1. The Princess in the Tower

As midnight nears, the crowd in Justice Square grows impatient. They light fires and chant curses and beat drums. I watch from my tower window, twisting the gold chains around my wrists until they bite deep into my flesh. Had I any matches, I would join the crowd, start my own fire, burn the silk carpet and the velvet drapes and the satin bedspread, burn my tower to its bare hard stone, and burn myself to ash with it.

But that would spoil their fun.

I check the clock on Parliament Tower. Two minutes to midnight. They will be late. Three years they have made me wait, and now they are late. I wrench at my chains, willing them to snap. They slice into my skin and hot blood seeps over my wrist, followed by the chill sting of pain. Time and time again, I have tried to break my chains, so delicate and fine they look more like bracelets than restraints. All I have to show for it is a lattice of fine white scars. And now, one more, which will never heal to white.

The clock strikes midnight and a hundred feet below the crowd lets out a roar of anger.

“Kill her!” I whisper along with them. “Kill the devil princess! Let her die!”

A high bugle sounds from Parliament House. It slices through the noise of the crowd like a knife. They quiet. Slowly, the parliament doors open and the prime minister and the parliamentary herald emerge onto the steps, flanked by soldiers. I cannot hear what the herald says, but it makes the crowd angry. Someone throws a torch at the guillotine. Another fires a pistol towards my tower. Sparks fly from the stone wall outside my window.

Soldiers descend upon the crowd, pouring into the square from the garrison below my tower. The fires are quenched. The curses are silenced. The drums are stilled. The crowd scatters and the square is emptied of everything but the debris they left behind and the guillotine in front of Justice Gate, gleaming in the moonlight.

After all they have taken from me, they steal my audience too. And I dressed to be seen tonight, in bridal white with scarlet on my lips and ribbons in my hair. I drag at the ribbons and whip them to the floor, ripping strands of long dark hair with them. It feels good to be violent. It heats the air in my lungs, sends the blood racing in my veins.

Then the feeling passes, and I am left with nothing but anger, caged burning within my ribs, and I cannot shake the feeling out, no matter how I tear my hair and stamp my feet and throw things at the walls.

Half-past-midnight. One o’clock. Two. Four. I wait in fury and confusion, pacing my tower from one side to the other. This is not the plan. The plan was for my execution to be held at the stroke of midnight on my twentieth birthday. I have been preparing for this midnight for three years. I am ready. Where are they?

At long last, there comes the knock at the door. I check my appearance in the mirror one last time and apply another smear of scarlet to my lips. I look like Snow White – deathly pale, loose black hair, blood-red lips. I feel more like her evil Stepmother. The knock comes again, and with it, uncertain whispers. The bolts scrape back into their sockets and the door opens to reveal my escort to the guillotine: three looming, stone-faced soldiers.

My heart – fickle organ – skips a beat.

“It is— time?” My voice is cracked and dusty from ill-use. For three years, the only person I have spoken to is myself. I cough, cough again, and swallow. “It is past time.”

The soldiers say nothing. From behind them appears a smaller man, a very short, pompous man, with a thrusting chest decorated by a scarlet sash and gold braid. Lord High Chancellor Fauser. He bows the way a chicken bobs for grain.

“Your Highness.” His voice matches his size. “A royal writ has been issued requesting your attendance.”

He carries a scroll in one hand with the traditional scarlet seal and gold silk binding. I do not bother to take it. I know what it says.

I raise my chin high. “Then I must go. You gentlemen will walk behind.”

I cross the room, splitting the soldiers in my wake. For the first time in three years, I see outside my tower door. I freeze on the threshold. Nothing lies beyond but a bare stone room and bare stone steps leading downwards into shadow. One hundred and thirteen steps.

If I fall, they will not have to execute me.

I cackle at the thought.

“Your Highness?” Lord Fauser speaks. “We must go.”

“Be quiet! You are the ones who are late!”

I pick up my skirts and carefully descend. The soldiers follow behind, their boots heavy on the stone. I force myself not to hurry. I am not afraid of soldiers. I am not afraid of death. But somehow I wish these stairs to never end.

We reach the bottom. Here, more soldiers wait. The lower tower room opens into an arched passage leading through the Old Town Walls. The outer gate, towards the city, is shut and barred. The inner gate leads to Justice Square, beyond which lies the gilded, gas-lit Parliament House. This is barred too. Through the iron bars I can see the refuse of the night’s aborted revelry – broken glass, burnt stumps of wood, and abandoned flags.

“Your Highness.” The captain of the soldiers bows. “We go another way.”

There is no way up to the executioner’s platform from Justice Square. Prisoners must make their way through a secret passage in Parliament House before they come out through Justice Gate in full view – but out of reach – of the crowd below. In all my life, I have seen only one man emerge from that door. And now, it is my turn.

I follow the soldiers through a door in the Old Town Walls. A passage leads downwards into the earth. The soldiers carry torches to light the way and our shadows dance about the walls. We follow a turning, twisting path, cut deep into damp rock. At last, we reach stairs, and climb up and up. We come to a solid oak door set in a solid stone wall.

Lord Fauser pulls it open. Warm air sweeps in, carrying with it the scent of sulphur and smoke. And yet, the air has never tasted sweeter. My heart stammers. I count the beats, wondering how many I have left until it stops.

Lord Fauser goes through. I hesitate, confused. This is not the plan. The prisoner goes through Justice Gate alone.

“Your Highness, please move onward,” a soldier says.

I follow Lord Fauser uncertainly. On the other side of the door, I stop and stare around me. This is not the executioner’s platform. We stand in a thickly carpeted, gas-lit chamber. This is not even the House of Parliament. This is somewhere in the royal palace. I recognize the view through the window, looking east over the city towards the mountains. They are just visible as a black silhouette against the approaching dawn.

The soldiers come into the room behind me and lock and bar the door.

“What is going on?” I demand. “Why are we here?”

But I already know. There is only one man on Earth who would dare challenge fate this way.

A door opens in the far wall and he enters.

It is King Edmund.

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2024-04-03: HI LONG TIME NO SEE NEW STORY.

(I was totally going to post this 2 days ago then I remembered it was April Fools… no, it’s real, NEW STORY!!! )

2. An Unwanted Deal

He looks well.

He is as tall and broad and straight as ever. He looks like a soldier, not a king. A man of arms, not brains. The golden hair slicked back over his head is still thick, though he is past fifty now. It does not grey, but fades in streaks to a dull darkness. His face is tanned and its lines show the ghosts of more smiles than scowls.

But he cannot smile at me.

“Lord Fauser, take these men and wait in the next room. I will call you if you are needed.”

“Your Majesty, Princess Alexandra is a prisoner.”

“I will not let her escape.”

Lord Fauser’s beady eyes dart nervously to my hands. “For Your Majesty’s safety, I beg allow me to leave two soldiers behind.”

“My niece is no danger to me. I will call you.”

With one last nervous glance, Lord Fauser leaves and the soldiers file out after him. Uncle Edmund and I are alone. I cast my eyes around the room.

“I could take up that poker and hit you with it,” I say. “Or I could break the windows, and stab you with shards of glass.”

“Are you going to try? I will call the soldiers back, and we will have this discussion without the comfort of privacy.”

“I have no wish to discuss anything with you.”

“You don’t even know what I am going to say.”

“You will ask me to forgive you. And I will say no.”

His eyes shadow with sorrow. “Then that is answered. But that is not the only thing I have to discuss with you, Alexandra. I have come to offer you a deal. A second chance.”

I know I should refuse – King Edmund never offers unbarbed favours – but I cannot make myself utter the words. I spent three years waiting to die, waiting for my execution to be legal, for under Rothalian law, no one may be executed until they reach their legal majority. I knew that when I tried to kill the king three years ago, but I never expected to survive the attempt. I thought his guard would kill me then and there. I did not expect my uncle, blood flooding through the hands he pressed over his heart, to shout, “Don’t kill her! Don’t kill her! By the crown, keep her alive!”

Nobody died that day, despite my best plans. The body of a sixteen-year-old girl is too weak to drive a dagger deep into a grown man’s flesh. The heart of the man is too weak to let her die, as she should.

And I am too weak now to smother the flicker of hope within me.

“A royal pardon?” I ask. “Do you think I deserve one?”

“I have found an opportunity for you to earn one. The Duke of Selica is in need of a bride. I made a political alliance with his father last year. I took his kingdom under my protection and had it consolidated as a semi-autonomous duchy under my rule. Our alliance is to be sealed by a dual marriage. His eldest daughter will marry my eldest son. And I will send one of my daughters or nieces to marry his. I would like to send you.”

Of all the things I might have expected my uncle to say, I would never have imagined this. The flicker of hope within me grows to a flame. I school myself not to smile. This must be a trap. If my uncle is involved, there is always a trap. I try to recall what I know of Selica. A tiny mountain kingdom, rich in silver, somewhere on the north east border. I cannot recall the name of its king or princes.

“Why me?” I ask suspiciously. “Why not Viktoria, or someone… prettier and less…”

“Troublesome?” King Edmund smiles for the first time. “Perhaps I see the opportunity of getting rid of you.”

“Without the expense of a state funeral?”

His smile fades. “There are other reasons, Alexandra. Selica is yet wary of my rule. The old king killed himself four months ago. He regretted his decision to cede any power to me. He thought he had been weak, that his people could not forgive him. His son is only young and unpracticed at ruling. If I am not careful in my choice of bride for him, Selica may try to segregate again.”

It is my turn to smile. “You think I am the careful choice! I’m a failed murderess and the daughter of a traitor to the crown.”

