Daphne

Lunch with the empress and Lord Panlington is set up in Lord Panlington's private rooms, on the other side of the castle from the royal wing, where Daphne and Bairre's rooms as well as the empress's temporary lodgings are. Daphne's stomach is tied in knots during the entire walk over. Bairre is at her side, and despite her earlier protests to her mother, she's glad to have him with her. He knows what to expect, and after her conversation with her mother the night before, she hopes the empress will underestimate him.

"You told Lord Panlington what your mother was planning," Bairre murmurs to her as they pass through the busy castle hallways. "He isn't unprepared to meet her, and Lord Panlington is a smart man, more than capable of holding his own, even against the empress."

He must feel the anxiety coursing through her, but despite his words, she isn't reassured.

"Lord Panlington has no affection for me," she points out, shaking her head. "He tolerates me out of necessity, and because I've proven myself too much of a nuisance to ignore or outright kill. But that doesn't mean he's our ally. If my mother means to sway him to help her claim Vesteria—all it would take would be a few false promises that he couldn't see through. Do you think, if she promises him troops to help dethrone Bartholomew tomorrow, he won't be tempted to take them despite everything I've told him about her?"

Bairre considers this. "You always say people underestimate your mother, but I believe in this case you may be underestimating Lord Panlington. He sees through just about everything, in my experience with the man."

Daphne is tempted to agree with that assessment. Her dealings with Lord Panlington himself are recent, but she's seen his work through the actions of the rebellion, and through Cliona. He isn't a fool to be easily led.

At least, Daphne believes that until they reach Lord Panlington's rooms and a maid leads them through the regal but sparse sitting room and into a similarly decorated dining room, where her mother is seated at a round table, dressed in a Bessemian blue-and-gold gown, with Lord Panlington seated to her left, appearing utterly besotted.

"Oh, there you are, darling," the empress says, tearing her attention away from Lord Panlington and fixing Daphne with a full, glowing smile.

There was a time not long ago when Daphne dreamt of her mother's beaming smile being directed at her. Growing up, it always felt like a rare gift, not often bestowed but worth working for. Even now, it still warms her, and she has to remind herself that like most parts of her mother, it's a lie.

"I hope we didn't keep you waiting," Daphne says, matching her mother's smile as best she can. Her eyes slide to the clock standing in the corner—two minutes shy of one o'clock, their arranged meeting time. Daphne kicks herself for not realizing her mother would be early, that she would want to take advantage of any extra time she could get with Lord Panlington.

"Not at all, Your Highnesses," Lord Panlington says, getting to his feet and offering Bairre and Daphne a shallow bow. "Your mother was simply telling me a charming story about a time when her father encountered a wild boar while selling his hats on the road."

Daphne's smile begins to feel even more forced. She knows her mother's stories, what each one aims to accomplish, and more than that, she knows that her mother never ever mentions her father, Daphne's grandfather. In Daphne's experience, her mother has done everything in her power to distance herself from her common origins and has certainly never purposefully reminded anyone of them. But with Lord Panlington, it is perhaps a perfect ploy, a way for him to see her as a simple tailor's daughter rather than a powerful empress scheming to take Friv for her own.

"Oh?" Daphne says, gaze moving to her mother. "The way you were giggling, I thought for sure you were telling Lord Panlington of the time you arranged for your bathtub to be filled with champagne after your minister of the treasury cautioned you against reckless spending, simply to prove a point."

For just an instant, the mask drops and Daphne glimpses the ire in her mother's eyes before she pulls the mask back into place, offering a bland smile. "Not to prove a point," her mother corrects, managing to soften the sharpness of her tone, if only barely. "To prove that I was correct—our treasury could tolerate a bit of reckless spending, it couldn't tolerate his thieving."

It's the truth, and at the time, Daphne applauded her mother's handling of the situation, reveled in how red the minister's face grew when her mother insisted that, should the champagne required for her baths be too much, she would need a full breakdown of the palace accounts to see what else could be cut and immediately found the sums that weren't adding up. But it doesn't matter that it's the truth. Daphne can see in Lord Panlington's expression that the image of a bathtub filled with champagne has suitably counteracted the folksy tale the empress has spun for him of her humble upbringing.

"Of course, Mama," Daphne says, injecting her voice with a spoonful of honey as Bairre pulls out the chair directly across from the empress and Daphne lowers herself into it with all the grace she learned from watching her mother. Bairre takes the seat beside her.

Lord Panlington must notice the tension, because he clears his throat, motioning for a servant girl, who appears between Daphne and Bairre and fills their cups with steaming tea. Daphne adds a cube of sugar and a splash of milk to hers, taking a sip, knowing better than to broach the elephant in the room first.

Lord Panlington gives the servant girl a nod, dismissing her. As soon as the door is closed behind her, leaving the four of them alone, he speaks. "Your mother, Princess, seems to be under the impression that I'm the head of some rebel faction in Friv. Where in the name of the stars would she have gotten that idea?" he asks, eyes heavy on her.

