Daphne

Leaving Beatriz to return to the palace feels impossible, but as midnight approaches, Daphne forces herself to do it. As they say their goodbyes on the stoop of the Crimson Petal—Bairre in the foyer, saying goodbye to the others—Beatriz presses a glass vial into Daphne's hand. Stardust, Daphne realizes when she looks down at it, the fine powder glittering in the moonlight.

"Bairre mentioned that Mama was making it difficult to acquire stardust of your own," Beatriz says.

Daphne nods her thanks and moves to tuck the vial into the pocket of her cloak, but Beatriz stays her hand.

"It's the stardust from when I pulled the star down in Cellaria to cause the starshower," she explains. "Aurelia says that stardust created by empyreas using magic is stronger than any that falls naturally, and she believes stardust created by me might be more powerful still."

Daphne can't resist rolling her eyes. "Yes, I feel truly lucky to be blessed by your special saintly stardust, Beatriz," she says, though there's no real barb in the words and Beatriz laughs. The laugh, Daphne notes, is a little too strained at the edges for her liking.

"Jealous, Daph?" Beatriz asks.

Daphne looks at her for a moment, her own smile slipping. She recalls how she felt when she broke the lock on Beatriz's magic when they were connected, how the magic flooded her briefly—beautiful, yes, but painful, too. Pasquale's words come back to her: The magic is killing her.

"No," she tells Beatriz softly. "Not at all, though I would still take the burden from you if I could."

Beatriz closes Daphne's fingers around the vial, squeezing her hand tightly. "I don't have to tell you to use it carefully," Beatriz says. "I'd wager you had plenty of opportunities to use your wish bracelet before you did, but you held back."

Daphne can't deny that. But when the moments came when her life was at risk, her thoughts weren't on a bracelet around her wrist. And besides, she always managed just fine without magic. But she knows that is exactly the sort of attitude Beatriz is getting at now.

"Don't be a hero, Daphne," Beatriz tells her. "Survive. No matter what."

A year ago, Daphne would have laughed off the command—of course she would survive. Of course Beatriz would survive—how silly to think otherwise. But a year ago she'd have thought the same of Sophronia, that none of them could leave this world without the others. Now she knows different. Promising anything is just foolish sentimentality.

Still…

"I will," she promises Beatriz. "And you as well—Sophronia already martyred herself. If you go and do it too, it will make me look bad by comparison."

Beatriz exhales a brief laugh before crushing Daphne to her again, each hugging the other tightly.

"I promise," she says. And though Daphne knows neither of them has any business making those sorts of promises, the words soothe her all the same.

"My father used to tell Cillian and me stories about battle," Bairre says to Daphne as soon as they're safely back in their rooms. They used the maze of servants' passages to reach an empty parlor down the hall, where they crawled through the window and climbed along the eaves to avoid being seen. It's the window that opens to Cliona's room, but there's no sign of her—a fact that unnerves Daphne. "He described how it felt to sneak into enemy camps under the cover of night. This reminds me of that."

"We've been in an enemy camp for days," Daphne reminds him, frowning at the empty bed, the linens still unrumpled and pillows perfectly fluffed. "Where could Cliona be at this hour?" she asks.

Bairre frowns, glancing at the bed before starting toward the door that leads to the sitting room. "Perhaps she couldn't sleep?" he says, as much to himself as to her. "She's always kept strange hours, even in Friv."

"I suppose it's difficult to plot a rebellion under the king's nose during daylight hours," Daphne says, following him.

The sitting room is empty too, but Bairre picks up a piece of parchment from the low table in front of the sofa, holding it out for Daphne to see. She recognizes Cliona's handwriting and steps closer to him so she can read the note.

B+D, I was summoned to deal with some things. Don't worry.

C

Daphne blinks at the brief note, half expecting more words to appear. "Is that all?" she asks.

"What more could she say?" Bairre points out. "If someone else found it before we did, it couldn't say anything more."

Daphne knows he's right, but she still takes the letter from Bairre and turns it over as if something else might be written on the back. Nothing is, but Daphne does notice a smudge of ink in the bottom corner, like someone dragged their thumb over it while the ink was still wet. She carries the letter toward the warm glow of the hearth, dropping to her knees to get a better look in the firelight.

"It's an M," she says, tilting it so Bairre can see. He crouches down beside her, peering over her shoulder.

"For Margaraux," Bairre says.

"I'd wager just about anything she's with my mother—that's the summons."

The clarification doesn't make her feel any better.

"Cliona can handle herself," Bairre says, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"I know," Daphne says. But even if that's true, it doesn't prevent Daphne from wanting to track her down now to be sure of it. If she does that, though, it will only put Cliona in more danger.

Cliona is savvy and coolheaded, Daphne tells herself, and if those qualities fail her, she also knows Cliona is armed even when she visits the privy. She wouldn't meet with Daphne's mother and not have a weapon or two close at hand.

The thought makes Daphne feel only marginally better.

"We're so close to the end now," she says, turning to Bairre. "And I feel like I'm holding my breath, waiting for it to fall apart."

"I know," Bairre says. He tightens his hold on her shoulder and pulls her toward him. Daphne softens, dropping her face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. Even here he still smells like Friv to her, like cedar and spice and, inexplicably, snow.

Like home,she thinks.

She lifts her head and looks at him, his star-touched eyes searching hers, almost golden in the firelight.

"I love you," she tells him.

One corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. "You really are frightened," he says.