“Exactly. If I send Viktoria, the people of Selica will feel my presence too closely. But you have publicly declared your hatred for me, you have tried to kill me. Because I cannot trust you, they might accept you.”

It is a flimsy excuse. I see well enough that the real reason is that my uncle does not want to execute me. This gives him a way out. He can pretend that I am being useful to the crown while hiding me out of sight, in a tin-pot duchy in the far reaches of his kingdom.

But it gives me a way out too.

I go to the window and look out over the city. In the far distance, a haze of pink over the mountains hints at approaching sunrise. I feel dizzy staring at the vastness of the sky. For three years now, I have had no view but what I can see through my tower window, framed by iron bars. That sky could be mine. I could own tomorrow.

At the price of doing my uncle’s bidding.

I twist the chains around my wrist until the bleeding starts again. I cannot forgive my uncle. He had my father executed for his crimes. If my father was not deserving of royal pardon, then nor am I.

“I would rather die.” I force the words out through my teeth. “I would rather die than marry to please you.”

It will be quick, after all. The guillotine will drop and I will be no more. My chest is tight. Perhaps my heart is preparing to stop already.

“That is not the alternative, fortunately.” My uncle’s voice is steady, unsurprised; he knew what I would say. “One minute before midnight last night, a new law was sealed in parliament. Delayed execution is no longer a valid sentence for any crime committed when the perpetrator was below the age of majority. If you choose not to accept my pardon and marry, you return to the tower – for the rest of your life.”

The air rushes back into my lungs and I have to grip at the window frame as the dizziness threatens to overwhelm me. No wonder the crowd was so angry tonight. I will not go to the guillotine. Not tonight. Not ever. I take in a huge, rattling breath. Three years I have waited to die. To be free of the palace, the king, the tower. Free of myself and my memories.

“I hate you.”

“If I earn your hatred through saving your life, then I can live with it – as can you.”

His voice is cold. Perhaps he hates me too, now. He once loved me. He once hugged and kissed me, and laughed at my jokes, and taught me to dance though I stepped on his toes. I shake the thought away. More memories I do not want.

I know what he wants of me. Because I know it, I want to do the opposite. I want to tell him that I will return to my tower, and live out the rest of my days there, a hidden cancer in his royal court. But I cannot form the words. I have spent three years in the same bare stone room, without seeing a face except my own, without hearing a voice, or holding someone’s hand. It was only a month before I went mad. That was when they fixed the bars to the window, just in case I tried it again. After that, I survived, somehow, by reading books, pushed through the flap in the door with my three daily meals, and singing to myself, and playing with dolls like a child, imagining all sorts of impossible worlds and impossible people, before returning to reality to sit at the window and stare at the city through the bars.

I could not survive another three, or thirty years. I cannot survive another night.

“What is the prince’s name?”

“Mariusz.”

The sounds are unfamiliar to me. I do not attempt to repeat them. “I will marry him.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. You give me no choice.”

“Well then. I won’t.” He crosses the room and opens the door wide. “Lord Fauser. Your witness, please. I give my niece, Princess Alexandra, my royal pardon.” He turns back to me. “Come here. There is one last thing.”

I remain by the window, unwilling to take an order from him. He waits for a moment, then comes to me and takes my hands in his. I shudder at his touch. He pauses on seeing the fresh wounds where the chains have sliced into my wrists. Then, with his bare hands, he wrenches the first chain apart. It slinks to the floor. The second snaps like a blade of dry grass in his hands.

“Princess Alexandra, I release you from imprisonment. You are granted clemency.”

“I still do not forgive you,” I say in a low voice, so that Lord Fauser, hovering suspiciously by the door, cannot hear. “I will never forgive you for killing my father.”

“I know.” Hurt sparks in my uncle’s eyes. “I know.”

I turn away from him and go out through the French doors onto the lawn. For the first time in three years, my feet touch the chill damp of solid earth. In the distance, the first rays of sunlight slip over the mountains.

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2024-04-04: Going to post the first few chapters over the next few days. They’re shorter chapters for this story, but fast paced.

3. The Two Princes

Selica is a mountainous country. The steam train puffs and squeals along mossy gorges, over glinting iron bridges, and through black tunnels carved into cold rock. At water-stops, I get out and tramp back and forth across dark rock and pale lichen, examining my new home with its icy air freezing in my throat. Sometimes, we stop at stations in small towns, and my uncle parades along the platform as townspeople gaze mulishly upon him, holding flags they do not wave. I remain in my compartment, peering at them through a thin gap in the curtain.

On the third day of our journey, the mountains ripple down into plains. Farmland stretches into the distance on either side of the tracks. Small villages dot the landscape. We fly past them. The farms become smaller and the villages become towns. The train slows as we enter the outer web of a city. The naked brick backs of houses loom on either side of the tracks, washing hanging from their windows, pigeons roosting in their eaves. My heart pounds against my rib cage as the train draws to a stop in a cavernous glass and iron station. My reflection in the window is wan and dishevelled. I tidy some stray hairs and rub my cheeks to give them colour before stepping out into the corridor. King Edmund is waiting for me, looking polished and calm.

“Prince Mariusz will be out there to greet you,” he says.

I control the impulse to peer through the curtains. I do not want my uncle to think I am interested in the husband he has chosen for me. “It would be better if I had the chance to change my clothes and refresh my hair first,” I say. “You force me to give a poor impression.”

“You look well enough,” my uncle says without looking at me. Then he pauses and turns his head to regard me with a look of almost pain in his eyes. “You are very pretty, I think. You have inherited your mother’s beauty.”

“Don’t speak to me of that woman.”

My uncle turns away again. “And unfortunately your father’s temper.”

“To me that is higher compliment than my mother’s looks.” I follow my uncle down the corridor to the carriage exit. “Do you think she would have bothered to come to my funeral, if you had not passed the anti-execution law in time?”

My uncle is silent.

“Well?” I press. “It is an intriguing hypothetical. It used to keep me occupied in the tower, wondering if she would come. I did not hope for her to attend my execution. After all, she did not attend Father’s, and I think she hated him less than me.”

“She does not hate you.”

“But she did hate Father?”

Another telling silence.

“Anyway, you’re wrong. She hates me too. She hates me because I was Father’s child, and she hated him from the moment they met. They are dangerous marriages, these royal alliances.”

“Your marriage to Prince Mariusz will be very different to your parents’ marriage. Now, hush. They will open the door in a minute, and this is not a conversation I want anyone to overhear.”

It galls me to follow an order, but I was not in the tower so long that I forgot to care what people think of me. Perhaps it has only made me care more. I stand silently behind my uncle, my heart racing. Prince Mariusz and I will not be like my father and my mother. I won’t let us be that way.

The train door swings open to a chorus of banging drums and blaring trumpets. King Edmund goes first down the iron steps carpeted in red silk and I follow behind. A crowd of people on the platform opposite applaud politely as he bows and waves. I curtsy and smile a little, out of nervousness more than goodwill. The applause swells lightly then subsides.

There are others on the platform with us, people of royal importance, judging by the sashes and medals the men wear and the gilded uniforms of the soldiers standing with them. I scan the men, but before I can find one I suspect to be Prince Mariusz, a young woman comes forward to greet us. She carries a tray with a bowl and a loaf of bread on it. She curtsies before King Edmund.

“Princess Maria,” he says in undertone to me. “Copy what I do.”

Princess Maria says something in a foreign language. My uncle replies in the same, then takes the loaf of bread and breaks off a chunk. He dips it in the bowl and eats. Princess Maria looks encouragingly at me.

I take the loaf of bread and break off a piece. The bowl contains salt and it is gritty and overpowering in my mouth. Over Princess Maria’s shoulders, I continue to look for Prince Mariusz. There are only two men here young enough to be him. They both wear plain, elegant suits and their gazes are focussed not on my uncle but on me. One is mousey-fair and greyhound-lean, while the other is darker, taller, and more classically handsome. Without knowing which is Prince Mariusz, I dare not smile at either.

King Edmund takes the tray from Princess Maria, and she breaks off her own chunk of bread, dips it in the salt, and eats it. This results in another round of polite applause from the crowd on the opposite platform. As it dies out, the fairer of the two young men comes forward. He moves like a greyhound too, with a springy, quick step, tucked chin, and watchful, quick-moving eyes.

He stops before me and hides his eyes beneath downcast brown lashes.

“Princess Alexandra,” my uncle says. “May I introduce His Royal Highness the Duke of Selica, Prince Mariusz?”

“You may.”

“Prince Mariusz, I present Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra of Rothalia.”

I hold out my hand and Prince Mariusz bows low and kisses it through my silk glove. When he rises again, I try to meet his gaze, but he is already twisting away to look at his royal retainers. In profile, his head is finely boned and faintly hawklike, thanks to the crook in his nose. I find I like it.

Behind Prince Mariusz, the other young man is coming forward. He bows low to my uncle and quietly addresses him. I watch Prince Mariusz, but he turns to speak to his sister in the language I do not understand. For the first time it occurs to me to wonder if we share any language at all. I can speak French, or I could before I was locked in the tower. I rack my mind to come up with a phrase of introduction in the language, but all I can think of is the useless phrase: pas devant les domestiques.

“Princess Alexandra,” my uncle says in my own language. “May I introduce Prince Konrad of Selica?”

I turn back to my uncle and the other young man. Now I notice a resemblance between him and Prince Mariusz. He has the same delicate features but with all the kinks ironed out of his bones. His nose is straight, his blue eyes unshadowed by a deep brow, his chin without the pugnacious tilt. Even his black widow’s peak is dead centre, while Mariusz’s mousey-fair hairline lists to one side. And all this regularity of form and feature, which ought to make him more handsome than Mariusz, somehow seems like a deficiency by comparison.

