[ Asterion ] Book One, Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Ocari’s office was no sanctuary. They had made the fatal, unavoidable mistake of telling Rosa to stay away from the princess’ chambers, and Finley would not know peace for long. Easing the door open, she checked the corridor was clear and ran for the exit. She took no care to avoid the crystals, letting the abrupt darkness cloak her.

Outside, her breath fogged up the air, white as the newly fallen snow. She’d grabbed a coat on her way out. It wasn’t hers. Yda’s, if she was lucky. She pulled it tightly around her shoulders and hurried across the palace grounds, sunrise hours away.

Finley found her way through the pitch black of the temple by touch, muscle-memory designed for devotion. She kept a store of candles in a box by the monolith, and lit each from the other’s wick, placing them purposefully around the temple in a private ritual.

She sat on one of the central pews. It was an old, wooden bench and would long serve its purpose, so long as the temple remained dry. She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling the candles barely touched. She didn’t cry. Couldn’t. She’d skipped breakfast and had done little more than prod at her dinner. There was a hollow space inside her, but if she attempted to fill it, it would only crush all she offered to the void within to a singular, insignificant speck of dust.

“Do you know what the worst thing about this is?” Finley asked aloud, surprised by how hoarse her voice was. “You probably would’ve found it funny. If I could come home and tell you, you would’ve laughed. I think you have the same sense of humour as her. That’s probably why her horse liked you.”

Finley faltered, knee bouncing. She pulled her amulet over her head, holding the owl tight in her grasp. The only peace left to her came from speaking to Willow in that place they had shared, but Finley could not shake the sharp prickles of shame shimmering across the back of her neck at the thought of being overheard.

But so few people came to the temple, and none of them in the dark of morning.

“What am I getting angry for? What am I causing a fuss over? I’m not defending you, I’m not honouring your memory. You wouldn’t want this. I’m just… digging myself deeper. Trying to cling to every little bit of outrage, like it’ll bring me closer to you.”

Finley rubbed the bridge of her nose. Not crying was drawing a thunderous headache close, but it had been months since she could summon the relief of tears. She had cried out all good, true parts of herself and her grief in that first year following Willow’s death.

“I just wish—”

The door groaned open behind her. The wind slipped in, toying with the fluttering candlelight.

And what a blessing that was. Wishing only led to stark, paralysing revelations of her own inadequacies. She was a foil in all ways, utterly passive, blotting out all that shone.

She turned in her seat, not understanding what she saw by candlelight.

In time, the shadowed shape of Rydal closed the door behind itself.

“Hi,” they said.

“Hi,” Finley said, so confused her voice very nearly sounded normal.

Rydal walked lightly down the aisle and shuffled onto the bench beside Finley. They did not wear armour, but dressed as a Sinite might in their day-to-day life. Loose, rough clothing, mostly dark. Nothing that glimmered like the Thisia fashions, tunics reaching their knees, boots a series of tough, leather straps.

The coat that hung around them was large and shapeless, unflattering to the form.

It suited them.

“What are you doing here?” Finley remembered to ask.

Rydal gestured to the monolith, stone shifting through fluid, incomprehensible vessels of divinity. What other reason was there to come to a temple? Finley knew nothing of Sinite worship. Perhaps it was more common, there, perhaps it was something other than an old-fashioned eccentricity.

Yet she had trouble imagining Rydal as a paragon of their people, as the pulse of Sine.

Finley loosened her hands from the amulet and passed it to Rydal.

“Deimos,” she said.

Rydal lifted the amulet close to their face, taking in every spine of every feather inscribed upon the owl. They held it up, first alongside the monolith, comparing the two, and then stared only at the monolith, imagining all the divinity of the universe, all the power of creation and the echoing chamber of time, as the nocturnal owl, stood where the monolith once was.

“Your family’s?” Rydal asked.

Finley shook her head.

“My late fiancée’s,” she said. And more than the impossibility of having found someone who understood divinity and prayer, Finley was grateful to speak of Willow with someone who did not know her, who had not seen what her death had done to her. Rydal had never known the Finley that came before the grief and did not expect anything of her. “I didn’t understand it, at first. Praying, devotion. Putting faith in the hands – talons – of a god. The whole universe is divine. There are no gods. Everyone knows that! And why would any god care about humanity above all else? But I was in love, and I thought I was humouring her.

