Daphne

The morning after Lord Panlington's sudden death—a heart attack, the court physician called it—Daphne makes her way to the chapel, looking for Cliona. In all the chaos, she wasn't able to see her friend. Guards pulled Daphne away, rushing both her and Bairre from the room and returning them to their quarters until they could ascertain that there was no threat to them. During Bairre's pacing and worrying about Lord Panlington in the hours that followed, Daphne couldn't bring herself to tell him about her mother's hand lingering over Lord Panlington's teacup, the fine powder dropping into the dark liquid from her ring. She knew if she did tell him, he would ask a question she couldn't answer.

Why didn't you stop her?

It was a question that kept her up all night, tossing and turning. A question that lingers in her mind even now as she steps into the frigid chapel, empty apart from a single figure sitting in the front pew, red hair peeking out from beneath a black mourning veil.

Daphne's heart aches as she makes her way down the aisle and slides into the pew beside Cliona, who keeps her head bowed, hands clasped in her lap. Daphne knew little of Lord Panlington and liked even less, but he was Cliona's father all the same, and she can feel the grief rolling off her in waves, along with something else Daphne realizes too late is anger.

"You knew," Cliona says, still not looking at her. Her voice is a thread-thin thing, but Daphne still feels it like a dagger pressed to the back of her neck.

She swallows. "Cliona…" She trails off. Years of training in manipulation and charm tell her to lie, to make excuses, to persuade Cliona to see her side of things, to understand why she had to let her father die. But how can Daphne do that when she doesn't understand it herself?

Cliona waits a moment for a response, but when Daphne doesn't give one, she turns her head to look at her for the first time. She looks at Daphne like she's never seen her before, like they're strangers, and Daphne feels that like a punch to her stomach.

"I knew your mother was responsible," Cliona says. "I knew it as soon as the life left his eyes. You told me what she was capable of, and I knew she'd killed him. But when I returned to my rooms to find her waiting for me…I wasn't expecting her to confess to it. To tell me that you helped her."

"I didn't—" Daphne begins to protest before biting her tongue. Her mother designed this, she realizes. Yes, she was annoyed that Lord Panlington didn't agree to ally with her, but that wasn't why she killed him. After all, whoever fills his shoes in the rebellion won't be any more inclined to give the empress power in Friv. No, Daphne sees now the real reason the empress did it, why she let Daphne see her use the poison. It wasn't a test at all, it was a trap. The empress has always sought to isolate Daphne and her sisters, preventing them from having any friends outside of one another, and she only let them have that because it was inevitable. Daphne never minded it growing up—her mother and sisters were all she wanted—but now she feels Cliona slipping away. No, wrenching herself away.

She tries again, suddenly desperate. "I'm sorry, Cliona, I should have said something, should have stopped her. I thought it was a test, to see if my loyalties were still to her. I thought if she knew they weren't…" She trails off again, and this time Cliona doesn't wait for her to finish. She laughs, the sound broken.

"You made the decision to let my father die in order to prevent your mother from being disappointed in you?" she asks.

"No," Daphne says, but deep down she knows Cliona isn't wrong, not completely. "But if she knows I've turned against her, it puts everyone in danger—"

"Oh, wake up, Daphne," Cliona snaps, her voice echoing in the empty chapel. "Everyone is in danger now. Is my father not proof enough of that? The only one you're protecting is yourself."

Daphne shakes her head. "I'm protecting you," she says. "And Bairre, and my sister, and—"

"I don't want or need your protection," Cliona says, voice cracking. She gets to her feet and hastily wipes a black-gloved hand under her eyes to catch what Daphne realizes are tears. She wants nothing more in that moment than to reach out, to comfort her hurting friend, but she knows she's the last person Cliona wants comfort from, so instead she balls her hands into fists in her lap. When Cliona speaks again, her voice is cold. "What I need is people I can trust, Daphne. And that no longer includes you." She slips out of the pew and starts back up the aisle, and Daphne moves to follow her.

"Cliona, there are bigger things at play here—"

"Stay away from me," Cliona says without turning around. "The last thing you need is another enemy."

Daphne stops short at the words and watches Cliona's back as she exits the chapel, closing the door firmly behind her and leaving Daphne wholly alone.