The distant court manners of my youth return to me. I hold out my hand. “You may.”

“Prince Konrad, I present Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra of Rothalia.”

He bends over my hand and like Mariusz kisses it. “I am honoured, your highness.”

He speaks my language, though with a definite accent. Then perhaps Mariusz will too.

Prince Mariusz turns back to King Edmund and me, though somehow he won’t meet my eyes. His gaze seems to slide right over me before settling on my uncle. Again, he speaks in a foreign tongue and my uncle replies in the same. Then he turns away, and again his gaze seems to slide over me without touching. I can’t even be sure what colour his eyes are.

“Princess Alexandra?” Prince Konrad says.

He has spoken twice, I realise, as I watch Mariusz walk away to speak with an old, important looking man.

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

“I asked if you did not find Selica a harsh landscape. I know I found it harsh when I first arrived here. Only over time did its rugged beauty become apparent to me.”

What a polite, useless comment.

“I find it pleasant.”

“You are a connoisseur of beauty, then, if you can appreciate Selica upon first impression.”

I drag my eyes from Prince Mariusz’s back to look at Prince Konrad. His expression is earnest and interested, and more than slightly stupid.

“Sir, I have been in prison for three years. There are few landscapes less beautiful than four stone walls and a caged sky.”

“Of course.” Prince Konrad bows. “How clumsy my question now appears.”

He moves away to speak with Princess Maria. King Edmund raises his eyebrows slightly.

“I see you have not lost your old knack of making friends.”

“Should I make a friend out of him? Who is he?”

“Prince Konrad is Prince Mariusz’s cousin,” he says. “He is said to be very clever. He writes poetry, apparently.”

A cousin then. A cousin who writes poetry at that.

Perhaps my disdain shows in my face. My uncle adds, “I suggest you make friends where you can, Alexandra. Not everyone will be as welcoming as Prince Konrad.”

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2024-04-05: We meet our hero and eventual love interest. Ah, but which one is it? The tall, dark, handsome one who is nice to her, or the lithe, blondish, crooked one who won’t look at her?

4. A Royal Insult

We are taken to the royal palace in a train of open, gilded coaches. I had wished to ride with Prince Mariusz, but instead I am put with King Edmund in the foremost coach. It is beyond my pride to twist backwards for another glance of Mariusz, whose eyes I still cannot recall the colour of, so I sit upright next to my uncle and keep my gaze upon the road in front of me.

We are in the heart of the city, driving down wide avenues lined by trees bare of leaf or flower and edged beyond by looming grey palaces. The roads have been cleared for our passage, and it is silent but for the rush of wind between the buildings. We pass into narrower streets, where the palaces become terrace shops with homes on the upper floors. A grey-faced child stares hollowly at us from the gate of a courtyard. Curtains and shutters twitch as we pass. Pale blurs flutter behind bare, dirty windows.

It feels as though I am driving through a giant cemetery, not a city. The buildings on either side like rows of tombstones, the pale faces in them, ghosts. I shiver and pull my cloak tighter around me.

The palace is not in the centre of the city, but towards the outskirts, where the road widens again. The terraces become houses, then painted villas and mansions, surrounded by gardens and high stone walls. We pass through a wrought-iron gate in the highest stone wall of all and down a gravel path. There follows a series of further gates, each guarded by a pair of impassive, motionless Selician soldiers. At last, a greenish-blue roof, tarnished copper, appears above a row of conifers and we pass beneath the trees and into a walled garden in which lies the palace itself.

It is all creamy yellow, and white, and blue-green, and gilt. A toy palace, for a toy kingdom, my uncle’s toys. His flag hangs from the centre mast. Two others, lower, to each side, show the blue and red flag of the kingdom which became a duchy and the black and red flag of the city.

Our coach rounds a circular lawn and stops in front of the palace steps. Four people wait for us on the terrace, three children and a woman, all with the same pond-weedy blond hair and hawkish cast of face as Mariusz. The children ogle me with blatant curiosity. The little boy whispers to one of the girls, who nudges him with her elbow and hisses back. I am reminded suddenly of my little cousins, who always were terrified of me, even before I tried to kill King Edmund. From the look on the girl’s face, I can see she is frightened of me too.

I alight from the coach after my uncle and it rolls away again. Behind us, the coach containing Mariusz and his sister slows to a stop and Mariusz jumps down. Now, I will find out what colour his eyes are. But he keeps his gaze low to the ground, intent, it seems, on examining the gravel he kicks out from under his neat tan boots. When he is next to me, he takes my gloved hand in his and performs a sweeping bow to the people on the terrace. He says something in Selician and I catch my name in his unusual, lilted accent. The way he says it makes my heart flutter.

The woman comes down the steps and stops in front of us. She is tall and very slender, the skin stretched taut over her bones. Her eyes are both worried and hostile.

“Duchess Maria,” Mariusz says. “She is my mother.”

Then he does speak my language, at least a little, and his accent makes the sound pleasing.

Dowager Duchess Maria kisses me on each cheek, a salutation I suspect neither of us desire. I manage not to flinch and for a response give her a curtsy. She continues to look at me for a moment longer, then says something in her own language.

“She says she is happy to gain a daughter,” Mariusz explains. “And welcome to her home.”

I know I should say something politic, something complimentary, but I find I can say nothing at all. I had not thought of gaining a mother by marriage. I don’t want one. And judging by the look in Duchess Maria’s eyes, she does not want another daughter, despite her kind words.

King Edmund says something in Selician, and Duchess Maria responds, the worry flickering in her eyes. She moves aside, and the eldest of the children, a girl of about fifteen, comes down the steps behind her. She extends a trembling curtsy.

“Princess Henryka, my sister.”

I curtsy back, relieved there is to be no more kissing. After Princess Henryka comes the next sister, who is introduced as Zofia, and after her, the little boy, Dominik.

“You must be tired after your journey,” Mariusz says when it is finished. “My sister will take you to rest.”

“I’m not tired.” I want to speak with Mariusz. I have still not managed to catch his eye. He always seems to be looking at someone else. “In fact, I would like to walk a little around the garden.”

“That can be arranged,” Mariusz says. “Henuszka!” He speaks to his sister rapidly in his own language and she comes forward.

Henryka says something in heavily accented, incomprehensible syllables. I frown.

“You speak French?” she says in the language, and I recognise it now.

“But yes. A little.” I strain my memory. “Ça longtemps. Pas bien.”

She risks a tentative smile. “Suffisant. Come to see the garden?”

I look to Mariusz, but he has turned away and is talking with my uncle in Selician. King Edmund sees me looking.

“Go with her,” he says. “We have time before dinner for you to see a little of the gardens.”

There is nothing I can do but go with her, though I know I am being gotten rid of. She takes me up the steps and through the palace doors, where the hall is all white marble and gilt. The rooms beyond, however, are honey-coloured parquetry and panelling. We pass quickly through and out onto a terrace on which lies an ornate knot garden scattered with white marble statues.

“In winter it is pretty here,” Henryka says. “Some gardens are not pretty in winter.”

“It is autumn now.”

She blushes scarlet and gives no reply.

I walk down the paths between the box hedges. It is a pretty garden, and I can see more pretty gardens beyond the terrace wall. I itch to explore them, but not with this girl watching.

It ought to be Mariusz with me.

Anger makes my heart beat faster. How can he not be curious about the woman he is to marry?

But perhaps he is shy.

Henryka comes up behind me. “Does the garden please you?”

“What is your brother like?” I ask. “Is he…” I can’t think of the word for shy in French. “Ah! What is he like? Tell me!”

She looks confused. “Mariusz? He is… my brother.”

“Yes, I understand. But what is he like?” I translate the phrase word-by-word in my head to check my French, but I am sure it is correct. Still, Henryka looks confused. “He is…” Few French adjectives come to mind. “…good?”

Relief floods her face. “Yes, he is in very good health.”

My French is clearly worse than I thought, or Henryka is abominably stupid. I curse in my own language and Henryka flinches, though she cannot possibly understand what I have said.

I point to the palace. “Dormir. Ah, no. Rest. Rest. What is rest? Oh, for God’s sake, let’s go inside and find someone who can understand me.”

Perhaps she understands my pointing. Perhaps she only wants to get away from me. She leads me back inside. I hope that she will take me to wherever Mariusz has gone, but instead she takes me upstairs to a private apartment consisting of a sitting room and a bedroom, partitioned by a set of pocket doors.

“Your room,” Henryka says. She points to a further, closed door in the bedroom wall. “Your bathroom.” She asks a question, which I cannot translate, and when I do not respond, rephrases herself, “Do I wait with you?”

“No.” She has not been unkind to me, despite our language difficulties. “No, thank you.”

“Very good.” She curtsies. “Until dinner.”

Dinner. On the train, my uncle told me that we would have dinner with the most intimate members of the Selician court, the people who were friends as well as allies to the ducal family. He said I should try to make a good first impression, but the only one I care to impress is Mariusz, who will not look me in the eye. Besides, if no one speaks my language, I will only be able to impress them with my looks.

To that end, I ring the bell for the servants, and with a mix of mime and broken French manage to get myself adequately costumed in a coppery silk dress with indigo ribbon trimming and little puff sleeves halfway down my shoulders. The last month in Rothalia, while I waited to leave for this place, I had my entire wardrobe made new. There was nothing of what I wore in the tower that I wanted to ever wear again, and my old bedroom had been made over to one of my cousins long ago and all my old things disappeared somewhere in the palace, perhaps given away, perhaps stored out of sight, perhaps destroyed. I did not care to look for them. There is nothing of the past I want to keep with me.