“But she was humouring me. She was letting me believe that my scepticism was real. I didn’t have to change any of my beliefs: the whole universe is divine, and there are no gods. But if the universe is divine and we are part of that universe, then our divinity shapes the gods.

“There are gods because we are here, and we are here because of the gods. It’s how we understand ourselves, how we make ourselves part of the dirt and the stars. I think. Maybe. I haven’t even been doing this for a decade.”

“Sure,” Rydal said, nodding slowly.

They placed the amulet of Deimos on their knee and unbuttoned their coat about the throat. Bowing their head forward, they freed their own amulet, hanging from a rough cord. They handed it to Finley, never looking away from the monolith.

Finley cradled it in her palms, treating it as the true gift it was. It had taken almost a year for Willow to trust Finley with Deimos, to offer out her god. She had wanted to be sure that Finley knew its worth, yet Rydal saw their piety reflected in Finley. Her heart pushed into her throat. She was not merely playing at worship to keep Willow’s memory close; it was a core part of herself.

A cat graced Rydal’s pendant. Its head depicted on one side, its whole body on the other. It was tabbied, prominent stripes running from its eyes, poised like a creature who knew its own divinity.

“It’s beautiful,” Finley said, holding the pendant up to the monolith as Rydal had.

A cat sat on the plinth, surrounded by candles lit in its honour.

“Asterion,” Rydal said. “They’re my family’s god.”

The cat flicked its tail, feigning patience with humanity.

“I can’t imagine having something like this from birth. It’s very special,” Finley said. “Thank you for sharing Asterion with me.”

She handed Rydal their pendant and took her own back.

The monolith was all plain stone again, and always had been.

They sat in silence. Rydal’s arm pressed to hers. It was not like having Willow back, nothing could be, but companionship in the temple was something that could exist in its own separate right. It was something Finley had missed, and it was not something Willow could be replaced in; a congregation could only ever be added to.

Finley’s mind fell calm, quiet. She had no questions for Rydal, whether about Asterion or the Sinite delegation and their reasons for demanding a visit to Sunspire. She leant against Rydal, only slightly, and they did not object to that pressure.

The door groaned open again. They both turned, startled out of their silent contemplation, but it was not another worshipper. There was Ocari, knowing where to find Finley though she had left no note, soft light of sunrise behind them.

Finley and Rydal had lost track of time in the temple.

Seeing that Ocari would not speak in their presence, Rydal placed their amulet around their neck and got to their feet. They placed a hand on Finley’s shoulder, touch saying all they needed to, but still said, “Sorry about your dead girl.”

Finley breathed easily for the first time all morning. She patted the back of Rydal’s hand, letting them leave.

Ocari remained in the doorway, not entering either out of respect or discomfort.

“What a morning. Never thought I’d get away with talking to the princess like that,” Ocari said, smiling wryly.

All at once, it occurred to Finley that she had been ridiculous, demanding, childish. She had forced Ocari to defend her when her defences had worn away years ago. She did not need the princess to know that she had hurt her, only accept her own hurt for what it was, and surely she was not so very self-absorbed that she could not remain at the woman’s side for a few more weeks.

What would it be to her but an inconvenience?

“Sorry, Ocari. Sorry. I’m fine now, really. I worked myself up and Yda wasn’t the best person to go to with it. I mean, she is the best person to talk to Willow about, they were friends for years, but I think we upset each other more than anything. I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble,” Finley said.

Ocari clicked their tongue.

“Don’t let the princess hear you talking like that. Hell, don’t let me hear you saying things like that again. She knows what she’s done. She says you never have to go back there, not if you don’t want to,” Ocari said.

Finley straightened in the pew. The metal of Deimos rested warm in her palm.

That was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? To return to the gardens, to sink into the work she was good at, the gruelling, physical labour that left her no time to think of anything but the soil on her hands or the ache in her back. She did not want all these hours of contemplation, for the nights were long enough already. She wanted to go back to her old life, but that old life had been so much more than groundskeeping.

“And if I want to?” Finley asked.