Daphne tells herself that Cliona just needs time. She's grieving and hurt, but Cliona has always been a shrewd and pragmatic person. In time, she'll be able to see why Daphne couldn't save her father. But as she leaves the chapel and begins to wind her way through the palace hallways, her guards at her heels, she begins to worry that something between them has been irreparably broken—that she broke it. She tries to envision another outcome to that fatal lunch but can't see her way to any she could accept.

But still, Cliona's words haunt her. You made the decision to let my father die in order to prevent your mother from being disappointed in you?

Once, not too long ago, the thought of disappointing the empress was enough to make Daphne nauseous. She thought, with Sophronia's visit during the northern lights, that the empress no longer had that hold on her, that Daphne no longer needed her approval. Now, though, she suspects that she will never be free of that desire. Perhaps it will always linger, no matter how irrational and impractical it might be.

But that doesn't mean she has to feed it.

She stops short at the thought, her two guards nearly walking into her before catching themselves.

"Princess?" one of them asks, his voice uncertain. His name is Tal, and Daphne suspects he's in league with the rebels, as many guards are. The other guard, Dominic, stays silent, but then, Daphne doesn't think she's ever heard Dominic speak.

She turns to face them both, a sudden determination warring with wariness within her.

"I've changed my mind," she says. "We aren't returning to my rooms after all—I need to speak with my mother."

Her mother, Daphne learns, is visiting the castle's glasshouse—a vast structure set up in the east garden that contains an array of flowers, trees, and crops from across Vesteria, sheltered from Friv's harsh winter climate. Daphne isn't surprised that her mother has chosen to spend her morning there—even in Bessemia, her free time was often spent in her rose garden, nurturing and pruning her collection of delicate flowers.

There aren't many roses in Friv's glasshouse, but Daphne knows exactly where they are. She instructs her guards to wait outside the glasshouse doors, where the empress's guards are lingering, and steps inside, the blast of warmth a welcome respite from the frigid outdoor air. Daphne meanders by citrus trees and potted orchids, through a metal archway trellised with fragrant jasmine, past beds of wrinkled cabbages and feathery carrot tops, until the scent of roses hits her and she catches sight of her mother's bright blue skirt among all the greenery.

The empress is crouched before a rosebush, its pale pink flowers closed in tight buds, the branches tangled and overgrown. In her hands, she holds a pair of pruning shears.

"Surely the gardener will handle that," Daphne says.

Her mother doesn't startle at the sound of her voice. Instead, she peers over her shoulder at Daphne with raised eyebrows.

"The gardener doesn't know the first thing about pruning roses. Clearly," she says, turning back to the rosebush and giving a decisive snip. A withered branch laden with thorns falls to the ground. "I sent Bartholomew this plant as a cutting from one of my own rosebushes, you know. It was a gift, to celebrate your betrothal to his son. This rosebush is almost exactly your age."

Daphne has never shared her mother's passion for roses, but she eyes the bush thoughtfully. "Is that not old for a rosebush?" she asks.

"It is," her mother confirms. "Most don't live past a decade, though I'd wager the stardust used to keep this glasshouse temperate has a hand in extending the plants' life-spans." She shakes her head, and Daphne doesn't need to see her face to know her mouth is curled in disgust. In her mother's mind, using magic to keep plants alive is cheating.

Apparently, using magic to conquer a continent is not.

"Still," her mother continues, rising to her feet, shears in hand, "I'm afraid it is at the end of its life cycle. It's lived sixteen years, but it won't see seventeen, no matter what help it's given."

Daphne knows her mother isn't only talking about the rosebush. She's talking about her. And about Beatriz as well. Her eyes go again to the shears in her mother's hand. Perhaps those should be considered a threat, but Daphne doesn't feel threatened. Not here, not like this. Her mother may want her dead, but she can't be the one to kill her. By Frivian hands, on Frivian soil.

At any rate, she has her own weapons close at hand. A dagger in her boot, another holstered to her forearm beneath her gown and cloak, should she need them.

But she won't. Not yet.

"Why did you kill Lord Panlington?" she asks, drawing her eyes back up to meet her mother's.

Her mother smiles. "Lord Panlington was an obstacle," she says, shrugging. "I do hope whoever takes over leading the rebellion will be more amenable to my desires. If someone else takes over at all—it's just as likely that without a strong leader they'll fall to chaos and your path to claiming Friv will be even easier. You ought to be thanking me, Daphne."