It is dark outside when my uncle knocks at the door to escort me to dinner. He takes me through the hallways of the palace in silence until we emerge into a small salon. People stand around in groups talking, though the sound dies away when we enter. My uncle bows and I curtsy, conscious of all eyes upon me. A man approaches us, and my uncle introduces him as Lord Tarnuv, the prime minister. From there, I am introduced to every person in the room in turn, some dozen foreign faces and foreign names in syllables I cannot even pronounce. Mariusz is not here. He arrives only when the introductions are finished and we are making our way into the dining room.

I hope we will be seated together, but I am given pride of place at the head of the table, and Mariusz is at the tail. I am at a good distance to look at him, however, and I like what what I see. Occasionally I catch his gaze flitting in my direction, and knowing how I have dressed, trust that he cannot be displeased with my appearance either.

After three elegant courses, Dowager Duchess Maria stands up and gives a short speech in Selician. There are smiles, some polite clapping, nods, and at the end a toast, for which a footman refills my champagne glass.

Several more speeches follow as we nibble at cheeses and cakes. Prince Konrad gives one, which is brief but encourages an agreeing murmur from most of the table. Lord Tarnuv gives another, not so brief, and not so encouraging of murmurs. One young man, fortified by champagne, lets out a snore, and the woman next to him hides a giggle. Nevertheless, at the end of his speech, we all clap and have another toast, though I have no idea what I am toasting to. Then my uncle stands up to speak, like the others, in Selician. A silence, a stillness, comes over the table. The woman who giggled before is now glaring. The man next to her stops smiling for the first time all evening.

When his speech is over, there is silence for quite some time before Dowager Duchess Maria begins to clap, and then so do the others. It does not last long before the table falls into silence again. I think the speeches are over, but the young man who pretended to snore raps on the table and calls Mariusz’s name. The young woman next to him repeats his call.

Mariusz remains in his chair, smiling but shaking his head. However the younger people here, who must be his personal friends, continue to call for a speech and finally he laughs and stands up. He raises his glass and a footman steps forward to fill it. Other footmen see to ours and we all raise our glasses in readiness. Mariusz waits until the room is very quiet and still.

Across the table, looking down at me, he at last meets my eyes.

They are grey eyes, very cold, very angry, incongruous above the faint smile hovering on his delicate lips. He keeps my gaze long enough for his faint smile to fade.

Finally, when a pin drop might be heard, he says a single harsh word in Selician. It needs no translation.

He downs his toast amidst gales of laughter and gasps of shock.

I set my toast down, undrunk.

__

2024-04-06: Mariusz is perhaps not very nice.

5. The Royal Wedding

From that moment, it is a relief that I cannot speak Selician and that few people at the table speak Rothalian. I sit in silence and fury while slowly around me the others start up conversations which, even in a language I cannot understand, are all too obviously forced. Only Mariusz’s young friends continue to attempt smiles, though they falter under King Edmund’s unimpressed gaze. Mariusz sits back down and watches me from across the table, as though daring me to respond. When I do and say nothing, he turns his attention to his wine glass. He too spends the rest of the meal in silence.

When the dinner is over, my uncle takes me back to my apartment. At the door, I turn and face him.

“What did he say?”

“Don’t worry. I will talk to him.”

“No you will not!” I am humiliated twice over at the thought. “I don’t need your help.”

“Very well. I won’t talk to him. What are you going to do about it? How will you earn your husband’s respect and the court’s approval?”

“Certainly not by having you interfere every time someone insults me.”

He considers it. “You’re not wrong. But what are you going to do?”

I have no idea. It burns me to let an insult go unchallenged, but I know no way of challenging it that won’t set Mariusz further against me.

And I have to marry him.

“No wonder you didn’t want to send one of your own daughters here,” I snap. “You knew exactly the quality of the reception they would receive.”

“I did tell you it would be difficult for Selica to accept whomever I sent. Though I doubt Mariusz would dare insult my own daughter in front of me. And his friends would certainly not dare laugh at such an insult. No. They all would have treated Viktoria or Elisabeth with perfect manners, perfect silence, and great distance.”

“In other words, I suffer more.”

“I will always help you if you ask.”

“And I will never ask.”

“Then what are you going to do, all by yourself, with no one to help?”

I cannot answer him, because I do not know.

He waits for a long moment. “You will do nothing, then. Well, that is a choice. But it is very rarely the right choice.” He gives me the briefest of bows. “Goodnight, Alexandra.”

The next week is taken up with wedding preparations, meetings, dinners, introductions and discussions. Prince Mariusz does not repeat anything like his insult of the first night, but there is little opportunity for him to do so. When we are together, we are surrounded by lawyers, politicians, reporters, and priests and too busy for anything approaching conversation. He arrives late to every meeting and as soon as there is opportunity, he disappears. He has a real talent for disappearing, I discover. The first phrase I learn in Selician is kde jest knez? Where is the prince? Someone is always saying it, most often Dowager Duchess Maria. Usually, soon after, we discover a door ajar or a window open and a footman is sent to retrieve the errant prince, if he can find him. I begin to wonder if Mariusz will even turn up to our wedding.

On the day, I am woken before dawn to be dressed in the dozen square yards of silk and velvet and lace that comprise my wedding dress. I wear the ducal diamonds across my neck and wrists and hair, and a cloak of pure white ermine from my shoulders. When the servants are quite finished with me, I fold the veil back over my head and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The clothes and jewels make me look powerful, like I could raise armies with a sweep of my silk-gloved hand, and I have to touch my face to make sure it really is my reflection, and not someone else.

I am taken to the cathedral in a covered, curtained carriage with Henryka and Zofia, my two ladies in waiting. After the first few days of broken French and misunderstandings, Henryka and I unanimously and wordlessly decided not to speak to each other except when necessary. When we are handed out onto the cathedral steps, she and her sister take my train in perfect silence. We know the routine. We have practiced it on the palace steps, though they are not so grand. It is all one glittering performance, this wedding, and we all must play our parts.

Inside the cathedral stands the audience, waiting. The air is clammy with the expired breath of a thousand people. They are crammed into the pews in the nave, standing in the side aisles, spilling out of the balconies above.

They are all looking at me.

I perform.

I lift my chin and walk down the aisle. At the other end stands Mariusz, his hands clasped together in front of him, his gaze upon me.

Should I smile? Should I pretend I am happy? My audience might expect it. It is the usual narrative of a wedding. But I feel nothing beyond the compulsion to move forward to where Mariusz in white fur and the bishop in gold silk wait.

He must be hot in that fur. With that thought, I am aware of my own discomfort: of the weight of the tiara compressing my spine, of the diamond necklace scratching at my throat, of my sweat damp and sticky under my breasts and between my thighs.

My audience is still watching. I force myself to take the last dozen steps and stop in front of Mariusz. Here, the most distasteful element of the performance is to be enacted. King Edmund steps forward, raises my veil over my head, and kisses me twice on each cheek. I stare at the painted ceiling, willing myself to neither flinch nor feel. My uncle turns to Mariusz next and kisses him once on each cheek then steps away to take up his place in the front pew.

Mariusz holds out his arm to me as the organ dies down into silence. He leads me to the altar and we kneel together on red silk cushions. The two girls place my train carefully down and retreat. Mariusz holds my hand in his. His hand is shaking.

He’s afraid.

So am I.

I bury my feelings beneath the performance of being a bride in a Catholic wedding. It is the bishop’s performance, for the moment. He preaches in incomprehensible Selician. At select moments, he pauses for Mariusz and I to give our vows. I recite the syllables as I have learned them, without knowing what a single one of them means. Then, when my knees ache from kneeling and my feet in their silk slippers are numb, it is over.

The bishop says the words which I recognise as the end of the script. Two choir boys step forward to help Mariusz to his feet, then Mariusz offers me his hand. With the weight of my ermine cloak and dress, I need it, but even when I am standing he does not drop his grasp. The bishop says something else, something unscripted, and Mariusz moves very close, until he is looking into my eyes. He touches my cheek and tilts my face towards his. I move passively at his touch, my thoughts frozen by the overwhelming consciousness of the thousands of people watching us. I don’t even realise he means to kiss me until he’s doing it — properly, on the mouth, and long enough that my thoughts have time to catch up. I’ve never been kissed on the mouth before. I’ve never been kissed by a lover at all. And now, I’m being kissed, while an audience of thousands claps at the sight.

Mariusz draws back at last, still holding my hand. His eyes are as cold and sullen as ever. Lover? No. I’ve still not been kissed by a lover. This stranger is my husband, nothing more.

__

2024-04-07: From this point, I will try to keep updates regular on Tuesdays and Fridays. I do not promise to stick to that schedule. When real life gets busy, I will fall behind. But I’ll try.

6. After the Wedding

We return to the palace. Act two of the performance begins in the throne room. Mariusz and I must hold hands and neither move nor blink while a photographist makes a daguerrotype of the happy couple. Then Mariusz is to sit on the throne and I must stand over him with one hand on his shoulder. The photographist cannot be satisfied with my posture and rearranges my hand and fingers by minute degrees. He mutters directions under his breath which Mariusz lazily translates for me.

“He wants soft hands. Kind hands.”

“I don’t what that means.”

“Gentle, friendly.”

“How can hands be friendly?”

Mariusz shrugs and dislodges my unfriendly hand.

The photographist gives up and instead makes me lean over the throne with my arms crossed on its back. I look down at the top of Mariusz’s pondweedy blond head with what I hope passes for softness.