She was afraid to fail. Afraid to give up on the one thing that was so natural to her, the powers that came without her demanding them, without her wanting them. If she could not be a foil, if she could not stand by crystals and mute their magic, she could not be herself. She could not be anything.

“You’re too forgiving, Fin,” Ocari said, unsurprised. “She’d like to talk to you, if that’s any consolation. She’s dancing around the idea of saying sorry, but her heart’s in it.”

Finley nodded. She put her amulet around her neck, tucked it beneath her shirt, and followed Ocari from the grounds. She could not say what she expected from Princess Alexandria, much less what she wanted. Not to defend herself, nor to defend Willow. Certainly not for her grief to be acknowledge, for it hurt to think of Willow that way; not as her fiancée, her future wife, but as a loss that would never lessen, though all else would be forced to grow around it.

Outside the princess’ chambers, Finley realised she was still wearing someone else’s coat. It had not been lent to her, not as Princess Alexandria’s was. Ocari noticed the discomfort, knew it for what it was, and held out an arm.

Finley shrugged her way out of the coat. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, for she had never intended to return here. She wore her own clothes, barely suitable for gardening, and didn’t remember brushing her hair.

Ocari knocked, once, loud.

Princess Alexandria called for them to enter.

Ocari opened the door, ushered Finley inside, and closed it behind her. They were alone, Finley and the princess.

Princess Alexandria was the picture of royal poise. She dressed in a high-collared doublet, interlocking patterns of loose diamonds running down both sides, each holding some small leaf or flower within them. Her hair was loose, brushed to a shine, and Finley found it endlessly bizarre that the princess had undoubtably gone to such efforts for her. 

“Finley,” Princess Alexandria said. “Sit down. You look terrible.”

She said it not to mock, but to take responsibility. Finley fell onto one of the settees, hands folded in her lap, and kept her gaze on the flowers lining the coffee table as Princess Alexandria paced her chambers.

“Undoubtedly, you have had countless people tell you how sorry they are for your loss. I will not waste your time with something so rote, so meaningless,” she began, in time. “When I called Rhodes’ death – Willow’s, that is, I never called her by her first name – an inconvenience, it was, in its way, a compliment. She was a fine groom. Uniquely talented. She had a way with horses anyone would envy, as I am certain you well knew.

“I was… I was fond of Rhodes. Of your fiancée. I will not say we were friends, for I was in a position of power over, yet I remember congratulating her the day I learnt she was engaged. I was sincerely happy for her. I made no connection between you and her, but—”

Here the princess paused. She stopped her pacing and cleared her throat.

“I put my own loss before yours. I did not even think of your feelings in the moment. And the unfortunate thing is, Finley, that if you do condescend to work with me again, I cannot promise that the sort will never happen again. I have a reputation for it, do I not? I speak my mind, and I do not know how to let my honesty take root in compassion. But my faults are not yours to concern yourself with.

“My point in all this is that I appreciated Rhodes, both as a groom and a person, and I felt the loss of her deeply.”

Finley stared at the princess. She allowed herself to look at her without restraint, without humbling herself into the flattened husk of an obliging servant. Princess Alexandria met her gaze and was the first to drop it.

“I think this is your idea of an apology,” Finley said, in time.

“It is,” Princess Alexandria said, a little proud of herself.

“Are you going to say it? Are you actually going to say sorry?”

A flash of anger, of incredulity, crossed the princess’ face, soon doused by the sobriety of the moment.

“Am I going to say sorry? Did I not just pour my very heart out to you, Finley?” she asked. Finley did not speak a word. “Very well. I apologise for my words. Is that more sufficient?”

And Finley laughed, breaking the terse atmosphere around her, because Willow would have laughed. At this, at the initial slight. She knew how to hold herself in the presence of royalty, but she had never compromised who she was.

“It is. Willow liked you, you know? She used to tell me all about her days with you, how you had the stablehands tripping over themselves with nothing more than a sharp look, and how you truly cared for the horses. She used to ride with you, just like I did, didn’t she?”

Princess Alexandria nodded. A thread of a smile worked its way to the corner of her mouth, clouded by the distance of time and buried memories.

“Yes. She was a fine woman, and I—well, I claimed I wouldn’t say it, but I truly am sorry for your loss, Finley.”

