CRESCENTIA AND I DON’T SPEAK about what we saw in the week that follows the Kaiserin’s death. We also don’t talk about the conversation that preceded it, and I can’t help but wonder if it was all some kind of twisted nightmare. But that can’t be, because every morning I wake up and the Kaiserin is truly dead.
Only seconds after we found her, the guards came and questioned us, but we both knew better than to point fingers at the Kaiser.
We saw nothing, we told them, and they believed us without hesitation.
The court whispers that the Kaiserin finally succumbed to her madness and jumped, something most had been speculating about for years and a few had even been crass enough to place wagers on.
I heard that the Kaiser made the winning bet, but that’s only a rumor, albeit one that’s easy for me to believe.
The funeral was a quiet affair, one I wasn’t even invited to, though Cress was. She came to visit after and told me about how the Kaiserin’s body was displayed—clean, but just as broken as we’d found it. She told me that the Kaiser sat in the back of the chapel but left after only a few moments without giving the customary speech. Kalovaxian tradition says that those in mourning should shave their head, but he still wears his hair long, in the tradition of warriors, though it’s been decades since he was last in battle.
I try to hear any bitterness in Cress’s voice, any hint that the things we spoke of before have taken hold, but it’s as if she’s forgotten them completely. It may be a good thing. It may be that I was a fool to trust Cress, not because of who she is but because of how she was raised. This is the only world she knows, and though it’s a nightmare to me, it’s a world she is at home in. I suppose it’s easy to be at home in a world where you are on top. It’s easy not to notice those whose backs you stand on to stay there. One doesn’t even see them.
Blaise tries to ask me about what happened in the garden, but even though I can’t manage to be angry about our conversation at the maskentanz anymore, I’m not ready to talk to him again either. If I do, it will all come flooding out—the Kaiserin’s warning, the Kaiser’s leers, my feelings for Søren, my almost-confession to Cress. It’s better if he doesn’t know any of those things. Blaise protects me in his way, and I protect him in mine.
There is no word from the Kaiser, though I expect something is coming, some new game that I will have to learn the rules to before he begins to cheat. If the Kaiserin was right about the Kaiser wanting to marry me to cement his hold over Astrea, I can only think the proposal will be coming soon. The idea creeps into my nightmares and many of my waking thoughts. No matter how many times I bathe, how hard I scrub my skin with sponges and oils, I can’t erase the feel of his hands on me. Sometimes just before I drift off to sleep, I’m suddenly jerked awake, certain that I smell his sour breath again.
One day, when I wake up, my fingers close around something hard and hot under my pillow. The bottle of Encatrio, I realize, pulling it out. I left it in its usual place in my mattress, but someone must have moved it to remind me—as if I could have forgotten. I feel my Shadows watching but no one says anything. No one is surprised it’s there.
I should say something, I know I should, but I can’t muster a defense again. I know as well as they must that I’m running out of excuses.
Instead, I get out of bed, Encatrio in hand, and kneel down to push it back into the hole in the mattress, not saying a word about it.
It would be imprudent to poison Cress and the Theyn too hastily, I tell myself, just as I’ve told my Shadows countless times. If we slip up, the Kaiser will blame me and I’ll likely lose my head before Søren returns. Our plan will fall to pieces and it isn’t worth that. But I know that’s only a fraction of the truth. There is a much larger part of me that keeps playing my conversation with Cress in the garden over and over in my head, trying to imagine what might have happened if the Kaiserin hadn’t fallen at that moment, what Cress might have said.
I’m too afraid to bring it up again with her. I keep seeing the wary look on her face; I still hear her telling me that there is no changing the enslavement of the other Astreans. Still, there is a part of me that hasn’t yet given up hope that I’m wrong.
Every morning before Hoa comes in, I check the doorway for another note from Søren, but there is never one to find. He was due back a couple of days ago now, and while I figure this must mean Vecturia is still fighting, I can’t help but worry that he might not come back at all.
And what will he come back to if he does? A world suddenly bereft of his mother, the only person in this palace he loved. He never even got to say goodbye to her. I understand that more than I care to, which is why I decide to write him another letter.
I don’t tell my Shadows what I’m doing when I sit down at my desk—I can’t stand to have Artemisia breathe down my neck again. Not this time, when there is no hidden strategy to my words, no deceptions or subterfuge, just honesty.
Dear Søren,
I’m sure, by now, that word of your mother has reached you. I wish I could be there with you to provide whatever comfort I could. Your mother was a good woman and much stronger than I think most gave her credit for. We spoke for a few minutes that night, and she told me how proud she was of you and the man you had become. I know it isn’t much, but I hope that you take some measure of comfort in that. She loved you dearly, Søren.
If this letter is found, I’m sure the Kaiser will punish me severely for what I am about to say, but I think you need to hear it.
My mother was killed ten years ago, and I wish that I could tell you that it becomes easier over time, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I don’t think I will ever grow used to breathing in a world where my mother no longer does. I don’t think I will ever close my eyes at night without seeing her death all over again. I don’t think I will ever stop wanting to turn to her when I need advice or have questions. I don’t think I will ever stop feeling like there is a part of me missing.
First, you will not believe it. You’ll have to remind yourself often that she’s gone. And though you know better, part of you will still expect to see her greet your ship when you come home. She won’t, and I’m so sorry for that.
Next, you’ll grieve. It will take everything you have to get out of bed in the morning and continue with your life, but you’ll do it because that’s the kind of man you are. There are thousands depending on you right now, and you’re too good a leader to let this ruin you.
After that—or maybe even during it—you’ll become angry. You’ll be angry at the gods for taking her, you’ll be angry at your father and the court for driving her to madness in the first place, you may even be angry at me for witnessing it and being unable to stop it. It’s all right if you are, I understand.
