13. Paris

Clearly, the room had been recently used, and all of the pieces were falling together.

That harried, intimidating man had approached me in the camp. His dagger was tucked discreetly into one of my trunks, hidden away in my things because it'd felt so strange to walk around armed, and much stranger to ride for days next to people I was meant to be getting to know, with a dagger on my person that was meant to do them harm.

That man had said Brett killed his daughter.

At first, I'd thought Brett might be a madman—someone capable of hiding his insidious intentions behind general pleasantness. Honestly? Wicked people were usually better at hiding it and oilier than Brett was. At worst, he seemed... slightly uncomfortable. He stared too long, scowled at me sometimes, but he hadn't given me reason to think he meant me or anyone else harm.

It was hard to imagine him as a cold-blooded murderer.

So perhaps it was an accident. Sometimes, those in charge bore more responsibility for tragedies than was truly theirs. Something might've happened and the man who'd approached me couldn't forgive the world for the loss of his beloved daughter. He had to take his anger out on someone, and the world wasn't interested in his pain.

But never had I imagined that his daughter might've been... close to Brett. She'd lived there, in that very room I would sleep in. Her name had been Clio, and all of her things were still there.

Clearly, there was more to this story than I'd gotten from one heartbroken father, but I wasn't sure I had any right to ask. What happened in Nemeda didn't concern me. What happened to one clan out of a dozen? Concerned me even less.

Still, I couldn't help but be curious about the woman whose space I was occupying. What role had she served in this house and to Chief Brett?

That... shouldn't concern me either. So far, he had been reasonable and kind and patient, and I couldn't ask for more from my host.

Before I did anything else, I found the washbasin. It was empty, but there was a pitcher beside it, and I took that downstairs to find a water pump. I wasn't used to getting water myself, but it seemed I'd have to adjust to a lot while in Nemeda, and just because I had servants back home didn't mean I was ignorant to how things worked. When we played games outside, we'd go to the pumps ourselves and stick our heads under the spray to cool off.

After I'd freshened up for dinner, no one had called for me, so I turned to Clio's things.

For one reason or another, the people here had hesitated to touch them. I didn't mind it, but a strange somberness fell over me when I pulled her first dress from the wardrobe and folded it. The fabric was a fine quality, but even the dress smelled like her perfume and tickled right at the back of my nose.

I opened the window before folding the next dress.

I'd packed up half the wardrobe before I saw a small, red-covered book tucked into the corner of the wardrobe and picked it up.

It was a diary, written in Clio's sharp, concise hand. The words were tiny, all carefully tilted the same way as if she'd written a lot in her life.

A shivery, wrong feeling crawled up the back of my neck as I read the first entry—like I was eavesdropping or sneaking down the castle corridor late at night, trying to slip into Prince Tybalt's quarters without getting caught.

She'd written of her father, Memnon, and the Eagle Clan. From the way she wrote, he was their chief, though he didn't seem to share Brett's ethos when it came to pitching in.

No wonder she'd been given the finest room in her time here, but if the man who'd handed me that dagger was a Nemedan chief, there was more at stake than I'd realized.

He'd said that he could help me get home. Perhaps he really could, but the cost was so high. I couldn't?—

Shaking myself out of that horrid line of thinking, I turned the page. Clio in writing was... verbose. She seemed like the kind of person who wanted to catch her every thought and write it down, every single one being of equal and paramount importance.

It seemed lonely, to me, to write so much in a diary and keep it to yourself. I liked writing letters, but I'd never kept a book like this.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I flicked through the days, the weeks, the months, until Brett's name appeared:

Father's sending me to marry the Hawk. I will fucking die in that pig-shit hovel.

A knock on my door, and I jumped, shoving the book under the folded dresses stacked on the bed like I'd been caught with an erotic print. I sat up straight, sure my cheeks were red enough to give me away, even if my voice hadn't squeaked guiltily.

"Come in."

Rosaline opened the door, only sticking her head in. "Supper's ready, if you'd like to join us."

"Absolutely, yes. Thank you." I got up, straightening the green silk jacket I'd picked out. I liked green. It struck me as cheerful. Handsome. "Honestly, thank you for preparing everything. I've been amazed at what your people can pull together on the road, but I can't say how happy I'll be to sit at a table and eat a proper meal."

I followed her out into the corridor, shutting the door behind me.

"You were on the road for a while then?" she asked.

"A week. It wasn't so bad, but this is the farthest I've been from home, and... well, the longest I've been on my own." A rush of sadness came up from my stomach. I missed my family—Hector scowling at papers over tea and Helena leaning in to whisper gossip across the table and Father?—

My breath must've shaken and given me away. Rosaline reached out and slipped her arm through mine.

"Is this your first diplomatic mission then?"

I nodded.

"It must be hard," she said. "I hate when Brett's gone. This time was... awful. I was so worried about him. But you have nothing to worry about. Your family's safe in Urial, and you're perfectly safe here."

"Of course." I smiled, because it was impossible to cast doubt on my safety when Rosaline seemed so assured of it. Surely, she'd take it as an insult. "I do appreciate your hospitality. I wonder if—if you'd know of anything I could offer Nemeda that would see a treaty agreed to quickly?"

"Oh." Rosaline's brow furrowed a moment. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know, but I'm sure Brett will help you if he's able."

I wasn't as sure about that. Wasn't the whole purpose of negotiation to get all that you could for your people while avoiding giving anything you didn't have to? It wouldn't be in Brett's best interest to work with me too eagerly, and I knew, if I didn't procure an agreement beneficial to Urial, King Albany would never let me come home.

"He seems wise and fair," I said, swallowing any doubts. "I'm sure you're right."