Violie

Violie, Leopold, Pasquale, and Ambrose arrive in Hapantoile just after noon the following day, crossing through the gleaming gold gates that guard the city to the west. It has been two years since Violie was here, and it occurs to her as they pass through that the girl who left is not the same one who is returning. She knows she's harder around the edges—she's seen too much not to be—but she also knows that despite the horrors she's experienced in Temarin and Friv, and despite the lives she's taken and the desperate decisions she's made, she's a kinder person as well.

As they make their way in silence through the bustling city streets, Violie's thoughts turn again to what her mother will think of her. Since they made the decision yesterday to come to Hapantoile, she's thought of little else. In the deepest corners of her heart, Violie had reconciled herself to the fact that she would never see her mother again. She hadn't quite made peace with it, but she'd accepted it. Now, though, faced with the imminent surety of seeing her mother again, Violie is overcome by nerves.

She must have some idea of what Violie has done these past years. Will she be disappointed in her? Horrified? Will she know that everything Violie did, at least in the beginning, she did for her? Will that make it better, in her mother's eyes, or worse?

Violie is terrified to know.

She is desperate to know.

The streets of Hapantoile are still as familiar to Violie as the sound of her own name, and she leads her new friends through them until they reach the Crimson Petal—a whitewashed town house with red curtains in the windows and a gleaming black door complete with a rose-shaped knocker. The wooden sign hanging from the second floor is discreet, but in Violie's memory it was never discreet enough for everyone in the neighborhood not to know exactly what happened within the town house's walls.

Violie pulls her horse to a stop in front of the brothel, and after a moment, Pasquale pulls alongside her.

"I could go in first, if you'd rather," he offers.

Violie hears the trace of compassion in his voice, which sounds too near to pity for her tastes, so she shakes her head and swings down out of the saddle, her boots hitting Bessemian stone for the first time in years. Pasquale does the same, and she passes him her reins without a word and makes her way up the front steps to the lacquered black door she's passed through countless times. Tempted as she is to simply enter her home as she always has, she doesn't. Instead, she lifts her hand to the brass rose knocker and knocks three times.

A moment passes, Violie's heart thundering in her chest, before the door opens, revealing a frail-looking woman in her seventies with hair more gray than red now. Her pale skin is creased in places, but clear and luminous, her rosy mouth curved into a ready smile. She isn't beautiful in spite of her age but because of it. When her blue eyes meet Violie's, they widen in recognition.

"Elodia," Violie says, trying to smile, but she feels the smile falter on her face, killed by the nerves wracking her. Though they share no blood, Violie has known Elodia for the entirety of her life. She's the closest thing Violie has to a grandmother.

"Oh, Violie," Elodia says, folding Violie into her arms and peppering her face with kisses. "Welcome home."

Home.

The word echoes through Violie, and she hugs Elodia back for a moment before pulling away. "Is my mother here?"

For the space of a heartbeat, Violie fears the worst—Pasquale told her Beatriz had cured her mother of Vexis, but countless things could have befallen her between then and now. What if she is too late?

But Elodia turns her head to the entry hall behind her. "Thalia, fetch Avalise at once."

A sound halfway between a sob and a laugh pushes past Violie's lips, and before she knows what she's doing, she's walking past Elodia, into the Crimson Petal's expansive entry hall, past the startled young woman she doesn't recognize, who must be Thalia. A grand stairway dominates the space, its polished gold railing and red-carpeted steps curving up to the second-floor landing.

"Mother?" she calls out, her voice reverberating through the hall. Suddenly, her nerves are gone, her fear is gone; all that's left is the bone-aching need to see her mother's face, to feel her arms around her.

Her mother appears at the top of the stairs, still in her nightgown with a velvet dressing gown pulled over it, her blond hair sleep-mussed. When she sees Violie, she lets out a cry that sounds, vaguely, like Violie's name, and then she is running down the stairs and Violie is running up them. They meet somewhere in the middle, in a collision of arms and tears and babbled words that are only half audible. Violie would like nothing more than to linger here for eternity, but after a moment, she forces herself to pull away, to study her mother's face.

