“It’s pretty awful,” Mara agrees. “I’m going to make sure Mena didn’t slip by the Guards again. I’ll be there for the procession, Red, cheering you on.”
“Thank you.”
After she leaves, Rosario settles beside me on the bed so that we are shoulder to shoulder. “I think it’s perfect,” he says.
“You do?”
“We match,” he says, indicating his suit. He wears off-white trimmed in gold, with all the medals and seals of his station pinned to his chest. “Besides,” he continues, “once you wear that thing in public, everyone will finally understand the truth: You are younger than I am.”
“It’s good to have ambition, little brother.”
It’s been a mock argument between us ever since that day, almost eight years ago, when Elisa brought me home from the mountains and introduced me to her seven-year-old prince—who immediately declared himself in charge.
“You’re wearing the Queen’s Star,” I say, indicating the golden star with an inset ruby hanging from his lapel.
He grimaces. “The seneschal is going to announce it. The Quorum thinks it’s best to remind everyone that I’m a hero”—he sneers out the word—“as I walk you down the aisle.”
“I’m sorry.” The Battle of Brisadulce took place a year before I became a member of court. But Rosario and Elisa have told me all about it, so I know the Queen’s Star is one of Rosario’s greatest treasures. He hates having it used as a commodity, as though it cheapens his accomplishment along with all the tragedy of that day.
“Anyway, I brought you something,” he says, reaching into a pocket. “Since this will be the first actual birthday you celebrate, it seems right that someone should give it to you.”
“Oh?” I peer at the object in his hand, but he holds it tight, not yet ready to reveal it.
“Every royal child receives this on their first birthday, you see. It’s a long tradition, and you should be part of it.”
“Well, that’s very thoughtful of—”
He opens his hand and exposes a slender stem of marble topped with a golden ball. It looks like a tiny dagger, or maybe a letter opener, but with rounded edges and a jeweled hilt.
Rosario gives it a gentle shake, which causes it to jangle softly. Either the hilt or the golden ball is hollow.
“I . . . what is it?”
Rosario’s grin is like the sun spilling over the sea. “It’s a baby rattle. For my baby sister.”
I consider pretending to be offended, but a giggle escapes before I can stop it.
“And look!” he says, “When your baby teeth finally grow in you can bite, like this.” He pantomimes biting down on the rattle. “Gold is very soft, you know. We’ll polish out the tooth marks every few months. Any jeweler here in Brisadulce can do it for you.”
“Well.” I grab the rattle and give it a shake. “Let it never be said that I don’t follow the traditions of my adopted country!” I hold it up to the light, which sheens against the golden ball. This tiny bauble is worth more than everything I owned during the first decade of my life all put together.
“I’m not funning you,” Rosario says, more solemn now. “Well, not entirely. A jewel rattle really is a traditional gift among the nobility, and if you look there”—he points—“you can see a clasp. Flick that, and the rattle will open. Inside are a few tiny gemstones. Nothing much, but enough to help if you’re ever in trouble. The baby-rattle tradition honors a child’s first birthday, but it’s meant to be an inheritance too. So . . . welcome to the family, I guess?”
I give the rattle another shake. “I don’t care what everyone says. You’re actually very sweet.” I lean over and give his cheek a peck with my lips. “Thanks, little brother.”
We chat for a while about nothing in particular, in the way of easy friends with nothing to prove, waiting for the monastery bells to ring the hour. Even though I’m expecting the sound, when the bells finally peal, I startle hard, my heart jumping into my throat as my whole body jolts.
Rosario gives me an understanding look. “That was a bad one,” he says calmly.
I nod, even as I close my eyes a moment to focus on my breathing. Everything in me wants to flee or lash out at someone, even though it makes no sense. I’m home. Surrounded by people I love. It was just bells ringing.
Rosario stands, reaching for my hand. “Ready? Or do you need more time?”
I allow him to yank me up.
“Good. Our Royal Guard contingent is just outside the door.”
Once I’m a princess, I’m not to venture anywhere without them.
He squeezes my hand. “You get used to having them around, I promise.” He lets go and reaches for the door, saying, “They’re good company. Completely loyal to Elisa and the family, not to mention the greatest warriors in the empire. I sleep easier, thanks to them.”
Sleep. The prince knows how bad I am at it, just like he knows how easily I startle.
Rosario opens the door to my suite, and sure enough, four Royal Guardsmen stand outside, wearing the flowing red capes and shining steel of ceremonial armor. One steps forward, striking his chest with a fist. “Your Highnesses,” he acknowledges.
“Fernando, it’s a little premature to address me that way,” I tell him with a smile. One of the things I’ve learned while training for court these last few years is how to appear serene even when my heart is racing and my legs are twitching to run.
Fernando grins back. He has a weathered face, an easy smile, and forearms like tree trunks. He’s Elisa’s best archer—maybe the best in the empire—and he has always been kind to me. “Just practicing,” he says. “Ready? The empress, her family, and the Quorum of Five are already in place.”
“Lady Mara?”
“Rushing Princess Ximena to the audience hall. I understand there was a minor pomegranate jam incident, but the crisis seems to have been averted.”
I take Rosario’s proffered elbow. “Let’s go,” I say, in a voice I don’t quite recognize as my own.
The double doors leading to the audience hall have never seemed so massive. Noise filters through them—the buzz of conversation, a lively band of vihuelas, the click of heeled boots on tile. Nearly a thousand people are gathered on the other side of those doors, all come to watch my adoption ceremony.
The seneschal stands ready to open them, flanked by two palace guards armed with long ceremonial spears. He’s been at court my whole life, growing smaller and grayer with age, though his booming voice remains as magnificent as ever.
“Ready, my dear?” he says, with such a look of pity that I’m suddenly suspicious.
“I . . .” Maybe Mara cinched my bodice too tightly after all. How can I be expected to breathe in such a thing?
Rosario’s hand squeezes my elbow. “It’s going to be fine,” he whispers.
I inhale deeply through my nose, relax my neck and shoulders, ground myself to the earth. It’s a trick Hector taught me, a way to find my “fighting calm.” Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts, he always says.
But I must have said it aloud, because the Royal Guardsmen whisper their motto right back at me, “Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.”