After that comes an interlude of preparation. Maidservants descend upon me to unpick the train from my dress and veil from my head. The royal chamberlain directs palace attendants to primp bowls of roses, adjust drapes by quarter-inches, and smooth invisible wrinkles in the long red carpet. Mariusz drifts idly around the room, nibbling at nuts, which he seems to have secreted in the pocket of his wedding suit. My own stomach grumbles. It is well into the afternoon and I did not eat breakfast. A valet enters the throne room, bearing a red silk cushion upon which rests a silver and black velvet crown. Mariusz appears not to notice him and ambles to the other side of the room. The valet hurries after him in small, mincing steps, careful not to jog the crown on its cushion. Mariusz turns on his heel, blind to all but the cracking of nuts, and drifts optimistically in the direction of a half-open window. The chamberlain darts to shut it, and the valet corners Mariusz against it. With a heavy sigh, Mariusz places the crown on his head.

When my train and veil are removed, I join Mariusz at the doors to the throne room, uniformed attendants at our side, and the longest scene of the entire performance begins.

Guests arrive. Hundreds of them. We shake hands and greet each in turn, starting with the highest of rank in foreign princes and ending with disgruntled gentlemen and their tired wives. It takes over three hours, and though I am supposed to smile at each person, I give up before the end of the first hour. Mariusz does not even try.

I have memorized a few key phrases of welcome in Selician, which I rotate endlessly through without understanding any replies in kind. Some of our guests kindly try my French, or offer some tentative, hopeful German, which I can understand if not speak. One misguided woman tries Russian, and when that fails gives me a pitying smile.

Mariusz, scowling next to me, is nonetheless much more successful. It seems he has a passing acquaintance with nearly every language spoken in the room. Even a dark-skinned diplomat receives a few stumbling words in his own tongue, though Mariusz’s accent affords him much amusement.

It is late afternoon by the time we have greeted every last one of our thousand-odd guests. My feet are numb and I have long since ceased to be aware of hunger except as a dull weakness inside me. We lead our guests to the great hall for the wedding banquet. I and Mariusz and his family and my uncle sit at a small table at the front of the hall, with other, longer tables set perpendicular to us. It is a very formal banquet, interrupted by much bell ringing and many speeches. Everybody is now speaking Selician and I understand nothing. I eat and drink in a cacophony of chatter that might as well be silence. Only once I have fortified myself on champagne and roast duck and baked apples and pancakes with sweet cheese and cherry jam do I notice that Mariusz is silent too. He speaks not a word until the time comes for him to give his speech.

I tense as he stands, but there is no repeat of the first night’s insult. He gives a sombre address that encourages nodding and solemn clapping from his audience. At the end of it, he bows low to me and kisses my hand.

After the meal, we all move to the ballroom. I have practiced with a dance master this past week, and the first waltz with Mariusz embarrasses neither of us. Once that is over, though, I am by tradition obliged not to refuse any man who asks me for a dance — and every man seeking a favour from King Edmund or Prince Mariusz is bound to. I step on toes and perspire and puff and pant and squeak my way through conversations in broken French with a never-ending parade of strange men. Those who seek favours go away disappointed in me and their object, but there are always more behind them, ready to take their chances on the duke’s foreign wife.

I am granted a reprieve only when Mariusz interrupts a man about to ask me to dance and claims my hand for his own in a flutter of eloquent French. Before the music can begin, he runs his cold grey eyes calculatingly over my body.

“You are tired,” he says in Rothalian.

“Yes, sir.”

“So am I. Come. We shall find chairs and pretend to talk.”

We find chairs in an alcove and Mariusz beckons over an attendant to supply us with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. When anyone ventures near, Mariusz leans close and says softly to bend my head and smile, and I do, and it is enough to make them wander away again. Apart from these moments, we talk not at all.

At ten o’clock, we return to the great hall for a supper. Everyone is tired now and there are no more speeches. Many of the guests have already left. I eat vast quantities of sweet pancakes and drink more champagne. The worst is over now. When the supper is finished, Mariusz and I stand on the front steps of the palace under a clouded night sky to bid our guests goodbye. The champagne has made me forget my stock of Selician phrases. In silence, I offer my hand to be shaken or kissed. Even Mariusz has very few words in any language.

The last disgruntled gentleman and his wife and daughters shake my hand and go down the stairs to their coach. The ceremony, the performance, is over.

Mariusz and I go back inside the palace. I think now we will go to bed — it is nearing midnight. Instead, he returns to the ballroom. I follow him. The musicians are still here, as are a scant fifty or sixty people lingering around the room in small groups. I recognize some of their faces: Mariusz’s friends. His mother’s friends. Some who must be cousins or relatives of the royal family. The ceremony is over. The party begins.

The musicians start up again. Mariusz downs a glass of champagne and calls one of his friends to dance. I sink down in a chair and drink glass after glass of champagne every time a footman comes near to offer one. At one point, King Edmund comes and sits down near me.

“You look unhappy,” he observes.

“I’m tired.” I look sourly at him. “You’re not drunk.”

“No.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Everyone else is.” Even Mariusz’s prim mother is pink cheeked and loud voiced, in conversation with Lord Tarnuv the prime minister.

“Yes. They are.” He looks pointedly at my champagne glass. “Can you hold your liquor?”

“Better than anybody else, I think.”

On the dance floor, one of Mariusz’s friends — the chubby one — removes his jacket and cravat and vest and collar, and continues to remove clothes until he is bare-chested. He begins to dance a sort of Selician war dance. He does not dance it well.

But I am very drunk, and I know it. The only reason I have not got up and walked away from my uncle is that I am quite sure I would stumble. So I stay sitting with him, drinking my champagne, until the last straggling guests, some three dozen of them now, begin to chant a Selician phrase over and over. My uncle does not translate it for me. He stands, bows, and walks away. As he passes through the doors, a crowd of women surround me and sweep me up from my seat. My feet tangle as I am pulled into a circle with the women, my hands tightly gripped on either side so I cannot escape. The women are ruddy-cheeked and laughing, swaying to the drink as much as the dance.

Into this circle, under a pair of linked arms, someone pushes Mariusz. He is wearing his chubby friend’s cravat as a blindfold, but I am sure that is not the only reason his feet stumble. Outside our circle, the men stamp their feet and continue the chant while the women begin to dance slowly in a circle around the prince, laughing, but not speaking. I am pulled along with them, my feet slow and heavy, confused.

I get the point soon enough. Mariusz holds out his arms and stumbles forward until he catches the shoulders of a young woman. The circle slows to a stop and the men cease their stamping and chanting. Mariusz feels up and down the woman’s shoulders questioningly and asks a question in Selician, which no one answers. He fumbles forward and kisses the woman, missing her mouth and getting her nose instead.

“Ne,” he says, which I understand, and now I, too, understand this game.

Again we dance, and I am powerless to pull out of the circle. Mariusz feels his way blindly around the women, touching shoulders, breasts, faces and waists, with a questioning and appreciative hand. Occasionally he calls out, and the men stop stamping and the women stop dancing so he can kiss the woman he has found, but each time he is able to answer his own question with a resounding ne and the dance and stamping begin again.

No wonder King Edmund left the room. He knew what the chanting meant, and left so that he would not have to witness this deplorable game. I am powerless to stop it, for I know what it would look like if I do: the humourless, angry bride, the nag. I can only dance on drunken feet and hope Mariusz comes to me soon enough and recognizes me when he does.

But though his hands caress my figure and face several times, he never calls out for the circle to stop at me, and finally he must grow bored, for he comes to a swaying halt and calls out something in Selician. There is a brief argument then, between him and his friends, but Mariusz wins it. One of his friends ducks under a woman’s arms into the circle and takes Mariusz’s arm to guide him towards me. Even as he does so, the chubby friend, still shirtless, slips in between two women and takes their hands. With a wicked smile, Mariusz’s other friend guides him towards the chubby man. Mariusz wastes no time feeling his shoulders and waist. He places his hands over his friend’s cheeks and kisses him full on the lips.

Everybody bursts out laughing, except me. Above it all, Mariusz shouts, “Da!”

He removes his blindfold and stares in confusion at his chubby friend.

“Ne,” he says sadly. Then bursts out laughing himself.

People swarm around him, and try to put his blindfold back on. It gives me the chance to break free of the circle and tear my hand from the woman next to me. She tries to pull me back and stammers some broken French:

“They play game, Your Highness. They play game.”

Mariusz is resisting the blindfold. He tears away from the group and rips it from his face. Then he stops still and stares somewhere over my shoulder.

“Eleonora! Ljuba!”

I know what that means. I turn to follow his gaze, expecting a beautiful woman. Instead, a huge white goat peers through an open window, a mouthful of silk curtain in her jaw.

–

2024-04-09: The language they are speaking is Interslavic, the closest thing I can get to an imaginary Slavic language. Ne - no. Da - yes. Ljuba - sweetheart.

7. The Wedding Night

Mariusz runs towards the goat, flings his arms around her neck, and kisses her. For this, he is rewarded with a butt to the belly, and he goes down on his bottom before her.

The goat steps peevishly into the ballroom. She is followed by a young man, shoving at her from behind. He says something to Mariusz, who is apparently very pleased with him, for he jumps up, slaps the young man on the back and messes his hair. The goat is pleased with nobody and begins to eat Mariusz’s coat tails.

Mariusz’s fat friend shouts something, and the others cheer in agreement. I shriek as two men pick me up on their shoulders and carry me towards the goat.

“What are you doing? Let go!”

They do not let go. They put me firmly down on the goat’s back. I have to grab at its neck to keep from sliding off its hot, greasy round belly. The goat transfers its attention from Mariusz’s coat tails to my wedding dress, rolling its yellow eyes at me.

“No. Stop. I don’t like goats. Stop. Please.”

