Daphne

Daphne sleeps most of the way to Bessemia, not yet fully recovered from unleashing Beatriz's magic. She has vague memories of a brief stop at an inn—just long enough for a meal and a few hours' rest—before the second leg of their journey, when she promptly fell asleep again. Though she wishes she didn't feel like death, she can't deny that sleeping for more or less a day and a half straight has been preferable to suffering in awkward silence with Cliona.

When she finally does stir, it's to the bright sunlight of late morning, and she realizes her head is resting on Bairre's shoulder. He must feel her move, because he glances down at her with a half smile.

"Cliona says we're getting close," he says.

Daphne straightens up, blinking the exhaustion from her eyes to find Cliona studiously avoiding her gaze and instead staring out the window. Daphne glances out the opposite window, taking in the familiar terrain of the Nemaria Woods. She and Cliona met somewhere near here, she recalls, in a clearing to the south of Hapantoile on the day she said goodbye to her sisters.

She remembers her initial impression of Cliona, back when she believed the other girl to be an unassuming noblewoman with a clever wit and a curse for lying badly. Daphne underestimated her. She wonders what Cliona thought of her that day, and just how much Cliona underestimated her in turn.

If I could go back,Daphne thinks, I would do so much differently.

She would give help to Sophronia when she asked for it. She would tell Bairre the truth earlier. She would believe Beatriz about their mother and leave no words unspoken between them. But Cliona…all of their missteps and misunderstandings and mistrust—she wouldn't change any of that. For girls as sharp-edged as they are, there was never a smooth path to friendship.

But she also wouldn't change the fact that she allowed her mother to murder Cliona's father. She has replayed that lunch over and over in her mind, has even seen it acted out again and again in her dreams over the last couple of days, and she knows that no matter what she'd done, she would have lost someone or something that day. And to her, Lord Panlington was the most acceptable sacrifice.

Cliona doesn't see it that way, though, and perhaps she never will. Nothing Daphne can say will change that, but she tries nonetheless.

"When I met Cliona," she tells Bairre, aware that Cliona can hear every word even if she pretends not to, "I already knew everything about her—or so I thought. My mother's spies were no match for hers and her father's, I suppose."

At the mention of her father, Cliona's shoulders stiffen, but Daphne pushes on.

"There was nothing in any of the intelligence I read about Lord Panlington or his daughter being involved in the rebellion, much less his leading it. I sat across from her in the carriage to Friv and thought she was just another empty-headed socialite whose father spoiled her rotten. That made it into the dossier," she adds. "How dearly Lord Panlington loved his only daughter. He hid many things, but he couldn't hide that."

Cliona's face is still stubbornly turned toward the window, but Daphne catches her lifting her hand to her cheek to wipe away a stray tear. Daphne addresses her directly now.

"As soon as I learned you and he were part of the rebellion, I told my mother," she says. "I knew it presented the perfect opportunity to sow discord in Friv, that if King Bartholomew knew his closest friend and advisor had betrayed him, it could be the key needed for a civil war that would leave Friv vulnerable to my mother's attack. That's what I regret—that I told her anything at all about you or him. That is what I would change if I could. That is the real choice I made that led to his death, Cliona. And I will always regret that."

Cliona says nothing, but Daphne doesn't expect her to. She looks out her window again and sees the white stone towers of the Bessemian palace appear over the treetops, pale blue flags fluttering in the wind, emblazoned with a golden sun.

Daphne lets out a soft breath. She's home.

The fanfare around the empress's return—and to some extent, Daphne's—passes in a blur, but Daphne watches Cliona's and Bairre's reactions more than she watches the crowds that line the streets in Hapantoile, shouting and waving as they pass. She can almost see the city through their eyes—how it's so big that Eldevale could fit within it at least three times, how the buildings are taller, the roads paved and smooth, the tidy shops and houses in neat rows. Daphne knows it's nothing like any place they've seen because until a couple of months ago, Friv was nothing like any place she'd ever seen. She wonders if they're already missing their country the way she missed Bessemia in those days.