“Thank you.”

Princess Alexandria sat on the settee opposite Finley, silent, for a time.

At last, she said, “I will make good on my word. You are free to leave, to return to your duties beyond the palace walls, should you wish.”

Finley had not expected an out. She had not yet been in the princess’ service long enough to consider it a part of her life, and should she walk out of that room, she would not believe any of it had happened. Not to her, not to Finley the foil, the gardener.

She would not speak with the princess ever again. Worse still, returning to her old position would only prove how impossible it was to return to her old life.

Her life with Willow.

“And if I don’t want to?” Finley asked.

“Then the pair of us ought to call for breakfast.”

Breakfast was a strange affair, though not entirely uncomfortable. Finley and the princess remained where they were, sat across from another, both tending to their meals as Rosa fluttered around the room, setting things straight. She paused whenever she was out of Princess Alexandria’s view to catch Finley’s eye, but Finley could not tell if there was scorn in her expression or she simply found the situation hilarious.

One thing was for certain. Finley was famished, having not eaten since lunch time the day before, and she managed two-thirds of her plate before leaning back on the settee, full to the point of fatigue. Princess Alexandria scanned through the morning’s letters as she ate, already hard at work, and it was not long before they relocated to the library.

The princess took meetings. Finley allowed herself to browse a small selection of the books on offer before making a choice, and settled herself in the familiar armchair, facing the window. Tiny specks of snow, almost impossible to make out against the broad, white sky, fluttered past, but the library was warm, the occasional stretches of silence pleasant.

The first man Princess Alexandria met with was a merchant, eager for an exception to the taxes that came with goods crossing the Sinite border. He argued that since he was taking goods into Sine, it was only fair he was compensated by those he was benefitting with his wares. He was summarily dismissed and informed he would pay whatever taxes the Sinites saw fit.

Next came a tall woman, well-spoken and overly familiar with the princess. She continuously alluded to past meetings, at which Princess Alexandria only hummed, and suggested they discuss things somewhere more private, should the princess be interested in hearing what she thought had really happened with the crystals.

Princess Alexandria let her rattle on until her next meeting, thanked her for her time, and began speaking with a red-faced farmer before the woman had left her seat.

The afternoon was quieter. Finley made it a third of the way through a forgettable novel before the princess called on her.

“Come here, won’t you, and help me with this,” Princess Alexandria said, not looking up from her desk.

Finley left her book open in her seat and dragged her feet over to the desk.

Princess Alexandria slid over the evening menu, more elaborate than any Finley had seen before, and pushed an inkwell her way.

“You want me to pick your dinner for you?” Finley asked.

“It has recently come to my attention that if the cooks are putting in the effort to prepare and present such extravagant options for me, the least I can do is actually make a choice,” the princess said.

“How recently?”

“Just pick an option. It isn’t difficult.”

“Then why do you need my help?”

Princess Alexandria scowled, slid the menu under her open book, and waved Finley away.

“You are abhorrently useless.”

Finley left, albeit only so far as the other side of the desk. She sat opposite the princess, elbows on the desk.

“There are a lot more options than usual. A lot more courses,” Finley remarked.

“Indeed there are. Do you not recall my aunt inviting me to dinner yesterday? I am obligated to socialise, which means you share the same fate. How terribly exciting for you, Finley. It will be your first royal feast.”

Finley shuffled back in her seat.

“Why do I need to be there? My powers work through walls!” Finley protested.

“Nonsense. I am doing you a favour, Finley, truly. My dear aunt will want to personally thank you for services rendered, and we’d do well to get everything over and done with in one fell swoop. Would you rather endure a private family meal with an ally at your side, over in all of an hour or two, or attend a celebration in your honour?”

“I, well—Wait. Who’s my ally?”

Princess Alexandria stared at Finley, sighed heavily, and leant back in her seat.

“Oh. Oh! If those are really my only options…” Finley said, holding out a hand for the menu. Her eyes slid off the choices, not all of the words Thisia. “Would she really do that? Would Lady Delphine really make a whole—event out of it? Queen Briar didn’t, and neither did you.”