The men do not stop. Instead, they push Prince Mariusz up behind me, ignoring his protests. He grabs hold of my waist as the goat tries to buck, disturbed at her load, and we both almost fall off.

We are not given the chance to fall after that. People surround the goat on all sides and herd it through the room. They manage to get it out into the front hall and halfway up the marble staircase. I beg to be let off unheeded.

They are clapping and cheering, and there is not enough room on the staircase for them to surround the goat, and here she gives an almighty wriggle, and I fall off one way and Mariusz the other. While I groan on the steps, the goat skips away up the stairs to freedom.

Beside me, Mariusz sits up and begins to argue with his friends. From the rate at which he is repeating the name Eleonora, I gather he is offended on behalf of his goat. Apologies seem to be offered, but Mariusz is sullen and keeps shaking his head and refusing them. We are both sitting on the stairs still, while our guests stand above us. I don’t know what to do or say. I fear that doing or saying anything will start me crying, because I am so, so very drunk. And I fear that that will start everybody crying, because they are all drunker than I am. So I sit there and let them argue, and this time when the two men lift me up onto their shoulders, I do not protest. Behind me, four women have between them picked up Mariusz, who is still arguing, one on each limb.

We are carried like this through the palace until we reach my apartment. Perhaps there was once some more sedate plan for this moment. If so, it is well forgotten by now. We are both deposited on the bed. Mariusz immediately scrambles off and heads for the door, but the women laughingly push him back. He pulls his blindfold back down over his eyes and gropes one of them, but the chubby man pulls him away and indignantly retrieves his cravat which he ties around his bare neck. Again, the women pick up Mariusz, carry him to the bed, and throw him down upon it. Somehow, he manages to tumble off the other side onto the floor, scramble back up and head once more for the door, and when that way is barred, to the window. Two men grab him and lift him, legs wheeling, into the air. The chubby man opens a linen chest with a shout of triumph, and the other two deposit Mariusz in it and latch it shut.

I sit bemusedly on the bed and watch as the men and women go around the room testing all the windows are locked. They have to check each one at least three times in their drunkenness, and when they are sure of the windows, they hold a concerned conference by the bathroom door, which has no key.

“Leave it,” I say tiredly in French. “There is no exit there.”

And they do leave it open, and then leave the room and me alone in it. They shut the pocket doors after them. For some time, I sit drunkenly on the bed and listen to them giggling and scuffling behind the doors. I lie down and shut my eyes. I wish they would go away.

Mariusz bangs on the chest.

I sit up. I suppose I must be the one to let him out. I crawl off the bed and unlatch the chest and lift its lid. He clambers out, red-faced, and ignores me to head to the doors, which do not budge under his tugging. The handles seem to be tied together on the other side. A woman giggles outside. He bangs upon the door, and shouts something at her. Some footsteps run hastily away.

Mariusz is no longer laughing or smiling. Maybe he only pretended to find the game funny to begin with. He goes around the room closing all the curtains tight over the windows, then he looks under the bed and in the wardrobe.

“There’s no one. They all left,” I say.

He looks at me through bloodshot eyes. Then he yells out in Selician again, and more giggles come from beyond the doors. He shouts again. The giggles abruptly silence and slow footsteps stumble away.

At last we are truly alone. I stand in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, and watch him. He draws back the covers of the bed, then flings himself down upon the mattress and beats at it with his fists. I know what happens next, and I think, in our current state, we are both going to be disappointed by it. I did not envision romance, not after the first night here, but I never imagined my wedding night would become this bawdy farce.

Mariusz stumbles away, kicks off his shoes, and takes off his jacket and vest, which he flings over the chaise longue. He looks at me, but does not speak. He is no longer bothering to pretend not to be sullen.

There is a bowl of fruit on the dressing table, and he walks over to it, examines it carefully, and selects an apple. He pats at his shirt, looks surprised, then goes back to the chaise where he threw his vest. He fumbles in its folds and removes a knife from the pocket, with which he cuts slices from the apple, and eats them, one by one, pacing swayingly up and down by the doors. Dimly, I recognize the knife. He must have purloined it from the supper table.

I want to say I am ready, or that we should get it done, because I am tired and want to go to sleep. But when my mouth opens, the words that come out unbidden, are:

“I had more fun at my father’s execution.”

He looks up. His apple is almost finished. His eyes are shadowed and his lids drooping. He shrugs.

“They like their little jokes.”

He tosses the apple core into the fireplace, wipes the knife on his trousers, and comes over to me. Not looking in my eyes, he takes up my hands.

Like a puppet, I let him. I don’t know how to welcome his advances, and I don’t want to make a move he might interpret as refusing them. The best I can do is stand passively as he removes my left glove and drops it on the floor.

His own gloves were lost long ago, and his flesh is dry to the touch and surprisingly gentle upon mine. He traces the lines of my palm with his thumb. When he reaches my wrist, he pauses. The scar is still healing from where I last broke the skin with my chains. He runs his thumb over it, then turns my hand over to examine the back of my wrist. Even in the candle light, the old white scars are faintly visible. He traces their overlapping patterns.

His eyes come to mine, a question in them, but he does not ask it. He only shrugs once more, drops my hand, and turns away. He stands over the bed and looks down upon it. Without speaking, he holds out his own palm, lifts the knife, and cuts slowly down the centre crease. It is not deep enough, and he has to make a fist and squeeze before a few drops of blood fall to the sheets. He rubs his palm on the sheets to get a few more red smudges for artistic effect. Then he tosses the knife back onto his vest.

He takes off his shirt and tosses it on top of his vest, then he loosens the buttons of his trousers but does not take them off. He gets on the non-bloodied side of the bed, punches at the pillow, and shuts his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“But the blood – why?”

He opens his eyes, and looks at me from their corners.

“How do you put it in your country? I am trying to remember. Ah. That is right.” His eyes fall shut again, and he murmurs sleepily: “I have not the desire to fuck you.”

__

2024-04-12: Burn score - Mariusz 2, Alex 0.

8. False Impression

The rain is pattering on the roof and I am cramped and chill on the chaise beneath it. Somehow, last night, I managed to rid myself of all clothes bar my slip, but I didn’t remember to remove the diamond necklace and it lies heavy and scratchy at the base of my throat.

I fumble until I get it off, and let it slip somewhere lost among the cushions. My throat is dry. When I sit up, my head pounds, my back aches, and my stomach lurches alarmingly.

I shudder and shiver, trying to control the uprising in my stomach. Slowly, it subsides. I crawl from the chaise to the rug in front of the fire which is now nothing more than glowing coals. I stare numbly at them for several minutes before it occurs to me to stoke them, but I can encourage little more than sparks and soon give up.

A blanket. I need a blanket.

By the fire’s dim light, I can see little of the room, but soft breathing from the darkness reminds me that the prince is sleeping on the bed. I feel my way across the carpet on my knees. There were candles last night. They must have gone out, or perhaps Mariusz got up and doused them while I slept. I find the bed by banging my head against it, but Mariusz does not wake.

I stand and pat the mattress until I find the heavy wool of the quilt and tug at it. Mariusz murmurs something in his sleep and rolls against me. His flesh is hot and solid and faintly clammy against my hands. I draw back, my heart thumping. Thank god he didn’t… fuck me. Or perhaps I was so drunk then, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m almost sober now, and his closeness drives some strange uneasiness deep inside me.

I pull the quilt from under him, careful not to let myself touch him again. My hands doubt the memory of the feeling.

The quilt bleeds his warmth into my flesh. I sit by the fire and drape it round me. What time is it? With the rain coming down heavy, dawn will be dark. I can’t go back to sleep. The alcohol has worn off, leaving my mind vacant and wheeling. My heart is beating too fast. My limbs are cold. My head hurts.

A finger of flame starts up in the coals, and dies again. Their glow swells and subsides like a heartbeat, making time with the rain. The heartbeat slows, and the glows grow fainter, beat by beat, until I am left in the dark, with nothing but the sound of rain to keep me company.

The rain stops.

For a heartbeat, I think I am in the tower again. The door is locked, and it is dark and cold and alone. Then Mariusz’s breath rises gently from the darkness. I shuffle towards the bed. Thin light filters from behind the curtains. It cannot be far off dawn. His arm lies flung out across the sheets. The rest of him is indistinguishable from the dark shadows of the blankets.

The strange, bubbling uncertainty within me subsides. This is my place now. Its doors are open. Its skies are wide. The past cannot chase me here. I am safe. I am free. And I am not alone.

I touch Mariusz’s palm, where he cut himself, and trace my hand up the length of his forearm. He shivers in his sleep. He’s still too hot. He drank far too much. I reach his shoulder, and trace my hand down to his heart. The muscles tense and release beneath my skin.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

I jump back. He rolls over and falls asleep again, instantaneously.

And my hands once more doubt their memory.

The next time I wake, it is to the sound of people at the door. I am lying on the hearthrug in front of the dead fire, wrapped in the quilt. In my sleep-tangled thoughts, it occurs to me that I should be in the bed with Mariusz when they come in. Before I can arrange my head and limbs to the purpose, the door opens. I stare stupidly as three young women enter the room. They are from the same group that locked us in last night, though they are much quieter now and their faces very pale. Surprise ripples over them when they see me on the floor. Two go to the bed to rouse Mariusz. The other pours two glasses of water and brings one over to me.

“Voici, buvez.”

She sounds displeased. As I take the glass, the quilt falls to reveal my slip. The woman clicks her tongue and says something to the others in Selician. Mariusz grunts something in response. Even half-asleep, he sounds angry.

I take a sip of water and my stomach lurches. I scramble to my feet and make for the bathroom, getting there just in time to be sick into the toilet. The woman follows me.

