Oleander gave me a complicated look as she began to rifle through the swathes of fabric and half-finished dresses that covered her apartment. “Fashion is much like court, Mirage. You would do well to make a study of it. A gown can tell a story or keep a secret, flout rules or flaunt treachery.”
“That’s actually an excellent segue,” I said, suddenly remembering Barthet’s report on the Vidâme de Cascara and his little rebellion. Oleander’s dynasty was Sinister—surely she was friendly with the legacies I’d put under house arrest. “Several noble families are refusing to pay taxes because they feel their children are being kept at court against their will.”
Oleander’s eyes glittered. She pinned ribbons onto a half-finished mess of satin. “No one likes being kept prisoner in retaliation for choosing the wrong side in a coup d’etat.”
“They’re not so much prisoners as insurance.”
“Against?”
“Rebellion? The mobilization of personal armies against me?”
“If Sinister parents think you’re going to execute their heirs out of spite, that may happen anyway.”
“I’m not going to execute them!” I flushed, feeling defensive. “I never intended on keeping them as hostages forever. I’m frankly not sure what to do with them. Should I just let them go home?”
“And give their families the chance to secede while the empire is in flux, and never pay taxes again?” Oleander picked up a gown with its sleeves torn off. “You’re right to keep them at court. Truthfully, it’s where they’re happiest. But you have to understand—they’re bored.”
“Bored?”
“Bored.” She arched an eyebrow. “They’ve been confined to their chambers for weeks now. Some of them can afford apartments with multiple rooms, like Sunder and me, but most of them live in rooms this size, in Gaillarde and Jacinthe wings.”
A discomfiting shame crept along my spine. I’d never bothered to wonder what it might be like to be trapped in my room for weeks on end, unable to talk to friends or family, with Belsyre wolves posted at my door.
“Do you remember what this place used to be like?” Oleander went on. “Picnics at Prime, salons during Compline, balls and masques with feasting and dancing well into Nocturne. They don’t care about politics—they want their lives back.”
“But that was one of the ways Severine controlled her nobles,” I hedged. “She kept them distracted with parties and fashions and intrigues so they didn’t have time to worry about their estates hemorrhaging money or their fellow legacies disappearing without a trace.”
“I know that. It doesn’t change the fact that parties are fun.”
“So you think I should let them have a party?”
“If that’s what you think is best.” She licked the end of a thread and pushed it through the eye of a needle.
“Perfect,” I said. “Tell them to have a party whenever they want.”
“Do I have to explain it to you?” Oleander rolled her perfectly lined eyes. “You throw a party for them, and then you go to it.”
“Why?”
“Four spans at court and she still behaves like an illiterate Dusklander gamine.”
“Won’t they have more fun if I’m not there?”
“Inevitably.”
I tried to think around the headache beginning to pound at my temples. “You think I should woo them.”
“By the Scion, I think she’s got it,” she drawled. “Their world turned upside down the day you staged your coup. Their empress—who, as you pointed out, controlled everything from their fashion choices to their finances—is dead. The only thing they know about you—the presumed Sun Heir—is that they tormented you relentlessly when you were nobody. Half their friends died in the fighting and the other half are isolated in their own chambers. They’re scared and lonely and, yes, bored.”
She was right. Maybe I did have an opportunity to woo them to my side—to give them a gesture of good faith, to prove to them and their families this transition of power didn’t mean an end to the life they knew. If I gave them a modicum of normalcy, maybe they’d give me a chance.
“Fine,” I said. “But my empire is in crisis, people are trying to kill me, and another legitimate heir to the throne just showed up on my doorstep. I’m not exactly flush with time to plan a party. Will you help me?”
“Only because any party you’d plan would just make everyone more miserable than they already were.” Oleander shoved a heap of fabric into my arms. “Now try this on.”
I shook it out. Billowing silk was dyed in sky-lit colors—ruffled amethyst at the bodice edging toward velveteen blue at the hem. A narrow waist flowed into a skirt like shadow. Cascades of pearls rippled along the trim, lustrous white against a dusky sky.
“Oleander,” I breathed. “This is—”
“I know.” She gestured toward the dressing screen, impatient.
Obediently, I slipped behind the screen and shucked off my sunny gown, tossing it over the top. The twilight gown sighed against my skin, as soft as it was lovely. It was a touch snug around my waist and shoulders, and pooled heavy around my feet, but I could almost imagine it had been made for me.
“What—?” Oleander’s surprised voice jolted me, and I jerked my head around the dressing screen. She was holding a slim volume, bound in suede and stamped in gilt. “A book? I didn’t know you could read.”
Severine’s journal. I knew I shouldn’t carry that thing around.
“Why were you going through the pockets of my dress?”
“People keep such interesting things in their pockets.” She flipped open the front cover. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Give me that!”
Oleander ignored me, scanning the first few pages.
“This is a diary!” Glee made gems of her eyes. But after a moment her smile fell away, replaced by a line between her perfect brows. “But this isn’t your chicken scratch. Who does this belong to?”
I considered lying, then decided against it. I’d intuited it as Severine’s after only a few moments. Oleander was many things—few of which I liked—but she wasn’t stupid. And there was no real harm in telling her the truth.
“It’s Severine’s, I think.”
Oleander looked faintly impressed. “You stole the personal diary of your half sister and empress just spans after you tried to kill her and take her throne? And here I’ve been wondering what my brother possibly sees in you.”
“I didn’t steal it.” I definitely stole it.
“Have you read it?”
“No.”
“Scion’s teeth, why not?” Oleander threw herself across the foot of her bed. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth and flipped through the diary. “The sinful and sordid saga of Severine Sabourin? Sounds better than any novel I’ve ever read.”
“Please don’t—” I made a grab for it, but Oleander easily dodged me, her eyes still on the pages. “You really shouldn’t.”
“Wait a minute.” She sat bolt upright at the end of the bed, her thumb wedged between the pages of Severine’s diary. Her forest-dark gaze fixed on me and her lacquered lips forgot their customary languid smirk. “You really didn’t read this?”