“Because I am kind and benevolent, and because Briar cares not for the peasantry,” Princess Alexandria said, coming to two conclusions for one shared action. “And I cannot say, in truth. My aunt misses the days when she wore the crown, which is why she is so often trekking the continent on diplomatic visits. Funny that she always visits Iterae when the new wines are freshly bottled. Regardless, I wouldn’t put it past her to indulge in a little impromptu entertainment in her own land.”

Finley hummed. The princess was sitting a little too rigid in her seat. If Finley was bold enough to make a guess, she might’ve said that Princess Alexandria was looking for an ally for the evening.

“Alright. What does this say?” Finley asked, pointing to one of the options.

“I thought you could read.”

“What does it mean?”

“Ah. Pretentious wording for a thick, tomato-based sauce. I thought you were close friends with the royal cook. Does she not teach you anything?”

“When we talk about food, she says things like a thick, tomato-based sauce. Not—not whatever this is.”

“It’s Katerean. Coincidentally, we get most of our tomatoes from there. The best ones, anyway.”

Finley hummed, ticking the box by the discussed dish. She’d had tomatoes before, and how bad could anything Yda oversaw the making of be? Princess Alexandria took the menu, made a note on it, and had it sent back to the kitchens.

Finley was dismissed to change. She took only one wrong turn on her way down to her quarters. A few familiar faces tried stopping her, asking what this morning was all about, but Finley said she was there at the princess’ orders and wriggled free of all conversations. She poked her head into Ocari’s office, thanking them for their help, and they waved her away with a grunt.

Finley washed her face and hands, changed into her upstairs uniform, and brushed her hair through, tying it back. She had only a wooden brush and no mirror to look in, and usually, it did not trouble her.

Usually, Finley was not heading to dinner with the present and former queen of Thisia.

The threat of the princess’ ire was the only thing that stopped her lingering. She accompanied Princess Alexandria to her chambers, where she too changed for dinner. Each of her outfits were so finely made, so perfectly tailored to her, that Finley could not imagine what made one more suited to a formal dinner than any other.

“Don’t dawdle, Finley. Now isn’t the time for cold feet,” Princess Alexandria said, taking the corridors at a pace most people would consider a jog. “We shall get this over and done with, and then I can return to taking dinner in my own chambers for, oh, the next month or so. Do not worry. If my aunt asks how I am treating you, you are free to tell her I am a tyrant, and that you would rather have been promoted to mucking out the stables. You need not lie to her.”

Truth and lies did not come into it. Finley could not imagine saying anything to Queen Briar or Lady Delphine, much less expressing an opinion.

The dining room, one of countless in the palace, was both large and intimate. The palace’s signature high windows graced the room, a fire crackled in a hearth, creating more of an atmosphere than a crystal ever could, and the table, good for eight people at a push, was surrounded by swathes of empty space.

Queen Briar and her mother were already seated and had been for some time, judging from their expressions. Princess Alexandria bowed her head and apologised for running late, though she had spent at least half an hour in her chamber moving cushions around the settees and occupying herself with maids’ tasks to keep busy.

“Ah. Wonderful, I see you’ve four places set. Here, Finley,” Princess Alexandria said, pulling out one of the high-backed chairs. “I feared you might ignore my request.”

“It was rather unusual one,” Queen Briar said without looking at Finley.

There was a clear family resemblance between them. The queen’s hair was cut short, hanging just above her shoulders, but they had the same nose, the same propensity to frown. When Finley took the proffered seat, she half-bowed on the way down, hoping there was respect enough in the motion.

“It was, but our young foil – Finley, isn’t it? – has had a rather unusual last week, from my understanding,” Lady Delphine said, smiling at Finley. “We owe you a great debt of thanks. Not only did you protect my niece, but you saw to it that Prince Iyden lived, giving Sine no pretence for aggressions against us. I cannot imagine what I would have returned to, had you not been there.”

“It was nothing. Just luck, really—being in the right place at the right time,” Finley said, rigid in her seat. “But I’m glad I could help, Your Majesty.”

Lady Delphine smiled. She reached for her wine glass and held it up in a silent toast, before drinking deep from it.

“Did you bring this back from Iterae?” Princess Alexandria asked, immediately reaching for her own glass.