She can't blame them if they are—she herself finds that she's missing the unrefined edges of Friv, how even in the country's capital, the wild woods encroached on all sides, how the snowcapped mountains loomed to the north like sleeping giants watching over the city, how crisp the very air tasted.

All too soon they arrive at the palace, and that, too, is something new to Bairre and Cliona—bigger, newer, more elegant than the castle in Friv, which for most of its existence was first and foremost a fortress. Daphne knows that in past centuries the Bessemian palace has acted as a fortress itself, that it did its duty of protecting the people within while war raged outside its walls, but looking at its delicate spires and polished white stone walls, she can't imagine it. Surely it would crumble under the slightest breeze.

The empress disembarks from her carriage first, handed down by a footman in a resplendent blue silk gown that somehow doesn't have a single wrinkle despite the hours of travel. Another crowd has formed along the palace steps, cheering for the empress as she ascends the marble stairs and falling silent when she reaches the top and turns to face them, lifting a hand. When she speaks, her voice carries enough that even Daphne can hear her from inside the carriage.

"I am happy to be home and happier still to find such a warm welcome," she says, beaming at the crowd, which hangs on her every word, just as Daphne does even still. When her mother speaks in front of a crowd like this, she never fails to hold them in the palm of her hand, a skill Daphne has tried so hard to mimic but has never managed quite so well. This is her mother's gift, Daphne knows. Diplomacy, strategy, politics, and statesmanship were all skills the empress had to learn as she went, but this is the charisma that first drew the emperor's attention and held it, that lured allies to her when she should have had none. Daphne has always been awed by this facet of her mother, but now it terrifies her just as much. "My journey to Friv was a fruitful one, and I discovered that our beloved Princess Sophronia—now Queen Sophronia of Temarin—is indeed alive."

She pauses as the cheers rise up again, this time deafening. Daphne feels many eyes turn to her carriage, no doubt expecting that Sophronia is inside. She knows with an aching certainty that they'll be disappointed to realize it's only her. Not that she can blame them for that. But she waits, listening to her mother's next words, curious how she'll choose to spin the myth of Sophronia being alive without ever producing her in the flesh.

"Unfortunately," the empress continues when the crowd falls silent again, "the Temarinian usurpers who attempted to kill her and her husband, King Leopold, also learned of their location, and they were forced back into hiding in order to save themselves."

A wave of boos washes over the crowd, and the empress allows it.

"I assure you that I am doing everything in my power, both as your empress and as my daughter's mother, to ensure that she and King Leopold are able to come out of hiding and reclaim their thrones soon. It is my greatest wish to see Temarin ruled by its rightful king and queen. But while that day is not upon us yet, I bring more joyous news from Friv—Princess Daphne has married Prince Bairre and is now Princess of Friv, cementing the alliance between our countries for generations to come."

More cheers at that, and Daphne knows where this is heading. She glances at Bairre, who is watching the empress with the same reluctantly rapt attention Daphne feels herself. "Whatever she says, don't stop smiling," she warns him.

"What?" he asks, turning to her with a puzzled frown, but Daphne doesn't have time to answer him because the empress is speaking again.

"And I'm so thrilled that the newlyweds have decided to pay Bessemia a visit," she says, gesturing toward the carriage Daphne, Bairre, and Cliona are in. On her cue, a footman opens the carriage door as the crowd erupts into cheers and applause again. This time the sound is deafening.

Bairre steps out first, but rather than letting the footman move forward to help Daphne down, Bairre turns to her, extending his hand, which Daphne takes, and after a second the bemused footman steps back. Daphne knows it wasn't a calculated move on Bairre's part, that in Friv there is no rigid protocol about carriage etiquette, but Daphne doesn't think she could have choreographed it any better if she'd tried. Because while the crowd might have expected Bessemia's least-favorite princess—not as beautiful or bold as Beatriz, not as sweet or kind as Sophronia—to smile and wave alongside the second-choice husband everyone knows neither she nor her mother selected for her, a bastard Frivian prince likely as wild and uncouth as his country is known to be, what they are seeing instead as Bairre takes hold of Daphne's hand is a love story.