He isn't wrong. Daphne's body feels so tightly wound she can scarcely breathe. The future looms in front of them, a giant starless sky—no constellations to warn of what's to come—but it isn't only fear, it's hope, too.

When her mother is dead, Daphne's life will be entirely her own and she will be able to do what she wants with it. There will no fear of repercussions, no danger in her mother's disappointment or disapproval, no expectations from anyone.

"When this is over, I want to return to Friv," she tells him.

Surprise crosses his face. "You do?" he asks.

"I do," she says. "I know things are complicated there, and there very well may not be a throne to sit upon, but I don't need one. I'm not even sure I want one."

"You do," Bairre says, shaking his head. "From the moment we met, you were very clear about that, Daphne. You were born to be a queen."

"I wasn't, though," Daphne says, a laugh breaking forth from her chest. "I was born to die. That's all. Everything else was always lies and illusions I was told were destined for me. But when this is over, Bairre, my life is entirely mine to do with what I wish. And what I wish is to strengthen Friv, however I can. With you, if you want me."

Bairre looks at her—a look she's seen before but not from him. It's the way a person looks just as she twists the dagger she buried in their chest. He closes his eyes and leans forward, resting his forehead against hers.

"I always want you," he says, his voice hoarse. "Always. However much of you I can get, in whatever way you wish to give it to me. I love you, too, Daphne. I ache with how much."

Daphne bites her lip, running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, enjoying the feel of him beneath the soft cotton of his shirt—the tension of his muscles, the scattering of goose bumps when her fingertips reach the bare skin of his forearms.

"I ache with it too," she admits quietly. "But I never want to stop."

He kisses her then, his mouth stealing her breath and her fear and breathing something else into her instead, something that burns through her veins like fire. It isn't the way they kissed on the steps of the palace, a performance for an audience who wanted to witness a fairy tale. It isn't even the way they've kissed before, behind closed doors, passionate, yes, but held back by duty and fear.

There is no holding back now, no secrets left between them, and any shadow of fear for what tomorrow will bring outshone by the glow of a future beyond that, a future they can share. Daphne's fingers tangle in his hair, holding him as close as she can—still not close enough. His hands burn even through the thick wool of the servant's dress she wears. It suddenly feels too hot—too tight against her skin. She slides her fingers from his hair and reaches behind her, for the row of buttons that begin at her neck, not breaking the kiss as she begins to slip them from their holes, one at a time.

There are too many,she thinks with mounting frustration, but then Bairre's fingers are there too, helping her, pushing the dress off her shoulders and down her arms, freeing her to the air and his gaze.

He pulls back just enough to look at her, still in her chemise, though she's aware of how thin the silk is, baring far more than it hides. His gaze slides over her skin, raising a trail of goose bumps everywhere it touches.

"Stars, you're beautiful," he says on an exhale, the words barely more than breath.

A flush heats her cheeks, but she can't deny that she feels beautiful when he looks at her like that.

"I want to see you, too," she tells him, tugging at the hem of his shirt, which he obligingly pulls over his head a little too quickly, the cuffs catching on his hands and leaving him tangled. They both laugh as she helps him, undoing the links holding the cuffs together and pulling the shirt the rest of the way off.

Her eyes drink him in, the smooth planes of his chest, the dusting of chestnut hair, the ripple of his abdomen as she touches him, smoothing her hands over his skin. She never wants to stop touching him, but when she reaches the waist of his trousers, his hands come to halt her exploration.

Did I do something wrong?she thinks. She didn't have Beatriz's training with courtesans—she has no idea what she's doing or even what she should want, only that she wants him, but if he doesn't feel the same way…

"Daphne," he says, his voice low, barely more than a rasp. "We don't…" He trails off, swallowing. "I want this. I want you. But I don't want you to do this out of fear for tomorrow."

Daphne looks up at him, her confusion and embarrassment morphing into amusement.

"Bairre," she tells him. "Fear isn't why I want you. Fear is what's stopped me from acting earlier, and I don't intend to waste another day letting fear win."

He lets out a shaky exhale. "I've never…" He trails off again, looking uncomfortable. A slow smile works its way over Daphne's face.

"Neither have I," she says. "We can figure it out together."

He lets out a laugh and then he's kissing her again, getting to his feet and pulling her up with him. They stumble toward her bedroom, kicking off their shoes and stockings on the way. Bairre's trousers follow as they close the door, then Daphne pulls her chemise over her head and tosses it aside. Both of them stand naked in the light of the stars pouring through the open window, looking at each other with lust-drunk eyes.

They didn't choose each other, she thinks. Not even when they said their vows and became husband and wife. That choice was made by their parents, for reasons that had nothing to do with them. If Cillian hadn't gotten sick and died, would she be standing here with him? Would she have spared more than a glance at the prince's surly bastard brother? Would she have found the strength to turn against her mother and plot against her under her own roof?

Daphne doesn't know the answer to that. Perhaps she never will. But she knows that even if it was the stars and her mother that led her here, with Bairre, this choice is hers. Theirs.

She reaches for him just as he reaches for her and they fall together, tumbling onto her bed in a tangle of kisses and limbs and laughter, the feeling of his body pressed against hers more intoxicating than an entire bottle of champagne. They choose each other with every kiss, touch, and stroke, pleasure building slowly until it crests, shattering through both of them, and they're left satiated and drained, dragged into a deep sleep still wrapped in each other's arms.