few days, anxiously awaiting a letter like this from the Prinz. The few times I’ve seen her since the harbor, she’s been giddy and bright-eyed, going over every moment of their time together in such fine detail I could swear I was there myself. But what I didn’t tell her is that while Søren was courteous with her and did all the chivalrous things—held doors open, handed her into the carriage, escorted her back to her rooms and said goodbye politely at the door—it sounded like he was doing his duty and no more.
Not like this. Having lunch with me is certainly not a duty, and his father will be furious when he finds out. Søren must have known that when he wrote the letter, but he did so anyway.
For a long moment, I can only stare at the paper in my hands, thinking over what I should say back, what I should wear, what I should talk to him about, all the while aware of the guard’s eyes on me. It’s only after a moment that I realize the best path to take, the one that will most assuredly keep the reins in my hand. Blaise did say that Søren would want me all the more because he can’t have me.
I look up at the guard and give him my sweetest smile, though it doesn’t seem to do much good. His face remains frozen.
“I have no reply,” I tell him. “Good day.”
With a bob of a curtsy, I close the door firmly before he can protest.
* * *
—
The autumn air is thick and heavy on my skin as I walk through what was once my mother’s garden. My memory of her is still hazy, but I feel her presence stronger here than anywhere else. I remember color and a smell so heady it would wrap around me like a blanket—the scent of flowers and grass and dirt. It clung to my mother even when she spent all day in the throne room or walking through the city.
She was never happier than she was here, with dirt staining her skirts and life in her hands.
“The smallest seeds can grow the greatest trees, with enough care and time,” she would tell me, placing her hands over mine to guide them as we planted seeds and patted damp earth over them.
Ampelio used to say that if she weren’t a queen, she would have made a formidable Earth Guardian, but Astrean laws said she couldn’t be both. Of course, favor from the gods wasn’t hereditary. Though she gave me a small patch of the garden to work alongside her, I couldn’t even get weeds to grow there.
Nothing grows anywhere in the garden anymore. Without my mother’s diligent care, it grew wild, and if there is one thing the Kaiser cannot stand, it is wildness. He set fire to it all when I was seven. I saw the flames and smelled the smoke from my bedroom window, and I couldn’t stop crying, no matter how Hoa tried to quiet me. It felt like I was losing my mother all over again.
Nine years later, and the air here still tastes of ashes to me, though the charred remains have long been cleared, the dirt paved over with square gray stones. My mother wouldn’t recognize it now, with its hard floor and the few trees that break through the cracks to provide skeletal fingers of shade. There isn’t any color—even the trees have better sense than to sprout leaves.
The garden was always a busy place, before. I remember playing with Blaise and the other palace children when the weather was nice. There would be dozens of courtiers milling through the trees and bushes in chitons dyed a myriad of vivid colors. Artists with their paints or instruments or notebooks sitting alone as they worked. Couples sneaking off together for not-so-secret rendezvous.
Now it’s deserted. The Kalovaxians prefer the sun pavilions set up on public balconies to better take advantage of the light and the sea breeze. I’ve been a few times with Crescentia, and though the Kalovaxians play and work and gossip and flirt there as well, it never feels the same. Burnt and broken as this place is, it is the only part of the palace that still feels like home.
Comfort isn’t what drives me here today, though. I’ve been struggling to find places to meet with Blaise—once he gets in touch—but I can’t get to the cellar again without raising the suspicions of my Shadows. There are precious few places in the palace where I actually feel alone. Even here—the garden is overlooked by thirty palace windows, and every now and then I catch a glimpse of my Shadows on their watch from inside, the black hoods of their cloaks up so I can’t see their faces.
The garden is exposed, but that might not be a bad thing for a possible meeting place. There would be people who would see us together, but if he’s working to prune the trees or scrub the stones it won’t seem strange, and Kalovaxians have a bad habit of ignoring slaves. There is nowhere we could be overheard from, and that is what truly matters.
It’s a flawed plan, of course. We wouldn’t be able to say more than a few words to one another without raising suspicions. Flawed as it is, though, it’s the best option I’ve found so far.
“Lady Thora.”
The male voice makes me jump. Unlike Crescentia, I’m not accompanied by maids to keep my reputation pristine. My Shadows watch from a distance, of course, but their job is less to keep me safe than to keep me watched.
Still, I know that voice, and since his letter this morning, I’ve been waiting for him to find me.
Prinz Søren crosses the stone garden toward me, flanked by two guards whose orders are surely much different than my guards’. Though they are Søren’s and not the Kaiser’s—not the ones who have dragged me through the halls to answer for crimes I didn’t commit, not the ones who have taken turns with the whip—their eyes are just as hard, and I have to suppress a shudder.
They are not here for me, not today.
I drop to a curtsy. “Your Highness,” I say when I rise. “What brings you out here?”
He gives me a reproachful look. “Your Highness. I thought we talked about this.”
“You did call me Lady first,” I point out.