They began discussing the wine in terms Finley didn’t understand. They fell into conversation easily, both passionate about a shared interest, and Finley clung to every confusing word, praying the discussion would not end. Praying she would not have to say another word.

Queen Briar stared at Princess Alexandria, jaw set. Finley could tell the queen was not pleased she was there, intruding on the family meal, but Finley did not think it was because of her. The princess was using her as a shield, hoping to avoid some sensitive topic with her cousin.

Dinner was brought in. It was a wonderful distraction. The meat was a sort Finley had never had before, complimenting the rich, tomato sauce it was cooked in perfectly, representing the best of Yda’s work.

“Have we heard anything more from Prince Iyden?” Princess Alexandria asked. “Surely his recovery must be a certain thing at this point, and I, for one, would appreciate it if he had the decency to at least allude to why he is here.”

“I spoke with the prince this morning. He’s still in terrible shape,” Lady Delphine said. “I can’t imagine how gruesome it must have been, when first he was brought to the infirmary. Utterly dreadful. I believe we can extend a little more patience with him.”

“Whatever for? The man must be bored out of his skull, lying in that bed day after day, surrounded by Sinite sycophants. Did he lose his fingers? Can he not write a formal letter outlining the matter? Failing that, can his pretty knight not deliver the news on his behalf?”

Queen Briar put down her cutlery, took the napkin from her lap, and dabbed the corners of her mouth.

“Don’t be obtuse, Alexandria, and please don’t entertain your foil at my expense. As I am sure you are perfectly aware, this was an obvious attempt on my life. The Sinites have no reason to be here beyond that; the announcement Prince Iyden wishes to make is all a ruse,” the queen said.

“On your life? The second explosion would’ve had to level the entire palace to get to you,” Princess Alexandria said.

“I was supposed to be there, cousin. You took my place at the last moment.”

“Mm, it was a punishment, wasn’t it? For not attending you little ball, or some such,” the princess said, taking hearty bites of her meal. “Can we forego the paranoia? If the Sinites were responsible for the explosion, why would Price Iyden have wandered so close to the crystal? No, no, don’t tell me—it’s a two royals, one crystal situation. Clearly the Princess Rada put this all into motion, wanting to take out both a foreign monarch and competition for Sine’s throne.”

“Alexandria, darling, I think we ought to explore all possibilities, no matter how—” Lady Delphine tried.

“Or the prince is in possession of the true, barbaric Sinite nature, and was so eager to pry his kingdom from Thisia’s loving grasp that he sacrificed himself to take out my dear cousin, giving his homeland plausible deniability. That must be it. Why don’t we make the arrest now, hm?”

Princess Alexandria finished her wine, eyes fixed on Queen Briar’s.

“Will you not be serious for a moment? I know you’ve no respect for me, but have some respect for our kingdom. That is what I’m trying to protect, not myself,” the queen said.

“Briar, dear, your cousin has nothing but respect for you. That’s why she’s able to speak so freely around you, even if her tone doesn’t quite match the severity of the situation,” Lady Delphine interjected once more.

“No. She’s right,” Princess Alexandria said. “I have not a jot of respect for her and her throne-snatching ways.”

Finley kept her eyes on her plate, her mouth full of food. If she chewed and chewed and chewed, no one could call on her opinion, and she would not blurt out anything unfortunate. Queen Briar, now red in the face, shot one look Finley’s way, took a deep breath, and tried to centre herself.

“You cannot remain bitter about this for all eternity, cousin. It’s been four years! Our father made the best decision for Thisia and took no small amount of guilt to his grave. You of all people ought to understand the gravity of that,” the queen said through grit teeth.

“My father, your uncle-slash-step-father,” Princess Alexandria clarified.

Finley could not conjure up a single reason why she had wanted to remain the princess’ foil. Freedom had been offered to her short hours ago, and she would not have denied it, had she known what the evening held for her.

“At least,” Queen Briar said as a last line of defence, her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “I am doing my royal duty.”

“By not almost being blown to pieces by a wayward crystal? Perhaps I ought to turn my suspicion onto you, cousin. Though I doubt you would wish to be rid of me, considering I so handily keep the country running from the shadows.”

