Beatriz

Keeping her enemies close was not a novel idea to Beatriz when Nicolo suggested it—it's a lesson her mother instilled in her as well—but putting it into practice with Gisella proves to be more of a struggle than Beatriz anticipates. The day gets off to an auspicious start, with Beatriz extending an invitation to Gisella to join her in her rooms, where Beatriz has a wedding gown fitting. Gisella accepts, as Beatriz knew she would, and just after lunch, the guards outside her door knock twice before announcing Gisella's arrival.

She's early, stepping into Beatriz's sitting room before the dressmaker and her seamstresses arrive, but Beatriz welcomes her all the same. It made little sense to have her maids lace her into all the layers of a day dress only to have to change into the wedding gowns the dressmaker is bringing, so Beatriz is wearing only her chemise with a plush brocade dressing gown over it. Gisella, on the other hand, looks as put together as she ever does, in a fashionable sapphire gown that hugs her frame, with her pale blond hair up in a coiling braided style reminiscent of a crown.

There is no audience once the guards close the door behind Gisella, so Beatriz doesn't waste energy on politeness. She looks Gisella over for a moment, channeling Daphne's cool gaze. She chooses not to speak, instead watching Gisella struggle for a moment in the uncomfortable silence. That, much as she loathes admitting it, is a trick she learned from her mother.

"The dressmaker isn't here yet?" Gisella says finally, looking around the room as if she might find the dressmaker and her seamstresses hiding behind a sofa.

"You're early," Beatriz says coolly, lowering herself into the armchair and crossing her legs at the ankles. She ignores Gisella, reaching for the volume of poetry she left open on the end table. She waves a hand dismissively. "Help yourself to water or wine. I'm sure you know where things are bynow."

Gisella doesn't move, though. Instead she stares at Beatriz for a moment before giving a derisive scoff. "Is this how things will be, then?" she asks. "You intend to ignore me like a petulant child who was refused a piece of cake?"

Beatriz looks up at Gisella with a blank expression. "I'm sorry, perhaps you're more up to date on your etiquette than I am," she says, voice dripping with condescension. "What is the proper way to treat someone who is planning on killing you in the near future? Should I greet you with hugs and kisses? Ask how your day is going as if I care?"

Gisella says nothing at first. Instead, she crosses the room to the sideboard, rifling through the cabinets until she finds a bottle she likes. She picks out a goblet and gives a heavy pour, taking a long sip before turning to face Beatriz once more.

"You can pretend to be a victim if you like," Gisella says, her voice level and bone-cold. "But you understand how the world works, Beatriz. You know the rules of the game of power better than anyone. You can treat me like the villain, but if our positions were reversed, if killing me were the only way to protect yourself and your sister, would you do anything differently?"

Beatriz glares at her, hating that she's right. Or rather, that she thinks she's right.

"I wouldn't," Beatriz agrees. "But I can guarantee you that I wouldn't be stupid enough to believe my mother's promises to be worth more than the air she spoke them with."

At that, Gisella smiles, taking another sip of wine. "Oh, you don't have to worry about me there," she says. "It isn't as if my promises are worth all that much either, as you well know. The empress and I have the same goals, up to a point, but my loyalty certainly won't outlast her usefulness."

That surprises Beatriz. Gisella has betrayed her before, and she isn't fully surprised that she plans to eventually cross the empress as well, but…

"And how does killing me fit into your goals?" she asks, unsure whether she wants to hear the answer. She may be masking it with ice and snark, but discussing her imminent death with Gisella is unnerving.

Gisella doesn't respond right away. Silence stretches between them for so long that Beatriz begins to suspect Gisella won't give her an answer at all. Just when she's given up on expecting one, Gisella surprises her.

"Every movement requires a martyr," she says finally, her voice soft. "And you'll make such a lovely one."

Frost ghosts over Beatriz's skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. She suppresses a shudder.

"And what movement is that?" she asks.

Gisella only smiles, and Beatriz knows she wouldn't have given an answer, even if they hadn't been interrupted at that moment by the arrival of the dressmaker and her seamstresses.

The dress fitting itself passes in a blur of silk and tulle as Beatriz tries on the dozen gowns the dressmaker brought—some form-fitting, some voluminous, some trimmed in feathers, others in jewels, and one in fresh red rose petals, sprayed with gold to hide where they've started to brown. Now that they have an audience, she and Gisella are careful to maintain their smiles, and Gisella offers compliments and critiques for each gown she tries on.

"It has to be the skirt on the sixth gown, with that rippling train, but with the rose bodice from the tenth gown," Beatriz says after she's stripped of the final gown and one of the seamstresses helps her back into her dressing gown. "But I'll want the roses as fresh as possible—could they be sewed onto the bodice the afternoon of the wedding?"

"We'll get the last one on as you're entering the chapel, Princess," the dressmaker vows, scribbling notes in her notepad.

"Oh yes," Gisella says, her voice gushing, though Beatriz hears the sarcasm lurking underneath. "The dress must be as flawless as my future sister-in-law. Nothing less will do, Madame Favioli."

Beatriz glances at the dozen gowns being packed away by the army of seamstresses, each one some shade of Cellarian red—blood red. If she isn't careful, this won't only be her wedding dress, it very well may be the dress she diesin.