Vexis certainly took its toll, making her skin more sallow, her hair thinner, her eyes underlined with dark circles, but she is here and alive and that is all Violie could ask. She feels her mother taking inventory of her as well, her thumb coming up to brush over her cheek, a soft smile curving at her lips.

"Oh, my darling girl, look at you. All grown-up," she breathes. "I always knew the stars would bring you home to me."

Violie has never put much stock in the stars. It's difficult to grow up in Vesteria and not be aware of them, but she's never tailored her life to a horoscope or stayed up all night to track their travel across the sky and beg their help. Now, though, she feels her mother's faith wash over her, and whether or not the stars played any part in reuniting them, she is grateful all the same.

Violie would like nothing more than to spend days on end with her mother, catching up and celebrating the fact that they have both survived this long, against all odds, but there is no time. Elodia shows them to a stable at the end of the block where they can keep their horses for the night at the cost of a few asters; then she shows them to rooms on the top floor, usually reserved for guests paying to stay longer than a few hours, and leaves them to bathe and change into fresh clothes, with the agreement to regroup for lunch in an hour.

When Violie arrives in the sitting room in a borrowed spring-green day dress that's too big in the chest and hips, with her wet hair in a haphazard braid drawn over her shoulder, Leopold is the only one there. He stands near the burning fireplace in a clean white shirt and loose dark brown trousers, arms crossed over his chest. His own hair is still damp, lying flat against his head. He hears her enter the room and spins to face her, the lines of tension in his face smoothing out when his eyes meet hers.

"This is…not what I expected," he admits, glancing around the sitting room.

Violie follows his gaze and laughs. It's true that nothing about the room outright proclaims it's in a brothel and it could just as easily fit into any of the grand manors that line Bonairre Street, but there is a sultriness to the deep red velvet sofa crowded with an assortment of plush pillows, the black lace cloth draped over the low table, the smoked glass that surrounds each wall sconce, casting the room in a dim, hazy light even though it's the middle of the afternoon.

"I'm not sure I even want to know what you expected," she says, smiling.

He laughs, shaking his head. "I wasn't expecting a place that felt…like a home. But I can see you growing up here," he says.

"Well, I wasn't allowed in half the rooms," she says, shrugging. "And after dark, I had to stay in my room—at least one of the women was always off duty and stayed with me, sometimes my mother, sometimes one of my…aunts, as I called them."

Leopold gives no indication of judging her or her upbringing, but in his silence, she feels the need to defend it all the same. An old habit, she supposes. It wouldn't be the first time she's had to. "I always had a full belly, a roof over my head, and I was surrounded by people who loved and protected me. I wouldn't trade my childhood for anything," she tells him, her voice perhaps a touch too firm.

"I believe you," he says, eyes darting around the room again.

She wishes she could see it through his eyes, know what he thinks of it, but all she can see is the sofa where her mother used to braid her hair and tell her stories; the hard corner of the low table that she slammed her knee into when she was seven, leaving a faint, jagged scar; the place near the door where her mother reached out to steady herself the first time the Vexis made itself known, stealing her balance and strength in an instant.

She wishes she could stay here forever, and she wants to flee at the next available opportunity. She doesn't know which urge frustrates her more.

"Your mother looks like you," Leopold says, breaking the silence.

It isn't the first time Violie has heard that, but his words feel like a warm blanket draped over her shoulders. "Elodia always joked that my mother created me out of whole cloth. No one is sure who, exactly, fathered me, but he left little trace of himself. The only thing I didn't inherit from my mother is my eyes."

In the silence that follows, Violie hears him wondering. Her eyes are star-touched silver, which means she was wished for, like Sophronia, Daphne, and Beatriz. Like Bairre, too. Leopold doesn't give voice to his question, but Violie answers it all the same.