“Go away,” I hiss.

She does not understand. She takes a towel from a hook and presses it into my hands with some superfluous, disdainful words in Selician. I press my cheek against the cool porcelain tiles of the bath and try to quell the acid convulsions in my belly.

From the bedroom, the other women shout something. They come into the bathroom, holding the bloodstained bedsheet between them, and cheerfully show the bloody smear to their friend.

Her demeanour changes. She smiles broadly at me, leans down, and pats me encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Brava, Princesse, bien fait.”

Behind her, Mariusz stumbles into view, still shirtless, his trousers unbuttoned, his cut left palm shoved into the pocket. He meets my gaze with bloodshot, swollen eyes and shrugs.

Bravo, Prince. Well done.

__

2024-04-16: I have a migraine, so I have no idea what to say, except, perhaps, that Alex earned her hangover and I don’t deserve my headache.

9. The Crown

Dowager Duchess Maria wants to speak with me.

The message comes through her French-speaking secretary, who does not twitch a single hair of her arched eyebrows when she finds me prone and mostly-naked on the cool tiles of the bathroom. I have been here most of the morning. The bed has been stripped of its deceiving sheets, and Mariusz half-slumbers greenly on the chaise. Twice, he has evicted me from my refuge to attend his own needs. Now, my stomach is empty, but the pounding in my head can be soothed only by the coldness of the bathroom floor.

“Je suis malade,” I protest.

The secretary is unmoved. “Her Grace had the suspicion it was so. She suggested perhaps your highness would be made comfortable in a tea gown.”

“I am comfortable here.”

“Her Grace believes it is very important to speak with you.”

“But now? I’m sick, I told you.”

“Yes, now,” the secretary says. “If you are very ill, perhaps her Grace could come here. I will ask her.”

“No!” I don’t want her to see me like this. “Give me an hour. Please.”

“As you wish. I will send for your maids.”

The secretary leaves and I crawl back into the bedroom. Mariusz is half-asleep on the chaise. I pour myself another glass of water and drink slowly. This time, it stays down and softens the acidic edge to my stomach.

“What does your mother want?” I ask in my own language.

“I don’t know,” he says without opening his eyes.

“How will I talk to her? Does she speak French?”

“A little. Enough, I think.”

His eyes are still closed and he still has not donned a shirt. I track my eyes over the planes my hands traced last night. A down of light brown hair covers his chest and arms, darkening in a thin track over his lower belly and disappearing below his waist band. I know what was meant to happen last night. I thought I was prepared for it.

I am not.

I adjust a folding screen to make a corner of the room more private. “I’m going to get dressed.”

I am already in a fresh slip and halfway into a tea-gown when my two dressing women arrive. One presses the cold backs of chilled silver spoons to my puffy eyes while the other brushes and tidies my matted hair. I do not have time for a bath, but clouds of perfume help disguise the scent of champagne seeping from my pores. Mariusz sneezes himself awake on the sofa and shoots me a dirty look as I pass him.

The Dowager Duchess’s apartments are in the west wing of the palace. When I enter her sitting room, I find an unexpected crowd. I recognize Lord Tarnuv, the prime minister, and Mariusz’s little brother Dominik, who hovers hopefully by a cake stand. The others, mostly ladies, were at my wedding, though they were not among those who stayed for the after-supper dance. Prince Konrad sits at a distance from them, a cup of tea by his side and a half-open book in his lap which appears, yes, to be poetry.

No one else is in a tea-gown. No one else has puffy eyes or wild hair.

Despite my dishevelment, those who were sitting stand up, and those who were standing bow or curtsy. Perhaps I should not have made any effort at all. Perhaps I would have appeared more important and uncaring if I had come here in my wedding slip with the quilt wrapped around me for decency. My stomach quivers acidic at the sight of the cake tray, and I wish I had not come at all.

Duchess Maria is in conversation with Lord Tarnuv. Their expressions are intent and they speak in undertone. I do not wish to interrupt, but I feel a fool standing here alone while around me the others slowly resume their conversations, everyone paired up, even Prince Konrad with his book and Prince Dominik with his cake stand.

I hover conspicuously near a group composed of two of the women who awoke Mariusz and me this morning and a third woman yet unknown to me. They continue their conversation in Selician, darting cool glances at me. Perhaps it is me they are speaking about. I dare not move away now. I examine a nearby antimacassar as though that was what brought me here all along.

One of the women breaks from their conversation to look directly at me. “Would you like tea?” she asks in French.

“Thank you, yes.”

“We serve ourselves at these gatherings.” She points her long nose towards the tea table. “It is quite informal.”

I go to the tea table as an excuse for removing myself from their unwelcoming company. Prince Dominik takes a step back from the cake stand.

“Do you speak French?” I ask.

He shakes his head, proving the lie, and goes to the other side of the room where he sits mournfully in an armchair like a dog waiting for its supper.

I pour myself a cup of tea. It is something to occupy my hands, though I cannot bring myself to drink it. Every conversation in the room seems closed and hostile to me. I consider Prince Konrad in his armchair. He was friendly to me once, though I have not spoken to him since.

I sit down near him. He raises his head from the page for a moment, then continues to read. I think he is ignoring me too, but he comes to the end of his page, closes the book, and looks up at me.

“Good morning,” I say in French.

“Good afternoon,” he says in my own language. “It is nearly two o’clock.”

“Yes. Of course. I woke late.”

“To be expected. I am afraid I grew tired last night, and left after the supper, but I hear the celebrations went on for most of the night.”

It is polite, boring conversation, but it is conversation nonetheless and in a language I can speak.

“They did, yes. Longer than I liked, if I am honest. I find crowds difficult, most particularly when they are all strangers.”

“Even when they are known to me. I am afraid I have not my cousin’s gift of conviviality. I often find myself alone in a room full of people with only a book for true company.”

“Perhaps I am intruding then?” I glance at Dowager Maria, but she is still talking to Lord Tarnuv. She talks to him the way a confessor talks to a priest, all hushed tones and lowered gaze.

“Not at all,” Prince Konrad says kindly.

But there is little to say after that, and I want desperately to move on. My cup of untasted tea cools in my hand. I look around the room for a topic of conversation. Everyone is occupied in groups of three or four, talking fluently in Selician. Except for the little boy, Dominik, who has finally snatched a piece of cake and is sitting on a chair eating it with solemn enjoyment.

“We are not the only ones who find it difficult,” I say. “Dominik is also alone.”

“Ah, yes, poor boy.” Prince Konrad smiles sadly. “He has no friends his own age, just a playmate, really, in one of the servants. It is a grand pity. I had hoped, when I came to live at the palace, that my son would become friends with Dominik, but Dominik is… too shy, I think.”

“Your son?” I had some vague idea that Konrad had a wife, but I did not know he had children. “You are too young, surely, to have a child Dominik’s age?”

“I married young. Too young, perhaps. I was seventeen and my wife was many years older.” He shrugs eloquently. “She died three years ago.”

There is no sadness in his voice. It is a simple recitation of fact. It might as well be someone else’s wife who died.

“I thought I met your wife at my wedding. There was a woman with you…”

“I remarried. Little boys need mothers.” His gaze moves to Dominik, still steadfastly eating his way through the slice of cake. “And friends.”

Beyond Dominik, Lord Tarnuv bows to Dowager Maria and moves away. It is my chance to speak to her.

“So they do. Excuse me, Prince Konrad.”

I leave my chair and make my way across the room to the dowager duchess. She deposits two cold kisses on my cheeks. The eversame worried, hostile expression is in her eyes, but she tries to hide it with an unpracticed smile.

“You speak a little French?” she says haltingly in the language.

“Yes. A very little.”

“Me, I do not speak it well. I do not have… I do not have the facility with languages.” Every word, when she comes to it, is perfectly correct in pronunciation and grammar, but it takes her a long time to come to them. “I apologize for the audience. I intended to speak with you earlier.”

“I was not ready.”

“No. My secretary said you were… indisposed.” The way she says the word is cold and unsympathetic. “Mariusz has a habit of… over-indulgence. It would be unwise of you to attempt to keep pace with him.”

In other words, I drank too much. My queasy stomach cannot argue with her, but my pride necessitates it.

“I was nervous last night. I had reason to be.”

“Of course.” Her eyes do not soften. To me, she does not speak like a confessor. She meets my gaze boldly. “I called you here to say without…. without interference that I am proud of you. For a woman it is not easy to go to the marriage bed.”

My cheeks burn.

“I embarrass you. But you must understand, you are not only a woman. You are the duchess. Last night, you acted as one who bears the crown must act. For that, I am proud of you.”

She has no idea of the deception that Mariusz enacted, and every word she says makes me more determined to maintain it.

“Thank you, your grace.”

“You are welcome.” A cold silence sits between us for a few breaths. “I will give you one piece of advice, as a married woman. There is nothing, and no one, more important than the crown. Remember that. It comes before your marriage. It comes before you.”

“It comes before Mariusz?”

“Always.” The chill in her eyes becomes icy. “It comes before the two of you, or it will come between you.”

__

2024-04-19: Oh no, is that, could it be… foreshadowing?

10. A Truthful Conversation

When I return to my room, Mariusz is gone and the bed has been made with new sheets. I ring the servants for a bath, and when it is ready lock the door and strip myself of my clothes. The water is hot and lavender scented, and washes away the last vestiges of my hangover. I linger there until the water is cool and I begin to shiver, then I crawl into the clean silk of the bed and fall asleep.

I wake to Mariusz shaking my shoulder. When I realise it is him, I pull the sheets higher over my body.

“What are you doing here? I locked the door!”

