“Of course,” she says. My grandmother grins as she turns around, amused by my shock. “You might not think it, but I’m proud of you, Cal. What you’ve done, what you continue to do. You’re a young man, and you’ve accomplished so much with your time.” Her footsteps are soft, muffled by the rich carpets of the salon. The couch sinks as she sits next to me, one lined hand taking mine. “You’re strong, my dear boy. Too strong. You deserve the happy moments when you find them. And all I want, beyond anything else, a crown or a country, is for you to live.”
My throat threatens to close, and I have to look away from her, if only to hide the sharp sting of tears. She clenches her jaw, just as uncomfortable with emotion.
“Thank you,” I force out, focusing on a spot in the carpet. As much as I’ve wanted those words from her, they aren’t easy to hear or accept.
Her grip on my fingers tightens, forcing me to look at her. We have the same eyes, she and I. Burning bronze. “I’ve lived through the rule of four kings. I know greatness—and sacrifice—when I see it,” she says. “Your father would be proud of you. In the end.”
When Julian and Sara finally emerge, they are good enough to ignore my red-rimmed eyes.
With the delegations out of their uniforms and in finery, it’s easy to pretend this is just a party. Not simply another meeting veiled by silk, liquor, and roving plates of stupidly tiny foods. At least Montfort isn’t as rigid as old Norta or its court. I don’t have to wait to be announced, and I descend into the grand ballroom with the rest of the delegates, all of us moving like a school of jewel-colored fish.
The chamber can’t compare to Whitefire, or even the Hall of the Sun. Royals have the edge when it comes to splendor, but I hardly mind. Instead of white molding and gilt frames, the long ballroom has polished timber arches and brilliant cut-glass windows looking out on the valley as night falls. The fire of sunset sparkles off mirrors that make the space seem grander and bigger. Overhead, cast-iron hoops are set with a thousand candles, flickering with golden flame. No less than six fireplaces, all of them rough stone, throw off pleasant heat to warm the expansive room. I feel each one at the edge of my perception, and I look across the floor, searching for familiar faces.
Mare’s brothers and Kilorn would be easiest to spot, tall as they are. They aren’t here yet, so likely she isn’t either. The premier is, of course, greeting delegates as they filter into the room. Carmadon stands proudly at his side, waving over servants as they pass. I watch as he nearly force-feeds one of the Nortan nobles a tiny portion of salmon.
Evangeline must have the night off from her bodyguard duties. She has Elane hanging on her arm, the two of them hovering near the string band that’s still warming up. When the violinist raises his instrument, the pair of them begin to dance in perfect rhythm. As always, Evangeline manages to sparkle in the most threatening way. Her gown is beaten bronze, sculpted to her form but somehow fluid. The color looks good on her, warming up her otherwise cold appearance. Elane, on the other hand, seems to be playing the part of a winter queen. Her red hair flames as always, made even more bright by her pale skin, a light blue suit, and silver lipstick. Ptolemus stands nearby, not so loudly dressed, with Wren Skonos on his arm. Both of them favor dark green, an emblem of their new allegiance to Montfort.
If anything is proof of the new world, the new possibility we could have, the Samos siblings are. First Evangeline, once meant to be my queen and my burden, then a princess of a hostile kingdom—now a soldier of an equal nation, with the woman she loves at her side. And her brother, heir to a throne as much as I was, nearly crushed by the expectations of a similar father—Ptolemus is here too, oathed to defend all he was raised to destroy. Both have so many sins behind them; both have no right to forgiveness or a second chance. But they found it, and the world is better for having them.
Like Mare, I can’t help but think of Shade when I see them. He was my friend and I miss him, but I can’t hate Ptolemus for what he did. After all, I’ve done the same. Taken siblings and loved ones, killed for what I was told to believe. How can I condemn him without condemning myself?
Behind me, Julian and Sara keep watch, already halfway through their first drinks. “Just doing our duty,” Sara quips, catching my eye.
“Thanks,” I reply, grinning.
The pair of them pledged to keep any delegates away from me as long as I wanted, to give me time to breathe. Today was the worst of all: I spent most of it policing a shouting match between a Scarlet Guard general and one of Montfort’s transport ministers.
Nanabel needs no such reprieve and is already working her way through the room, angling into the circle of diplomats around the premier. By party’s end, they’ll either never speak to each other again or be close friends. I’m not sure which is more frightening.
“Behind you, Cal,” Julian says and points his chin back up the stairs. From our spot on the floor, we have an excellent view of the crowd as it descends, and it doesn’t take me long to pick them out.
Gisa really outdid herself with the whole family, even Mare’s father. Daniel doesn’t look particularly comfortable in the dark green dress suit, but there’s a distinct pride to him as he walks unaided down the steps. Mare’s mother, Ruth, looks regal next to him, her graying hair swept up into a complicated braid set with green clips to match her dragonfly-patterned gown. Tramy’s suit jacket is particularly bright, embroidered with flowers and vines over yellow silk. Bree is his broader counterpart, though his jacket is pale orange. Kilorn completes the trio, grinning broadly over his blue and gold-vined coat. Even Farley received a Gisa Barrow original outfit: she’s clad head to toe in red-and-white silk offset with gold detailing and flower embroidery. She doesn’t have Clara with her, the party being too late for the infant. I wonder what the young general will abandon first—her gleaming jacket or the party.
Gisa follows at a distance, looking as smug as a cat with a caught mouse. She has a girl I don’t recognize at her side, their elbows joined, both their dresses pale pink with intricate lacing.
She chose purple for Mare again, sheer silk overlaid with gold branches and silver blossoms. The meaning isn’t difficult to figure out. All the Barrows and Farley too wear some sort of plant in bloom—roses, lilies, magnolias, fresh leaves. Though winter looms, they are spring. Reborn.
Mare smiles just for me as she walks, careful to keep the hem of her skirt in check on the stairs. The many candles dance above her, making her glow. I wait patiently, letting the rest of the crowd break around me in a river. If someone tries to speak to me, I don’t notice. My focus is on one person in the room.
A flush colors the tops of her cheeks, the perfect complement to the berry color of her lips. And the curl of freshly dyed hair, purple at the ends. I can’t help but smile like an idiot, especially when she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. The stones glimmer there, for her brothers, for Kilorn, and for me. The scarlet gem winks across the room, a star I would follow anywhere.
When she reaches the floor, I don’t move, letting her maneuver carefully around her mess of brothers. They spot me and offer curt nods, better than I deserve. Mare’s mother is more polite, offering a smile, while her father pointedly looks at the ceiling. I don’t mind. I have time with them. I have time with her.