Daphne chooses her next words carefully, but all the same, they threaten to choke her as she gives them breath. "You're lying."

The empress's brows arch higher. "Am I?"

"If that were your aim, you wouldn't have confessed to Cliona. You wouldn't have told her I knew what you were doing. Cliona was loyal to me, and therefore so was the rebellion. That loyalty has been integral to our plans since I arrived in Friv; you had nothing to gain by severing it."

"Our plans?" her mother repeats, and while her tone is light, Daphne hears the danger just underneath. The impulse to appease her rises up, the desire to tell her mother exactly what she wants to hear, to prove to her that she's a good, dutiful daughter, that she's worthy.

This time, though, Daphne doesn't feed it.

Ever since her mother arrived in Friv, they've been engaged in a careful dance, she realizes. Daphne has been pretending that nothing has changed, that she hasn't changed, and her mother has been pretending to believe her. In some ways, Daphne suspects she's been pretending to believe her mother's belief, another layer to their precarious tower of illusions.

Now, though, Daphne decides to raze that tower to the ground.

"Your plans," she corrects, forcing herself to meet her mother's gaze. She lifts her chin an inch and forces herself not to cower. "I suppose they stopped being my plans the moment I learned you killed Sophronia."

The empress isn't shocked by the accusation. She clicks her tongue. "Oh, Daphne," she says, the name heavy with disappointment. "You've been listening to poisoned whispers. A Temarinian mob killed Sophronia."

This, too, is part of the dance of illusions, Daphne realizes. Her mother doesn't even bother to make her denial sound convincing.

"A Temarinian mob," she echoes. "Including a young man named Ansel? I caught him kidnapping Gideon and Reid, you know—the Temarinian princes. He had plenty to say about his associations with you."

"All lies," her mother says, sounding bored.

"And Eugenia was lying too, I expect? And Violie?" Daphne asks.

The empress shakes her head, looking at Daphne with pity that makes her skin crawl. "This world is full of people who want to hurt me, Daphne," she says. "But I never imagined my own daughter would be among them. I didn't know there was such hatred in you toward me, that you would believe these people's lies."

The empress turns to go, to walk away from Daphne, but Daphne isn't done.

"And Sophronia?" she asks. "Was she lying too?"

Her mother freezes, but she doesn't turn around. Daphne doesn't care—she couldn't stop the words flowing from her now even if she wanted to, though these next words are a lie, close enough to the truth that in Daphne's mind they barely count as one. "Frivian stardust is stronger than other kinds," she says, taking a step toward her mother, then another. "It's strong enough to allow communication between those of us who are star-touched. I used it to speak with Beatriz and Sophronia on the day she died, as they were leading her up to the guillotine."

She studies her mother's back, searching for any twitch or tension, but if her mother is troubled by her words, she doesn't show it. Daphne continues. "She told Beatriz and me then that you were responsible for her death, that you were determined to kill all three of us to claim Vesteria." This is the part that isn't wholly true—Sophronia didn't blame their mother then, and even if she had, Daphne wouldn't have been ready to hear it.

"Your sister was a fool," the empress says. "I didn't believe you were one as well."

Daphne ignores the sting those words cause. "And Nigellus?" she asks. "Was he a fool when he confirmed your plans to Beatriz, when he explained to her the details of the wish he made for you seventeen years ago?"

The empress lets out a long exhale, her shoulders sagging. When she turns to face Daphne again, the cold apathy in her expression is gone, replaced with a look so full of desolation that Daphne's heart clenches and she has to force herself not to take a step toward her. This is just another mask, she reminds herself, but a small part of her wonders if it isn't. If this, finally, truly is her mother at last.

"You want the truth, Daphne?" she asks, her voice a thin thread pulled taut, to its breaking point. It isn't a voice Daphne has ever heard from her mother, and that frightens her more than anything else the empress has said or done so far. The empress doesn't wait for an answer. She crosses back toward Daphne, each step slow and measured.