No, Daphne may not be their favorite among her sisters, a fact that she has been keenly aware of for as long as she can remember, but if there's one thing she's learned from her mother, it is how to spin a narrative, and everyone loves a love story. Bairre moves to release her hand when her feet are firmly on the ground, but she holds fast to him, lacing her fingers with his as they walk up the marble steps toward her mother, the crowd cheering around them. If Bairre is surprised by the gesture, he recovers quickly, keeping their hands clasped even as they reach the top, coming to stand in front of the empress.

Cliona has stepped out of the carriage behind them, but she hangs back alongside the empress's entourage and the handful of attendants that accompanied them from Friv.

Daphne and Bairre have to release each other's hands to turn and face the cheering crowd, but then Daphne reaches for his hand again and Bairre catches on to what she's doing, lifting their joined hands to his lips and brushing a kiss over her knuckles, which causes the crowd to go even wilder than they did for the empress herself.

"Kiss her!" someone shouts, a cheer picked up by the rest of the crowd. Daphne summons a blush to her cheeks and makes a show of biting her lip and glancing back at her mother, as if for permission, though really she wants to see her mother's expression. The empress gives nothing away, a broad smile spread over her face, but that in and of itself is a tell to Daphne, who knows every one of her mother's different smiles better than anyone. This, she knows, is her annoyed smile, and while it used to sow anxiety and dread in Daphne, now it feels like a triumph.

The empress inclines her head in acquiescence, and Daphne's smile widens. She turns back to Bairre, who looks uncertain.

"Come on," she whispers without moving her lips. "Make it good."

Bairre smiles at the challenge and bends his head toward her, but Daphne meets him halfway, rising onto the tips of her toes. The kiss is briefer and more chaste than others they've shared, but the crowd doesn't care. They grow so loud Daphne can't hear anything else, not even her own thoughts or the quickened beating of her heart.

As soon as they reach the palace's entry hall, the empress's smile—still her annoyed one, Daphne notes—falls away, replaced by pursed lips as her eyes dart between Daphne and Bairre. Daphne prepares herself for the lash of her mother's ire now that they don't have the protection of an audience, but the verbal blow never comes.

"I'll send the physician to your rooms to attend you," she says.

"Which rooms are we staying in?" Daphne asks her.

The empress tilts her head to one side as if Daphne's question confuses her. "You'll be in your old rooms,Daphne," she says slowly. "I thought you would prefer it, no? You have such memories there, after all, and it's your home."

If the empress expects Daphne to argue about that, she'll be disappointed. Daphne would prefer to return to the old rooms she shared with her sisters. Staying anywhere else in the palace would feel unnatural. But she also can't imagine Bairre in those rooms—she could sooner picture the sun rising in the night sky. Still, she doesn't want to be separated from him with her mother so close. Logically, she knows her mother can't directly strike out at either of them while they're in the palace, but she also knows better than to underestimate her mother.

She decides not to ask for clarification and instead presume what she wants to hear—another trick she picked up from her mother.

"Oh, I would. That's very considerate of you, Mama. Wait until you see them," she says, turning to Bairre, keeping her voice bright. "Mama had the mantel in the sitting room commissioned to commemorate mine and my sisters' birth constellations—"

"Oh no, my dove," the empress cuts in, just as Daphne suspected she would. "I assumed Bairre would be more comfortable in the guest wing. Your rooms were designed for young girls, after all, and even if he doesn't mind all the pink and frills, I daresay he'll find the furniture uncomfortably small."

That strikes Daphne as a flimsy excuse. While the most recent renovation of the rooms happened when Daphne and her sisters were fourteen, she knows the beds are large enough for entire families, and the sofas and chairs scattered throughout, while constructed to appear dainty, are as big and sturdy as any other furnishings she's seen in the palace.

She's tempted to let it be and concede this choice to her mother. Perhaps a few weeks ago she would have been all too eager to accept her mother's orders without question, but now she is keenly aware that everything between them is a battle and that every bit of ground she cedes will cost her twice over in the looming war.

And even more, she is aware of the power she herself wields. The girl she was when she left Bessemia was little more than her mother's shadow, but that girl is gone.