Daphne silently curses herself. She might have told Lord Panlington of her mother's plans to conquer Friv with her help, but she didn't exactly explain that she'd already told her mother all about him and his part in the rebellion. If she could go back, she wouldn't have, but she learned of Lord Panlington's true allegiances when she was still loyal to her mother, back when Sophronia was alive and the thought of going against the empress had been as ridiculous as the stars going dark.

"I might have mentioned it," Daphne says, careful to keep her voice neutral. "Back when I thought you might be responsible for the attempts on my life."

It isn't the truth, but it's a lie Lord Panlington has no trouble believing.

At that moment, the door opens again and Cliona strides through, red hair coming loose from its plait, freckled cheeks flushed, and midway through pulling off a pair of leather riding gloves. She hasn't bothered to change out of her riding habit, and Daphne doesn't miss the way the empress's brown eyes narrow, sweeping over Cliona and immediately finding her wanting.

"Sorry I'm late," Cliona says, not sounding sorry at all as she finishes removing her gloves and takes the seat on Daphne's other side, flashing her father a quick, bright smile that he returns easily. "My ride was so invigorating I lost track of time."

"How you manage in this dreadful weather is beyond me," the empress says, any trace of the flash of disdain she showed replaced by the friendly mask that Daphne finds sodiscombobulating.

"It's a talent," Cliona replies. Daphne is impressed with how perfectly Cliona matches the empress's tone, the same measure of sweet gentility but with an undercurrent of condescension.

"Empress, I don't believe you've met my daughter yet," Lord Panlington says. "Cliona, this is Empress Margaraux."

"Of course, Daphne's mother," Cliona says, and Daphne has to smother a smile at her friend's boldness, at the way the empress ever so slightly flinches at being referred to as Daphne's mother rather than by her long list of titles. "We're all so glad you could pay us a visit—Daphne has accumulated so many supporters here in Friv. The people just adore her. You must be so proud."

Now, that's a bridge too far, and Daphne subtly kicks Cliona under the table to communicate as much.

"Actually, before you joined us, we were discussing her suspicions that you tried to have Daphne killed," the empress says, artfully dodging any confirmation that she is, in fact, proud of Daphne.

Cliona laughs, pouring herself a cup of tea and taking a sip of it black. "I can't imagine where she got that idea."

"The time you and Mrs. Nattermore held me hostage at knifepoint and freely discussed how best to kill me?" Daphne suggests airily. "Or the number of times you've threatened to kill me since?"

"I forget how sensitive you can be," Cliona replies, waving a hand. "I made some jokes here and there, but we weren't responsible for the assassins—any of them."

"My daughter might believe that, but I don't see why I should," the empress says, her voice still conversational even when her eyes dart between Cliona, Bairre, and Lord Panlington with an air of severity.

"Because, Your Majesty," Cliona says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though she's heard by everyone at the table, "if the Frivian rebellion wanted your daughter dead, we would do it ourselves, and we wouldn't fail."

A silence falls over the table as Cliona and the empress hold each other's gazes, neither moving, blinking, or—as far as Daphne can tell—even breathing.

Then the empress laughs. It isn't the sort of laugh Daphne has seen from her mother before, not a stoic chuckle or demure giggle that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Instead, she throws her head back with the force of it, her shoulders heaving. She laughs with her entire body and, after a moment, the rest of the table joins in, some of the tension dissipating.

"I see why my daughter has grown fond of you," the empress says, but though the words sound complimentary, Daphne can hear the condemnation in them as well, the reminder that in becoming fond of Cliona or anyone else outside of her mother and sisters, Daphne has failed.

Lord Panlington looks between his daughter and the empress with a faintly bewildered expression, no doubt understanding each word that has passed between them but failing to grasp the full meaning of what is being said. "Should we cut through the nonsense and speak plainly, Your Majesty?" he says to the empress, who gifts him with a benevolent smile.

"I would prefer that, Lord Panlington. I would like to help you and your rebellion, but in order to properly overthrow King Bartholomew, you require more resources than you currently have at your disposal—in terms both of weapons and of people to wield them. Am I correct?"

Lord Panlington's jaw tenses, but after a moment he gives a nod.

"I have resources," the empress says. "Unfortunately, I also have a vested interest in keeping Friv's monarchy firmly in place. My grandchild will one day sit on that throne—I can't have it broken to pieces by the time they arrive, can I?"

At the mention of grandchildren, Daphne feels herself flush, and she is sure that if she were to let herself look at Bairre, his cheeks would be red as well. She knows her mother has no intention of letting either of them live long enough to have children, but it serves her purpose just now to pretend. And, Daphne realizes when her mother glances at her, then Bairre, it serves another purpose as well. She feels, suddenly, like virginity is written all over her face, and surely over Bairre's as well. If her mother had suspicions that they had not consummated their marriage, they've all but confirmed them.

"The goals of the rebellion have become more…flexible, as of late," Lord Panlington says carefully. "While we'd insist each clan have full authority over their lands, we would be amenable to a ruling family that serves as a figurehead, of sorts. But Bartholomew's reign is poisoned. After the force—and, if rumors are to be believed, magic—he used to take the throne, he'll never be accepted by all of Friv, and he is…unwilling to negotiate with the rebellion about restructuring power, at any rate."