"When I was eighteen, I was assisting my father during a visit to some clients who lived at the palace in Hapantoile and wished to comission new gowns. To you, that palace is simply home, I suppose, positively mundane, but for me that day…I'd never seen anything like it. Every inch of it seemed to glitter in my eyes, and oh, the people! The courtiers dripping in jewels and silks, moving through the world without a care. They knew nothing of what it felt like to go hungry when their father's business had a bad week, or to worry that they might not be able to afford enough firewood to keep them warm in winter. I hated them for the unfairness of it all, but I envied them even more. I don't suppose you know anything about that sort of envy," she adds, giving Daphne a level look. And while Daphne is no stranger to envy, she can't claim to relate to how her mother felt then.

The empress doesn't wait for an answer. "As we went from one apartment to the next within the palace, by pure chance, we passed by the emperor and his attendants. My father bowed and I curtsied, along with all the other courtiers and servants present, and by pure chance, the emperor's attention caught on me. Me," she emphasizes with a short, sharp laugh. "A scrawny young thing barely out of girlhood, in a plain cotton dress and scuffed-up shoes. An errant weed with the audacity to crop up among orchids."

Daphne has never heard this story from the empress herself, but she's heard it in snippets of gossip, passed through the halls of that same palace in Hapantoile. She knows what happens next, but she certainly doesn't want to hear the details. Not from her mother, about her father, even if he was a man Daphne has no memory of.

"He made you his mistress," she says.

The empress nods. "It was my first real taste of power," she says. "And I wanted nothing more than to drown in it, to let it sink beneath my skin and into my lungs, changing me from the girl I was into the woman I was so desperate to be. A woman who wanted for nothing, who made people listen. But no one listened to me then. Not really. What power I had as the emperor's mistress was secondhand, contingent on the whims of a man whose whims were ever-changing. Yes, it was more power than I'd ever had before, power I was lucky to have by virtue of a pretty face and being in the right place at the right time, but it wasn't enough. I wanted—needed—more."

"So you went to Nigellus," Daphne says.

"He wasn't the court empyrea then," her mother says. "He was nothing before I found him, just a hermit living alone on the edge of the Nemaria Woods, but even then I'd heard stories of his power. People he'd helped swore that he was the most powerful empyrea in Vesteria. I thought it merely an exaggeration—all I cared about was that he was an empyrea with no connection to court, no loyalty to the emperor."

It occurs to Daphne that it isn't quite true that Nigellus was nothing before her mother—he had his power, he had work that he did well. Her mother didn't create him by shining a beacon on him, but she suspects that in the empress's mind, that's exactly what happened.

"The emperor gave me an allowance, as well as plenty of gifts—gold and jewels each worth a small fortune—but when I offered everything I had in exchange for Nigellus's help, he refused me. I thought what I asked for was too much, but instead of closing the door in my face, he ushered me in and laid out his terms. As I would come to learn, Nigellus had little interest in wealth or even power—he craved knowledge, to understand what the limits of his magic were and to push them, simply for the sake of it. In my court, he would be able to do that without worrying that the crown would punish him for sacrilege or heresy. Some of his ideas were…unpopular, to say the least. Including the plan we came up with together—not only wishing for me to conceive heirs with an infertile king, which forced him to annul his marriage to the then-empress and marry me, but tying each of your fates to the fate of another country. When you were killed, the country would fall, and it would be mine for the taking. I was aware of the sacrifice it would require, but I was only nineteen. The cost of losing children I had no desire for in the first place didn't haunt me. It was a price I was happy to pay. Then."

Daphne watches her mother as she speaks, searching for the cracks in her facade—and it has to be a facade, surely. But the empress herself taught Daphne that the best lies are built on truths.

"Is this the part where you tell me you regret it?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest, her voice so thick with sarcasm she knows she sounds more like Beatriz than herself. "That once you became a mother, you loved us and you tried to change the magic Nigellus cast?"

The empress laughs, shaking her head. "Stars, no, I never regretted it," she says. "I don't expect you to understand, of course. You were born to power, born to privilege, and you've never known anything else. And as little as you know about powerlessness, you know even less about motherhood."

The empress doesn't say the words unkindly, yet they act as a lit match thrown onto the tinderbox of Daphne's anger. It flares inside her, threatening to consume her whole. Yes, her life has been a privileged one in many ways, but her mother has perfected the art of making her and her sisters feel powerless. She said it was to force them to become stronger, to help them grow, but Daphne wonders now if it was cruelty for cruelty's sake, aimed to do nothing more than make them feel small, to make herself feel large.