She gives her smile a sharp edge. "Oh no, I must stay with my husband, Mama," she replies. "Imagine what people would say!" Though Daphne is sure that after her and Bairre's show outside, gossip about their marriage is precisely what the empress hopes to accomplish. "And I'm sure the furniture in my old rooms is perfectly fine for him—why, Beatriz, Sophronia, and I managed to pile onto all the chairs and sofas together plenty of times, and if they can hold the three of us, I'm sure Bairre will have no complaints. Isn't that right?" she asks, looking at Bairre.

Bairre clears his throat. "I'm sure it is," he says, offering the empress a smile of his own. "And I have no qualms about pink or ruffles, I promise."

The empress's mouth tightens and Daphne can see the calculation behind her eyes, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of pushing back. After a moment, she gives a single nod.

"Very well," she says, her voice coming out pinched.

"Wonderful, thank you, Mama. I look forward to seeing the physician—that journey was absolute torture." She turns toward the stairs that lead to the hall where her rooms are, Bairre at her side, but she pauses and wheels to the guard standing at attention by the front door. "Oh, and when Lady Cliona arrives, will you send her up to my rooms as well? She can take Beatriz's or Sophronia's old room," she adds to her mother, whose mouth purses again.

"Daphne, at that I must draw the line," she says. "Lady Cliona can stay in the guest wing, with the other guests."

"Oh, I know she should," Daphne says with a sigh. "But Lady Cliona is still so newly grieving her poor father, Mama. I can't stand the idea of leaving her alone. She must be surrounded by friends during this trying time."

If Daphne and her mother were alone—or even just with Bairre—Daphne knows her mother would refuse her, likely with a particularly cutting if true comment about how Cliona doesn't consider Daphne a friend, but while only the guards can hear their conversation, they are still an audience, so the empress is forced to perform.

"That is very kind of you, Daphne," she says, and Daphne is sure she's the only one who hears how terse the compliment is. "I'm sure in this single instance, your sisters would be happy to lend their rooms to Lady Cliona."

Daphne thanks her before continuing up the stairs. It was a small battle, she knows, but she is still walking away triumphant.

Daphne's small victory against her mother is short-lived. As soon as her guards open the door to her old apartments and she steps into the sitting room, she's bombarded by the ghosts of her sisters. She sees Sophronia curled up in the armchair near the bay window, her legs pulled up against her chest, gown wrinkling, with an open book propped against her knee. She sees Beatriz pacing in front of the fireplace, gesturing wildly with her hands as she rants or raves about something or other, so overflowing with emotion that she can't sit still. She sees the three of them in the ball gowns they wore to their sixteenth-birthday party, piled together on the sofa, drinking stolen champagne from stolen glasses. She remembers Sophronia's toast, the words imprinted in her memory.

To seventeen.Sophronia's voice whispers through Daphne's mind as if her sister is in the room with her now. Sixteen is when we have to say goodbye. By seventeen, we'll be back here again. Together.

Daphne had no reason to believe that that wasn't an inevitable fact then. Now, it's an impossibility.

She senses Bairre watching her, feeling very much like a caged, feral cat as she makes her way around the room, pausing when she reaches the cream damask rug in front of the sofa. There, barely visible unless one knows to look for it, is the hazy halo of the champagne Daphne spilled that night.

Bairre clears his throat, interrupting her thoughts and bringing her back to the present.

"The fireplace is remarkable," he says, and it takes Daphne a moment to remember her comment downstairs, about how he must see the fireplace, particularly the white marble inlaid with gold to represent Daphne's, Beatriz's, and Sophronia's birth constellations. It was a ploy, a way to drive the conversation with her mother where she needed it to go, but she follows Bairre's gaze to the fireplace now and nods.

"It is," she says, stepping closer to it and reaching her fingers out to trace the Sisters Three at the center. She's always been able to see herself and her sisters represented there, in the shape of those stars. "What stars were you born under?" she asks him.

"I didn't know for most of my life," he admits. "Not until my mother approached me and told me who she was."

Bairre was left outside the Frivian castle as a newborn, Daphne remembers, with a note stating his name and little else, certainly no mention of his birth chart. But of course Aurelia would know exactly what stars her son was born under, even if she had to crawl outdoors midlabor to see them.