“You. You—” Queen Briar said, pointing across the table, even as her mother hushed her, promising this was all a misunderstanding. “Do not speak to me of keeping this kingdom running. You were supposed to have produced an heir by now, Alexandria. You gave me your word.”

Finley bit the inside of her cheek, doing all she could not to choke on the mouthful of food.

“That doesn’t sound like something I would do,” the princess simply said. “Produce your own heir, Your Highness.”

Princess Alexandria took her napkin, wiped her mouth, and pushed her plate to the centre of the table. She got to her feet, adjusted her collar, and said her goodbyes to her aunt. Finley scrambled to her feet.

“I’m sorry, Alexandria. I so wanted this to be an opportunity to catch up, but it’s natural tensions are high after such a terrifying attack on our home, on our sense of safety,” Lady Delphine said. “Don’t be too hard on your cousin. She’s working harder than you will ever know, and she does make a fair point. The royal bloodline must continue. You’ve always known this. Oh, but we’ll talk about it another time. Soon, but not now.”

Wordlessly, Queen Briar poured herself another glass of wine. Princess Alexandria grunted in her aunt’s general direction, marched out of the room, and Finley darted after her, bowing as she slipped out of the door as it swung shut.

Princess Alexandria took wide strides back to her chambers, taking the steps two at a time. Finley hurried after her, fairly certain there was tomato around her mouth, and almost ran into the princess’ back when she abruptly stopped at the top of the first staircase.

“You. Pretend you heard none of that. Forget it all,” Princess Alexandria said. “God. I was certain my cousin would not bring up such things around you. Tenacious woman. Has she no shame?”

Finley held up her hands, nodding and nodding.

She’d been right. Queen Briar and Lady Delphine had no intention of thanking Finley for her instinctive stint of debatable bravery, but Princess Alexandria had wanted her there as a distraction, a bulwark against sensitive topics.

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably, but she found she did not resent the princess for using her. Not entirely. Queen Briar and Lady Delphine had sat across from her, unified, of the same mind, and Princess Alexandria was left to fend for herself.

The Princess slammed her chamber doors behind her. Finley curled her toes in her boots. The princess paced the room, muttering to herself, face flushed with wine, with anger. Finley stood statue-still, hands flat at her sides, and stared at a fixed point across the room.

“Absolutely ridiculous. Claiming it was an assassination,” Princess Alexandria muttered to herself. “Anything that gives her an excuse to inch towards Sine, I suppose. What do you think, Finley? Do we have a potential annexation on our hands?”

Finley, instructed to forget all she had heard, said, “I’m not sure what that means, princess.”

“Of course you don’t,” the princess said, clicking her tongue.

“Maybe you could speak to Sir Kiln about this sort of thing?” Finley said.

The suggestion stopped Princess Alexandria in her tracks. She openly gawked at Finley, placed a hand on her forehead and stared at the ceiling, as if asking the heavens for help.

Help did not come. The chandelier above rattled. The music came after, as though it had further to reach so high in the palace, almost lost to the slow, deep cracking sound of crystals splintering above.

“Wonderful,” Princess Alexandria muttered. “Well? Don’t just stand there, Finley! Chop-chop.”

Finley shook off the song, the marrow-splitting reach of the unintelligible words, and made it a single step forwards before the one of the crystals ruptured into lightning-quick shards. The vanity mirror shattered, one of the settees was pierced straight through, and the princess lost all pretence of self-command.

She had inexplicably jumped onto the coffee table below the chandelier. Finley hurried to her side, gripped her shoulder, and pressed the sole of a boot to the princess’ knitted fingers.

“God. You look like you weight little enough,” Princess Alexandria complained, face plastered to Finley’s hip as she boosted her higher. “Can you reach them? I rather wouldn’t be run through like that poor cushion.”

“Not quite—” Finley said, holding the princess’ shoulder tight, stretching her fingers another fraction of an inch. “But they’re muted. They’re not going to explode, not with me here.”

The music was gone. Princess Alexandria’s heavy breathing filled the chamber.

“Well. Let’s not take any chances, shall we?” Princess Alexandria said, looking up at Finley, hair plastered to her side. “One would think this evening had been dreadful enough already, but I suppose we might as well embarrass ourselves in front of the guards to round things off.”

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