"My mother was…entertaining a gentleman. Some duke or earl or other, she says, though she's never said who. After he fell asleep she lay awake, struck by a sudden need for a child. She always wanted to be a mother, she said, but in that moment, she said she needed it more than her next breath. She needed me. The room was dark, with only moonlight shining in through the window, just bright enough to catch on something jutting out from the pocket of the gentleman's discarded coat. She got out of bed, crouched down beside it, and realized it was stardust. She didn't think twice about it—she took it, she crossed to the window, she looked up at the stars, and she used it to wish for me."

"Was he your father, then?" he asks.

Violie laughs. It isn't a question she hasn't asked herself, but the truth is, there is no way to know for sure, and even if there were, her mother claimed not to remember the man's name. But Violie doesn't explain that to Leopold. Instead, she settles on a simpler truth. "It doesn't matter," she says. "I'm my mother's daughter, and that is enough for me."

It's at that moment that the door opens and her mother enters the room, followed seconds later by Elodia, then by Pasquale and Ambrose. They take seats around the room, Violie sitting between her mother and Elodia on the sofa.

"I don't have to ask why you're here," Elodia says, reaching into her pocket and producing a stiff cream-colored card the size of her hand, emblazoned with gold leaf. She hands it to Violie. "I take it you're on your way to Cellaria?"

"What makes you say that?" Leopold asks, but Violie's attention is on the card, reading over Elodia's shoulder. She can speak Cellarian passably well, though reading it is a different skill. But she doesn't need to read Cellarian to recognize the shape of Beatriz's name. She frowns, passing the letter to Pasquale, who reads it, his expression going from surprise to fury.

"It's an invitation," he says, looking up at Violie. "To the wedding of Princess Beatriz of Bessemia and King Nicolo of Cellaria. Where did you get this?"

"One of our patrons is the Cellarian ambassador," Elodia says with a shrug. "Suffice to say it…fell out of his pocket while he was visiting just last night."

"When is it?" Leopold asks.

"Three days," Pasquale says. "Can we reach Vallon in time?"

"Just," Leopold says. "But we can hardly stroll into a royal wedding without a plan."

Violie shrugs. "A royal wedding will mean an influx of visitors and overworked staff. We couldn't ask for a better distraction when we sneak into the palace to find Beatriz," she says, looking to her mother. "Is Graciella still here?"

Graciella had come to the Crimson Petal just a few months before Violie left, a young woman in her midtwenties who'd already become notorious among Cellarian courtesans as a favorite of King Cesare. Several of the other women at the Crimson Petal wondered why she would possibly leave a position like that behind to come here, but from what Violie has heard of King Cesare since then, she can guess what made Graciella anxious to leave. It would only have been a matter of time before his favor soured, and she'd be lucky to walk away with her freedom and her life.

Violie glances across the room at Pasquale, the polar opposite of everything she's heard about his father, and wonders if the name sounds familiar to him, but he shows no sign of recognition.

"She is," Violie's mother says.

"Good," Violie says. "I'd wager she knows a discreet way into the king's bedchamber. Nicolo isn't a fool, from everything I've heard about him—he'll keep Beatriz close so he can watch her and prevent her from escaping. The queen's chambers will connect to his, won't they?" she asks Pasquale, who looks confused but nods.

"Yes, they connect," he says. "Will it be that simple?"

"Likely not," Violie says with a wry smile and a shake of her head. "But the simpler the plan is, the more room we'll have to…improvise when something goes awry."

Violie feels her mother and Elodia exchange a look over her head. "What is it?" she asks, glancing between them. "Is Graciella all right?"

"She is," Elodia says quickly. "But we have a new girl as well—you met her briefly when you arrived."

Violie frowns. "Thalia," she recalls, though she was in such a hurry to find her mother that she remembers little of the woman—just a blur of auburn hair and tan skin and startled eyes.

"Unfortunately, she's the only one we could take in," Elodia says, which confuses Violie until she realizes that Elodia isn't speaking to her. She's speaking to Leopold.

"Elodia," Violie's mother warns, her voice sharp. "Surely they have enough on their plate without—"

"Beatriz isn't his responsibility," Elodia interjects, her eyes never leaving Leopold. "They are."

"Who?" Leopold asks, looking as confused as Violie feels.

