‘Act sad,’ I hissed, before a footman opened the carriage door.
My aunt, now the Dowager Queen Jienne, hadn’t liked me after I was named heir, but was clever enough to stay cautiously civil. Secretly, I knew Mother was right – Jienne had now lost her power, why would she welcome us? As we followed servants to Uncle’s rooms, I was absurdly grateful for Mother’s black-edged purple armbands – ‘The one item that never goes out of fashion,’ she’d muttered in the carriage, her eyes sad – so whatever our private feelings, at least our grief looked respectable.
I didn’t feel respectful. I felt out of my depth: quick steps trying to be measured, sweat, and deep breaths through the nose.
Uncle’s chambers reeked of sickness, and stale air, and old blood. It stuck to my tongue, seemed to cling to my skin and clothes. Only long practice kept me from gagging or scratching at my hair. Mother swallowed compulsively, her eyes darting towards the thick window drapes.
Only three people attended my dead uncle. If there had been more – a reasonable possibility, given Aunt Jienne’s love, and my hatred, of an audience – they had been swiftly kicked out.
The doors closed behind us.
The physician dropped to his knees. ‘Long live the Queen.’
Aunt Jienne rose from the bedside, her skirts rustling. Her dress was the latest fashion – heavily embroidered, tucked at the waist and billowing at the back – but the black-edged purple reminded us that she was the grieving Dowager Queen. She kept her expression neutral as she curtseyed.
‘Dearest Aunt,’ I said and squeezed her hands, ‘we grieve for your husband. We will do our utmost to honour his memory and continue his legacy.’
I will make this country prosperous again and gouge out my uncle’s rot. I will fight all those loyal to him.
Aunt Jienne’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I appreciate your grief, and know you will continue his work and bring further honour to our family.’
Empty words; fulfilled duty. Everyone was happy –
‘Such a pity you didn’t make it in time for his blessing,’ she added, and stepped back.
– or perhaps not.
The third person strolled forward. I’d changed at our last stop, but my best dress hardly compared to his embroidered red velvet. I matched his charming smile and held out my hands. ‘Lord Vigrante.’ The Head of Government: my uncle’s greatest supporter and greatest manipulator. He radiated charisma and confidence; no wonder Uncle had given him so much freedom.
Lord Vigrante kissed my knuckles. His purple armband didn’t match his red velvet, or golden hair, and his charisma didn’t match the grief in the stifling room. ‘Your Majesty. So unfortunate you’ve returned under such sad, yet glorious circumstances.’
Aunt Jienne stiffened. It took gall to inform a Dowager Queen, paces away from her dead husband, that she was no longer in favour.
After a too-long pause, I said, ‘Your feelings are noted, Lord Vigrante. We will speak later. For now, I wish to mourn my uncle.’ I’d wanted to take a few moments to accept the finality of his death, but Jienne would want to mourn, likely alone now that Vigrante had shifted his potential allegiance to me.
Back in the hall, I sucked in deep breaths and shivered. Mother patted my arm, though she looked sadder, more sympathetic, than I’d expected from her behaviour in the carriage. A servant led us first to her rooms and then to the suites that had been reopened for my new status as Queen. It was a relief for another set of doors to close behind me.
In the receiving area, Matthias dozed in a chair. He immediately opened his eyes, gestured at the waiting tea service, and stood with a smile. His maroon clothing only highlighted the sickly tint to his thin, pale face; he likely hadn’t eaten or slept much in the last few days. But his demeanour held steady. He was my oldest friend, and would do everything I wanted and more.
He bowed with a flourish. ‘Welcome back, Your Majesty.’
I hugged him.
For a moment we were children again, sprawled under a tree. Sunlight dappled our skin. We’d picked out shapes in the clouds and decided how we’d fix everything when I was Queen.
Now we were here. It was time to begin.
Chapter Two
Xania
I love my sister, but this was one of the days I wanted to throttle her.
‘You can’t be serious!’ Zola said.
‘Ernest is unsuitable.’ I tried to stay calm, knowing I’d lose her the moment I lost patience. ‘You can do better.’ His older brother was also up to his eyeballs in debt and, as of last week, no longer had access to his inheritance. But Zola wouldn’t care, and technically I shouldn’t have seen those papers in the Treasury.
‘Ernest is charming.’
‘Ernest is smug.’ I couldn’t stop an edge creeping into my voice. Zola clenched her hands against her dress, barely a flounce away from the door. ‘People say –’
‘I don’t care what they say!’
‘He mocks you.’
My starry-eyed sister deflated into an unsure sixteenyear- old girl. It made me want to break Ernest Blackwood’s nose. The punch would be satisfying, and worth the pain and social backlash.
Zola twisted her mouth. ‘Of course he does.’
We both knew what he’d said. What everyone said, when they thought we couldn’t hear, or our presence went unnoticed. Clinging onto power. Foolish dead father. Grasping mother. Hopeless daughters.
Who do they think they are?
‘The Blackwoods are Sixth Step.’ The edge was gone from my voice – I didn’t have the energy for it. ‘We are Fifth.’ It wasn’t unheard of for Sixth and Seventh families to consider the lower Steps for marriages, but –
‘We’re Fifth now,’ Zola said.
Mama had done her best. I’d never fault her for remarrying up. But I wasn’t sure it had been the right thing to do.
I opened my mouth –
The sound of bells filled the air. We clapped our hands over our ears, but it boomed through the windows and walls, each set of peals rolling into the next. The echoes made my teeth hurt. After the initial flurry, they settled into a dreary three-tone pattern.
Death bells.
The King was finally dead.
The Princess was Queen.
Zola and I locked eyes, then we rushed towards the door. The Court had been rattled for the last few weeks, as it became clear the King’s health wouldn’t improve. Matthias had informed me that the Queen – the Dowager Queen – had held out longer than advised before sending for the Princess up north, and the Court was scrambling to sort out their new allegiances.
These last few weeks, I’d heard far more about Princess Aurelia – ‘Lia’ to those closest to her, apparently – from Matthias than I’d wanted. For someone who only spent spring and summer at Court, straddling a fragile line between outcast and successor, he knew a staggering amount about her.
‘The Court is never careful when they gossip,’ he’d said. ‘They always say too much.’ He’d never said if that was a good or bad thing.
While our stepfather maintained the family line of keeping out of drama and politics, he and Mama were still pulled into the seemingly endless discussions – fretting – about the future Queen’s intended changes. So they weren’t here to stop us from venturing into the halls and barely-contained chaos. In the uneasy hush, servants hurried while trying to pretend they were calm. Most had a snowflake over the royal crest stitched onto their upper sleeves: they were in the service of the Princess and her mother.