Empress Margaraux sips her tea, dark brown gaze on Lord Panlington over the rim of her cup, before she sets it down on its saucer with a decisive clink. "My daughters have been reared as future queens, Lord Panlington. Taught to rule countries fairly and honorably, to navigate them through hardships and see them prosper. I'm aware that Prince Bairre was not born to be a king. Perhaps he would be all too happy to shirk his responsibility and play figurehead, but I raised Daphne to be better than that."

Daphne allows herself to glance sideways at Bairre to see if her mother's words, as true as some of them might be, have wounded him, but if so, he gives no outward sign of it. Instead, he watches her mother with calculating eyes.

"My responsibility," he says, his voice colder than Daphne has ever heard it, "is just as it always has been and always will be regardless of the title attached to my name—to Friv."

"Hmm, that is admirable," the empress says with the sort of smile that reminds Daphne of the way one might smile at a child showing off a horrendously done drawing. She turns her attention away from him and back to Lord Panlington. "What you're offering is insufficient," she says.

"And yet it is all I can offer," Lord Panlington replies with a shrug. "You can keep your funds—Friv has always survived and thrived without help from outsiders. This time will be no different."

Daphne doesn't know whether or not he's bluffing, but she's grateful for his refusal all the same. She doesn't doubt that any promises her mother offered would no doubt be retracted just as easily, but she also knows better than most that her mother can be persuasive.

The empress laughs softly, shaking her head. "I confess I'm disappointed, Lord Panlington," she says, leaning across the table to pick up the half-full pot of tea. She pours some for herself, then inclines her head to Lord Panlington's empty cup, which he nods and pushes toward her. Suspicion suddenly slithers through Daphne—her mother doesn't pour her own tea, let alone offer to pour for someone she views as beneath her. "Daphne had such high hopes for a partnership between us. Didn't you, Daphne?"

Lord Panlington looks to her, confusion furrowing his brow, but Daphne's gaze lingers on her mother's hands as they pour tea into Lord Panlington's cup, at the faint sprinkle of white powder that falls from the ruby ring on her right middle finger.

No one else notices. They are all staring at Daphne, waiting for an answer to a question she can't quite remember. But Daphne notices. Her mother let her notice. She swallows. "Yes, of course," she says, feeling as if someone else has taken over her body. "But I suppose your goals are wholly unaligned after all."

Her mother passes Lord Panlington's cup of tea back to him, and words rise up in Daphne's throat. She should say something, should stop him from drinking what she's sure is poison. But if she does, if she finds a way to warn him or stop him from drinking it, her mother will know for certain that her loyalties have changed, and that would put not just Lord Panlington in danger, but everyone Daphne cares about. Perhaps attempting to poison Lord Panlington would be enough to force King Bartholomew to have her imprisoned, but she wouldn't stay there long. She is an empress, after all. He would be unable to hold her.

Daphne feels as if she has no choice but to watch as her mother lifts her teacup toward Lord Panlington.

"To the tragedy of failed partnerships," she says with a wry smile.

Lord Panlington appears slightly unnerved, but he returns her smile and clinks his teacup with hers before they both take a sip.

Daphne watches, frozen in her seat, as Lord Panlington swallows and sets his cup down, a third of the tea gone. Daphne doesn't know for sure what poison her mother used on him—a white powder could be anything from arsenic to sleeping dust—if it's anything at all. Daphne isn't sure this isn't a test of her own loyalties. Perhaps the white powder was nothing more than confectioners' sugar.

She tells herself that's exactly what it is, and as their lunch progresses and Lord Panlington shows no sign of being poisoned, she almost manages to convince herself it's the truth. But not quite. As the rest of the table falls into a somewhat stilted conversation, with Lord Panlington, Cliona, and Bairre making halfhearted suggestions as to how the empress should spend her next couple of days in Friv and the empress giving noncommittal answers, Daphne stays silent. Watching. Waiting. Desperate to shout for help but unable to open her mouth.

It happens just as the servants come to clear away their plates—all empty, apart from Daphne's, which she barely touched. Lord Panlington moves to stand, but before he straightens fully, he collapses back into his chair, his hands flying to his chest, just to the left, where his heart, Daphne knows now, is beating far, far too fast. His eyes bulge, the whites of his eyes flushing red, mouth agape—half shocked, half pained.

In a blur of movement, Cliona is at his side, yelling to a servant to call for a doctor, but it's too late for that. Daphne watches, stunned and horrified, as Lord Panlington grasps his daughter's hand in a white-knuckled grip, struggling to speak, before that grip goes slack and his lifeless body slumps back in the chair.

Cliona lets out a scream when she realizes; Bairre moves to her side to guide her away from the body, and Daphne averts her eyes, unable to look at her friend in this moment, knowing she could have stopped it. Her gaze, instead, lands on her mother, who meets it across the table. No one else in the room is paying either of them any mind, and the empress lifts her chin a fraction of an inch and gives Daphne a brief, chilling smile.