"The refugees," Elodia says coolly. "We could take in Thalia—her husband was a palace guard, killed by the same mob that killed your wife, and she has two young children in her care—but there are more Temarinians coming into Hapantoile every day, looking for safety and stability they can no longer find at home."

"But why would they come here?" Violie asks. "Bessemia is the one responsible for the upheaval in Temarin."

"Where else would you have them go?" Elodia asks. "To Cellaria, which has made no secret of its hatred of Temarin? To Friv, a country they can only reach by purchasing passage on a ship, which few can afford? Bessemia may be the belly of the beast, but even the belly of the beast offers warmth and shelter."

Leopold goes progressively paler as she speaks, horror flooding his face, but Elodia isn't done. "Perhaps, Your Majesty, your time would be better spent helping the people who still call you king than interfering in another country's troubles."

Leopold swallows, an angry red flush stealing over his cheeks. He's quiet for a moment, but Violie can tell he's considering his words carefully. "I was not a good king, madam," he says quietly. "And ignorant as it seems to have been, I believed the Temarinian people were better off without me leading them. I'd believed the empress's reign was unchallenged. Word of any unrest didn't make it to Friv."

"Few things make it to Friv," Elodia says with a snort. "But just because the empress's control is unchallenged by you doesn't mean it has been peaceful. Do you not know your people, Your Majesty? Did you believe they would accept the empress's rule without fighting back?"

"I'm glad they are," Violie puts in, but Elodia levels her with a hard look and Violie immediately regrets speaking.

"Him I expect na?veté from," she tells Violie, inclining her head toward Leopold. "But you should know better. Fighting back may sound noble, but the battles that have cropped up between the Bessemian troops and the Temarinian rebels have rendered the country dangerous. Villages have been razed to the ground by the empress's troops for fear they were housing rebel forces. And the rebels have caused damage of their own—I heard tell of a fire set to burn a Bessemian encampment that spread to destroy a nearby farm and acres of crops. Crops Temarin couldn't afford to lose as winter settles in. It's the common people who find themselves caught in the middle of a fight they never asked for."

Leopold absorbs this. "If Thalia wishes to speak with me herself, I would be honored to hear her."

"And say what?" Violie asks him, sure she knows the answer already but hoping desperately that she's wrong.

Leopold looks at her with heavy eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw that she's come to recognize as the look he gets before he does something foolish and brave.

"To apologize profusely for both my reign and my abandonment," he says. "And to swear on each star in the sky that I won't rest until I reclaim every last grain of Temarinian soil and make it safe to call it home once more."

It's precisely what Violie was afraid he would say, but she knows she could sooner prevent the stars from shining than keep him from returning to Temarin. Still, she can't resist trying.

"You'll be killed as soon as you cross the border," she says.

Leopold shrugs. "Then I'll die a king rather than live a coward."

"You aren't a coward," she protests.

"Then it's time to stop running like one," he says.

Frustration rises up in her throat, and she only barely manages to tamp it down. "I promised Sophronia I would keep you safe—"

"Sophronia released you from that promise," Leopold interrupts, his voice gentle. "And she knew better than anyone that there are more important things in this world than being safe. If she were in my position, she would do the same."

He's right. Violie knows he's right, and she hates him for it. She hasn't kept him alive these past weeks, hasn't come to know him and care for him and let him get close enough to care for her in turn, just to let him die on some noble, impossible mission. She gets to her feet, ignoring the startled looks from her mother, Elodia, Pasquale, and Ambrose.

"Then die, just like she did," she tells him, regretting the words as soon as they leave her lips. "But while the world will remember her as a martyr, they'll remember you as a fool."

Leopold holds her gaze, unflinching. "Better that than a selfish coward who let his people suffer in his stead."

The desire to throttle sense into him is so overwhelming that the only way to resist it is to walk away, ignoring the others calling her name as she does, leaving the room and closing the door firmly behind her. Before anyone can come after her, she walks downstairs to the foyer, taking her coat from the hook and tying it around her shoulders, then slipping her feet into the worn boots she left by the door. Then she leaves the Crimson Petal and steps out onto the bustling streets of Hapantoile.