And while it's true that Daphne is not a mother and has no desire to change that fact anytime soon, that doesn't make her ignorant.

But Daphne is not Beatriz. She doesn't have Beatriz's temper or her impulsiveness, so she keeps the inferno of her anger deep inside, careful to betray no outward sign of it. The anger is what her mother wants, she knows, and the second she gives it to her, Daphne loses.

"Perhaps," she says, matching her mother's cold tone. "But I know that mothers are supposed to protect their children, not sacrifice them at the altar of their own ambitions."

The empress inclines her head, acknowledging the point even if she doesn't appear troubled by it. "I lost no sleep over Sophronia, and I won't pretend I did," she says. "And when I had Beatriz brought back to Cellaria, to the fate awaiting her there, I did so without a second thought." She pauses, taking a step closer to Daphne and closing the distance between them. Daphne struggles not to flinch as her mother's cold, ungloved hand rests against her cheek, the touch unnervingly tender. "But you…" She gives a heavy sigh. "Daphne, I've had countless opportunities to have you killed, and I haven't been able to take any of them. Because you're different—you're special to me."

Those last words are ones Daphne has always wanted to hear from her mother. Even now, knowing everything she does, the sound of them still worms its way into her heart, tangling there. She forces herself to take a step back, pushing her mother's hand away from her face.

"You hired assassins," she says, grasping for reason, and she sees the truth of it in her mother's face as soon as the words leave her lips. She did hire those assassins. Her mother did try to kill her. It isn't a surprise, after everything, but it still manages to shock her.

"I did," the empress says slowly. "It was foolish of me to do it so soon—with Prince Cillian dead and you still unmarried, I knew it was too soon to guarantee my plan would work. But I also knew, my dove, that the longer I waited, the harder it would be for me. And every time I received word that you had eluded them, that you had triumphed over them in the end, I was so relieved. I tried so hard to keep my distance from you and your sisters, but with you…with you, Daphne, I never stood a chance. Despite all of my best efforts, I love you too much to let you meet the same fate as your sisters."

Daphne feels herself waver. These are the words she's always wanted to hear, the approval she's always worked so hard for. Of course her mother knows that, of course she's using that desire against her now, baiting a trap. She wishes that knowing her mother's motivations rendered that bait useless, but it doesn't. Not entirely, at least.

She knows there are two ways this conversation can go—if she rejects her mother's overture outright, she declares herself a threat, and she knows how her mother deals with threats. Logically, her mother has no reason not to have her killed now that she and Bairre are married. Most of Friv loves her, that's true, but there are surely plenty who don't, plenty who would be eager to take her mother's coin and deliver a dagger to her heart, a poison to her morning tea. No, while Daphne doesn't believe that her mother has changed her mind out of love, something is causing her to stay her hand, at least for now. And if Daphne can dance to the empress's tune a little longer, a little better than she has thus far, she might still be able to beat her at her own game.

"Then let me come home," Daphne says, making her voice hesitant. Her mother will suspect if she changes her mind too quickly, if she sets aside all her anger and suspicions in the blink of an eye.

The empress frowns, looking truly confused for the first time today. "Home?" she asks.

"To Bessemia," Daphne clarifies. "If you're serious about sparing me, let me come home. Away from Frivian soil and Frivian hands. Make me your heir officially, give me a future outside the cursed one you and Nigellus planned for me."

"You have a husband here," the empress says.

Daphne shrugs. "We can invite him, too, or not," she says. "But if you're truly giving up on using me to conquer Friv, there is no reason for me to stay. Instead, name me your heir, and eventually, Bairre and I will rule Friv and Bessemia together, as will our heir, your grandchild. If you're giving up on ruling it alone, surely that's an excellent consolation prize."

The empress's expression remains placid, but Daphne knows her mind is whirling, looking for holes in Daphne's logic and finding none big enough to walk through.

"Very well," the empress says finally. "I'll speak with Bartholomew about it over dinner, but I expect you'll need to convince your husband to join us. He's quite attached toFriv."

Daphne smiles tightly. She knows her mother isn't inviting Bairre out of kindness or with any thought to Daphne's desires—he's to be a hostage, someone the empress can harm or even kill if Daphne steps out of line.