If there is a step after anger, I haven’t yet found it.
Yours,
Thora
I start to roll the letter up, but as I do an idea strikes me and I freeze.
“If I tell Søren that the Kaiser killed his mother, it would be enough to make the divide between them permanent,” I say aloud, partially so my Shadows can hear me and partially so I can hear the words out loud myself. “He would be furious, enough so to act out against the Kaiser publicly.”
For a moment, no one says anything.
“How can you be sure?” Blaise asks finally.
“Because I’ll make him feel that he has no choice.”
I unfold the letter and dip my quill into the inkpot once more, the pieces of the plan falling into place. It feels inevitable, in a way, as easy as toppling a pyramid of fruit by removing just one piece.
As easy as driving a dagger through his heart? A voice whispers through my mind, but I try to ignore it. I knew it would come to this; it was my idea, even. It’s the only way I can see to retake Astrea, and I am not going to change my mind now because I care for Søren more than I thought I would.
The next day, I answer the door to find Elpis, sent to bring me to meet Crescentia for coffee. For a moment, I think about saying no, because every time I’m around her the guilt in my gut becomes too much to bear, but there is a part of me that always hopes and dreads that this will be the time we acknowledge what was said the night of the maskentanz.
“Just a moment,” I tell Elpis, my heart thudding in my chest. I leave her in the doorway before going back into my room, to my hiding place in the mattress to retrieve the vial of Encatrio. I’m not going to use it, but taking it should buy me some time with my Shadows, should show them that I’m willing to use it. I feel their eyes on me as I tuck it into the pocket of my gray brocade mourning gown. They give no sign of warning or encouragement—even Artemisia stays mercifully silent. Maybe they know as well as I do that it’s an empty gesture.
Elpis gives me a small smile when I meet her back at the door, and we start down the hall to the pavilion. There is little that can be said, since the halls are crowded with people. Still, having her close helps me focus. Elpis is why I’m doing all of this, why I’m playing a game I have a hard time imagining I can win, why I’m carrying a vial of poison in my pocket intended for my closest friend. Elpis, and all the people she represents, all the others who have been enslaved for as long as they can remember. All the others who are chained and beaten and hungry but still have the gall to dream of a better world. I will build it for them, but not with the bones of innocents.
We turn down an empty hallway that leads to the east wing of the palace. Talking is still too much of a risk, but as soon as she’s sure we’re alone, Elpis grabs my hand. Her fingers are all bone and another wave of guilt slams through me. I ate a five-course meal last night, but when was the last time she ate more than a bowl of broth?
She presses something into my palm before dropping her hand. When I look, there is a small, crumpled flower made of scraps of pink silk I recognize from one of Cress’s gowns. Each petal has been painstakingly cut and arranged around a single pearl no bigger than a freckle. The memory is there, but it slips through my fingers like smoke.
“Happy Belsiméra, Your Highness,” she murmurs, her smile rare and wide.
I close my palm over the flower and tuck it into my pocket and out of sight. My mother and I used to make dozens of silk flowers together for Belsiméra for those closest to us, though my tiny fingers were clumsy and most of my flowers turned out shapeless and unusable. She enlisted seamstresses to make hundreds more, enough for all the Guardians and the palace staff.
Belsiméra—the birthday of Belsimia, goddess of love and beauty. In the story my mother used to tell me, the earth goddess, Glaidi, always loathed the fall, when her flowers would die and her trees would grow skeletal. She mourned the loss of color in the world, the loss of beauty.
One year, when the season turned and Glaidi grew melancholy and distant, the water goddess, Suta, cheered her up by crafting a hundred flowers from silk and presenting them to her friend. When Glaidi saw them, she was so moved by the display of love and beauty that she began to weep tears of joy. One of the tears landed on one of the silk flowers, and from that bloom, Belsimia was born.
To celebrate Belsimia and the deep friendship that created her, we used to craft silk flowers and give them to friends and loved ones throughout the day. At night, there was a celebration in the capital, with dancing and sweets and silk flowers everywhere.
I remember making the flowers with my mother and passing them out to everyone who worked and lived in the palace. I remember the festival, when Ampelio scooped me up in his arms and swung me around in a dance until I was delirious with giggles. I remember it was my favorite night of the year, even more so than the ones with gifts.
“Thank you, Elpis,” I say, looking at the younger girl, whose cheeks flush pink. “I’m sorry, I don’t…” I trail off, biting my lip, embarrassed. “I’d forgotten.”
She nods, her eyes solemn. “We celebrate in the slave quarter still, but we have to do it very quietly. If anyone knew…” She shakes her head. “I wanted to give one to you. You’ll keep it hidden, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.”
I turn to start down the hall again, but Elpis touches my arm, stopping me.
“I need to do something,” she whispers.
“Elpis—” I start, but she interrupts.
“Anything, please,” she says. “I can help, if you’ll let me.”
Her dark eyes are so earnest that it’s easy to forget she’s only thirteen. In the old Astrea, she would still be considered a child.
“I need you to stay safe,” I tell her gently.
“But—”
“The time is coming,” I murmur in Astrean, casting a glance down the hall for anyone who might be listening. “I need your patience.”
She bites her lip and releases my arm. “I just want to help,” she says, sounding even younger than she is.
The desperation in her voice clutches at my heart. “You are helping,” I assure her. “You’ve already done so much.”
Her eyes dart up to mine, searching for any sign that I’m patronizing her. Finally she bows her head slightly.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” she says.
She doesn’t say the title the way the others do; there are no strings attached. I hold her full trust in my hands and it is a terribly fragile thing. I will not break it.