He counts them off on his fingers. "The Tilting Hourglass." For patience. "The Whispering Wind." For intuition. "The Hero's Sword." For bravery. "And the Empyrea's Staff."

Daphne purses her lips at the last one. "For magic?" she asks.

He nods. "That was the most interesting one to my mother as well," he admits with an embarrassed smile. "She thought it meant I was destined to be an empyrea. She had a lot of questions for me at thirteen, though my answers must have disappointed her. Like every child, I tried to wish on stars, just to see if it worked. And since she told me about the Empyrea's Staff, I've kept trying. Every so often, I still try, but nothing ever happens. Each time I'm not sure whether I should be disappointed or relieved."

Daphne thinks of Beatriz—an empyrea, though she still can't quite believe it. Her magic is killing her, Pasquale said.

"Relieved, I think," she tells him.

Before he can respond, there's a sharp knock at the door.

"Cliona, probably," Daphne says, crossing to the door. No doubt Cliona will be annoyed at having to share rooms with Daphne, but Daphne doesn't care. Let her add it to the tab of her anger against Daphne—at least Daphne knows her mother can't reach Cliona so easily here.

But when Daphne opens the door, it isn't Cliona on the other side. Instead, it's Mother Ippoline.

Daphne blinks several times, certain she's imagining the imposing older woman, who has never said so much as a word to Daphne during her mother's council meetings or when Daphne and her sisters did any charity work with her Sororia.

"Mother Ippoline," she says, trying to hide her confusion with a polite smile. She glances at the guards standing on either side of her door, and one gives an apologetic shrug. Daphne can't quite blame them for not turning Mother Ippoline away. Even if they aren't devout, Mother Ippoline is an impressive force, rivaling even the empress herself in some ways. Daphne thinks quickly. Mother Ippoline is, after all, on her mother's council, which means Daphne doesn't trust her. "My mother said she was sending someone to heal me, but I confess I'd hoped she meant my body and not my soul."

Mother Ippoline's eyes narrow. "Impudent," she chides. Daphne doesn't think that word has ever been applied to her before—Beatriz, certainly, but never Daphne. But instead of feeling chastened, she's almost flattered. Behind her, she hears Bairre laugh, though he turns it into a cough. "I suppose that must be your husband."

Daphne steps back, making quick introductions, but she is acutely aware of the guards' attention, and that every word of this encounter will doubtless find its way to her mother's ear before the day is done.

"Would you like to come in, Mother?" Daphne asks, though loath as she is to give the guards a show, she also doesn't want to let one of her mother's council members into her rooms. She's relieved when Mother Ippoline purses her lips, eyes darting between Daphne and Bairre.

"I would not," she says curtly. "But I should like to see both of you at the Sororia come nightfall."

Daphne frowns. She's never been to the Sororia before and has no interest in remedying that fact. "Whatever for?" she asks.

"Your marriage rites were performed in Friv," Mother Ippoline says, speaking slowly as if to a child. It grates on Daphne, but she manages to keep hold of her smile. "You are now in Bessemia."

"Are you saying our marriage isn't valid here?" Bairre asks from over her shoulder. "Surely another wedding isn't necessary."

"Not another wedding, no," Mother Ippoline says. "But I should like to bless you in the light of the Bessemian stars all the same, to leave no doubt as to the validity of your union."

Daphne hesitates, the invitation making her uneasy, though curiosity nags at her to accept. She knows there must be more that Mother Ippoline isn't saying—she just isn't sure she wants to hear it.

"Princess Beatriz and Prince Pasquale did it during their visit," Mother Ippoline says. "Though I suppose that isn't the strongest of endorsements, considering the tragedy that union became."

As far as Mother Ippoline and the rest of the country knows, Pasquale is dead and a traitor, and Beatriz is marrying his cousin, King Nicolo. A tragedy indeed, Daphne supposes. All the same, she finds herself eager to trace her sister's steps, to learn what she learned while she was here. The Sororia is as good a place to start as any.

She glances at Bairre, who nods as if reading her mind, before looking back at Mother Ippoline with a smile. "Very well, then," she says. "We look forward to it."