I turned and walked away.
5
I passed Lang’s closed cabin door a dozen times in the next two days. I stomped resolutely past it, refusing to see if it would open beneath my touch, as Lang had said it would.
I was angry. I didn’t trust him. I didn’t want his guilt offering, whatever it meant, so I stayed away. But as we drew nearer the court at Shvartsval’d, Perrault was unavoidable.
“Have you reviewed the contents of your third suitor’s profile?” he demanded one day during dinner.
“Yes.” I set down the pot of soup I’d been carrying.
Perrault smiled with relief; then, seeming to notice my flat expression, tried a different tack. “They haven’t given us much to go on regarding the fürst’s personality or interests,” he said, almost conspiratorially, dogging me back to the kitchen. “I’ll have to develop ideas for the two of you once we’ve arrived at Katz Castle and I’ve had an opportunity to assess the court. We’ll see if inspiration strikes.”
It was the height of foolishness to talk this way. Torden was behind me. And surely, so was the part of my trip where we pretended among ourselves that I cared whom I courted.
“Whatever you think is best, Perrault,” I said wearily, and turned back to the sink.
“Selah.” His tone was abruptly sober. “Stop. Sit. We are nearly at Katz Castle’s door, and I need to speak with you.”
His voice and the worried lines on his face gave me pause. I swallowed and wiped my hands on my apron. “All right.”
The crew quieted a little as I took a seat at the table across from Perrault. It had been days—weeks—since I’d sat with them. My gaze snagged on Skop’s, but only for a moment before I looked away.
Perrault’s rosebud mouth and dark eyes were serious. He knitted his hands together. “We’re sailing into the Imperiya, Selah. You need to be prepared.”
I nearly fired back a retort—Oh, I thought I’d just try being myself! I wanted to spit at him.
I’ve been spending too much time with Cobie, I thought.
But it wasn’t Cobie’s influence that had sharpened my tongue. My anger was my own, a gift from the ones who’d lied to my face and worked behind my back. But Cobie wasn’t guilty of that deception, and neither, I realized for the first time, was Perrault.
Many as his sins were, he’d always been forthright about what he wanted from me.
I sighed. “Tell me,” I said, soft and serious as I’d ever been for the nuns who taught me growing up. “Tell me what I need to know.”
The crew seemed to retreat to the edges of the galley, outside the halo of lamplight that surrounded Perrault and me, as he spoke.
“You must understand,” Perrault said as he began, “that Imperiya law impedes the open flow of information. The happenings in one corner of the tsarytsya’s land are as mysterious to the rest of it as they are to us outside; there are no writers or newspapers documenting what happens inside her borders. This,” he said, fingers tightening around one another, “is the best information I have.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” Perrault leaned slightly forward. “The first rule you already know: no books. Though the tsarytsya circulates her own propaganda, there are—as I’ve said—no independent publishers operating openly inside the Imperiya. Not even in Shvartsval’d, at its borders, where I suspect the rules may be more relaxed. Promise me you will leave your storybook behind,” Perrault said.
“I promise,” I said without hesitating.
It stung, the idea of abandoning the book. But if I’d learned anything from fairy-tale heroines, it was to trust wisdom when I heard it.
“The second rule follows from the first: no unapproved art,” Perrault said. “The tsarytsya commissions art for the glory of the Imperiya, but art that subverts her worldview is prohibited—and what constitutes subversion is not always clear,” he said carefully, pale forehead creasing in thought. “I would suggest you avoid creating or discussing art altogether. No painting, no sketching, no singing, no playing instruments. The tsarytsya’s followers even dress all in gray in support of her leadership. Again, standards may be more relaxed at the border, but I cannot say how much.”
“I’m not an artist,” I said, faltering a little. “I can’t sing or draw or play anything.”
“I never thought I’d find lack of accomplishment such a relief,” Perrault said with a touch of his former pomposity. He rubbed his temples. “The third rule prohibits any and all religious practice.” He paused. “I doubt it would be effective for me to ask you to cease to practice entirely, and indeed I suppose there’s no need for you to. But I ask you to restrict it to the privacy of your thoughts, for your own safety and that of those traveling with you.”
Again, I didn’t hesitate. “I will.”
Perrault must have heard the sincerity in my voice, because his pallor lessened a little, and his fingers unclenched just a bit. “The final rule,” he said, “is linguistic unity. The tsarytsya seeks a unified culture, and to her mind, the exclusive use of Yotne is essential to that goal. You know that when she conquers countries, she breaks them up on unnatural fault lines, intentionally disregarding historic and cultural boundary lines. She renames these, her terytoriy, toward the end of reshaping their identity. The court will speak Yotne, in accordance with this thinking, and you will do your best, speaking English, with me as your translator.”
I nodded. “So I’m not to refer to Deutschland as Deutschland,” I said lightly, staring at my hands.
“No.” Perrault spoke so forcefully I drew back. “It is Shvartsval’d for the purposes of our trip, which are limited, in my opinion, to keeping you safe.” When I looked up, his eyes were dark with worry, concern etched again into his brow. “Please, Seneschal-elect. Have a care.”
Where, I wondered, was the supercilious friend of my stepmother I’d met in Potomac the night before we left? Where was the protocol officer appalled by my table manners, who’d cornered me and criticized me in Winchester when he thought I’d upend his plans for a quick engagement?
I wondered if he’d come to care for me by accident.
I wondered if he’d come to regret it.
“Be unremarkable,” he finally said, “and perhaps this visit will go unremarked. Abide by the rules for two weeks, gracefully receive any proposal Fritz may issue, and my counterpart in Shvartsval’d—whatever low-ranked hanger-on issued this invitation on the duke’s behalf—may forget you as soon as you pass from his sight.”
I bit my lip. “And you think if I play my cards carefully, the tsarytsya may never even know we were there?”
“Gambling metaphors are unsuitable for ladies,” Perrault said automatically, then shook himself. “But yes. Her Imperiya is wide and the hertsoh is a minor nobleman. I don’t believe she’ll notice you if you do not draw her eye.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised.
I suddenly wished for a cup of tea or something to do with my hands—anything to distract me from the truth I was keeping from Perrault. That I would flout all his warnings and break my promise if our mission required I do so. It almost made me feel guilty.