“I have a key. It is my room too.” Mariusz stands back. He is dressed in a silk kimono, the deep neck of which exposes the light down of hair over his chest. “Supper is ready in the next room. We dine alone tonight.”

He leaves again. I wrap the sheets around myself and crawl out of bed. The pounding in my head has stopped, and I am hungry. Through the open doors, I see that a tray has been put on the table. Dining alone seems to mean excluding even servants, because Mariusz is helping himself to a creamy beef and mushroom dish. I slip behind my screen and wrap myself in a dressing gown. When I come back, Mariusz is halfway through a plate of beef and potatoes, though he has left the bottle of wine on the table unopened. We eat in silence, not touching the wine. Before I am finished, Mariusz leaves the table, takes a book from the shelves, and settles down in an armchair with it. At least he isn’t trying to escape anymore.

I finish eating and move to the armchair opposite him. He does not look up.

“How is your hand?” I ask when he turns another page.

He lifts one hand from his book and shows me his palm. A strip of gauze has been wrapped around it, tinged brown with dried blood.

“Did anyone notice?”

He shakes his head. “I wore gloves.”

“You didn’t have to do it.”

He turns another page of his book as though I have not spoken.

“At the very least, they owe us time. They should not expect us to take immediately.”

He looks up at last. “You saw their display of… of gilded prostitution. If they think we are not consummated, they will try all manner of ridiculous methods to bring us to it. So I engage in a little deception to bring myself peace. Does that bother you? It should not. It is your peace too.”

He turns his gaze back to his book and I sit in silence while he reads. There is something strange in being with him like this. He is so combative, yet he makes me a colluder in his plots so easily, so confidently. It was the same at the wedding when we sat and pretended to talk. He never doubts that I will spoil his little deceptions. At the same time, he does his best to offend me.

“What would you do if I told them we hadn’t consummated our marriage?” I ask.

He looks up again, curious more than concerned. “Are you going to?”

“I don’t know. I might enjoy disturbing your peace.”

He smiles — not a pleasant smile, an amused, contemptuous smile — and returns his attention to his book.

“The ruder you are to me, the more appealing the idea becomes,” I add. “I’ve no reason to dislike you but the reasons your conduct has given me. And my conduct so far cannot have given you any reason to dislike me, but it seems you do. It provokes me to earn the dislike.”

“I do not dislike you. I resent you. I have reasons to resent you.”

“And what are they?”

“Surely you can imagine for yourself?” He lets the books slide shut to his lap. “Can you not?”

“I can’t. I’ve done nothing to offend you.”

“Hah. You were in that tower too long. It is not what you’ve done. It is who you are. What you are. You are the woman I was forced to marry. Of course I resent you.”

“I was forced to marry you and I bear you no resentment for it.”

“But why should you? You have gained freedom through marrying me. On the other hand, I have lost my freedom through marrying you.”

“Were you a profligate bachelor then?”

He squints at me. “Prof…ill get?”

“Profligate. Libertine, um, drinking too much, gambling too much, with too many women friends.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Profligate. I like that word. I think I was, perhaps I still am. Certainly, my mother always says I drink too much. But…” He falls silent. “It doesn’t matter. I have lost in marrying you, and you have gained in marrying me. I have reason to be resentful.”

“Well, it’s not my fault. I didn’t ask to marry you. I was looking forward to being executed. King Edmund took that from me.”

He laughs. “Took that from you? He saved your life.”

“I didn’t want it saved.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I knew what I was doing when I tried to kill him. I knew it would cost my life. I had accepted it.”

He watches me through narrow eyes. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Have you never hated anyone?”

“Not you. You are simple. You are…” He taps his temple. “It is King Edmund who is not making sense. He has the right to choose the woman I marry, so, naturally, he would choose one he trusts because he does not trust me. That woman, naturally, I could never trust, because I do not trust him. But he sends you, the one woman the whole world knows he can never trust. Perhaps, then, I can trust you, but how does that serve him? It does not. In fact, it makes things more dangerous. So why would he send you to marry me?”

“Perhaps he had someone else he wanted to put in the tower?”

He laughs again, and this time I take some pleasure in it, even if he does think I’m insane.

“You won’t tell me then?” he says. “You must have some idea.”

“He believes the people of Selica will accept me more readily than another bride.”

“Is that true?”

“It is what he told me. He often lies.”

He thinks about it for a moment, frowning. “That could be only be true if he does not understand us, and I think he does. To be sure, most of Selica hates King Edmund, but to send his own eldest daughter to marry me would have been a mark of respect for our people. You, on the other hand, are an insult. For that reason, the people of Selica will never accept you. They are too proud to reconcile themselves to an insult.”

“And what about you? Will you ever accept me? You do not seem too proud.”

His cool grey eyes meet mine speculatively, then he shakes his head. “It must depend what you mean by accept. I would say, by marrying you, I already have. But I think that is not what you mean.”

“If you resent me, you have not accepted me.”

“Perhaps I am struggling with the precise meaning of words in your language, but I believe that I can accept you and still resent you. To resent is a feeling. To accept is an action. I have accepted you by marrying you. In public, I will act the part of husband. But in private, where there is no audience, I will not pretend not to feel what I do not. I will not lie to you or myself. I don’t love you.”

“I said nothing about love. But we should be kind to each other. We could be friends.”

“I told you. I won’t lie to you or to myself. My feelings for you are not kind. And I do not wish to be your friend.”

He is smiling again, a cold but polite smile. It makes it impossible to respond, and so I look away and say nothing. After a little while, Mariusz resumes his book, and I call for a dressing maid to braid my hair. By the time she is finished, Mariusz is splayed face-down on the bed, the book open on the sheets next to him, his kimono riding up over the back of his thighs. He does not seem to be wearing anything underneath it.

I debate with myself for a moment, then tug one of the blankets out from beneath him and head, once more, to sleep alone on the chaise.

__

2024-04-23: Mariusz is like the kid in kindergarten when you go up to them and say, “let’s be friends!” and they just say, “no, I don’t want to be.” Like, way to crush a girl’s heart.

11. The Tiger

I see Mariusz only in the mornings for breakfast and the evenings for dinner. And at night, of course. Following Selician royal tradition, we are to sleep together in this single apartment for forty nights until we move into the ducal suite with its separate bedrooms. At least, we sleep in the same room, he on the bed and me on the chaise. He has never forbidden me the bed, but he is always first in it at night, and I dare not get in after him. Each morning, I hurry to put my blanket back and smooth the chaise cushions before the servants enter. Sometimes in the afternoon, I claim the bed myself for a nap. The pillows smell like Mariusz now. Like his perfume, and the sweat of his body beneath it. It seems like a trespass, even when he absent, to lie there. And because it seems like a trespass, I take pleasure in it.

I am sleeping in the bed when King Edmund comes to say goodbye five days after our wedding. He wakes me by saying my name, and in the depths of my dream I think it is my father’s voice calling to me. When I open my eyes and see my uncle standing over me, I feel as though I could stab him all over again.

“What do you want?” I crawl out of bed and get to my feet.

“To speak to you alone for a moment.” He steps back to give me space as I straighten my dress and hair. “I’m going back home today. I won’t see you again for a long time, I imagine. I think it will be best if my presence here is limited.”

“We do not need to be alone for you to tell me that. In fact, you might have let a servant inform me.”

“Come, Alexandra. You know that’s not all I have to say.”

“Then what else?”

He watches me, his lips tight at the corners. “I thought I was doing well by you when I arranged for you to come here, but I am not sure now. You are not happy here.”

“I am always unhappy when I am near you.”

“I am ever the scapegoat for your misery. Perhaps it was useless to try and make you happy. Perhaps all I can do is make you safe.” He looks at the rumpled bed. “If that were the case, you would be have been better off in the tower.”

“Am I in danger here? No one has threatened me.”

“You must be aware they are hostile towards you.”

“And aware why. Why did you send me here, if you knew everyone was going to hate whomever you sent to marry Mariusz? Or perhaps that is why. You wish to preserve your daughters from the unhappiness of being hated. Me, I’m quite used to it. I’m very comfortable with being hated.”

A surprising smile breaks out across King Edmund’s face. “And that is why I sent you here. You are wilful, cynical, cold-hearted, and very often cruel.”

“To punish me, then.”

“No. Those are qualities you will need to survive. If I must send one of my loved ones to a court of vipers and wolves, I will choose the tiger, not the lamb.”

I am not one of his loved ones. I cannot be, for I hate him. But I cannot contain the faint thrill of pride at being called a tiger. My cousin Viktoria, the same age as me, was always compared to me, not just by my mother and hers, but by others within the Rothalian Court. She was always the one people liked better. She was prettier, more agreeable, more smiling. Secretly, I always thought her more than a little conniving.

“The best thing for you to do would be to make friends of some of them,” King Edmund continues. “Mariusz, of course, and also his friends. His mother, if you can. She is a highly principled woman and would be a worthy ally.”

“I don’t believe tigers are friendly creatures. Besides, Mariusz has already told me he does not wish to be friends.”

“And you accepted his wishes so complacently?”

“Can I so easily deny them? Friendship cannot be forced upon a man.”

“I said nothing about force, though I would not expect you to use feminine wiles. Ungentle resistance is your usual practice, is it not?”

“A pleasant euphemism for force.”

“A necessary distinction from it. He is not—”

My uncle pauses as the hall door opens, and Mariusz himself enters. His expression is unusually sullen this afternoon. He bows to King Edmund.

“I apologize. I will leave you the room.”

“No, wait, Prince Mariusz. Come here. I wish to talk to you too.”

He comes through to the bedroom and stops near the door. “Yes, sir?” His tone is deferent, but reluctant.

King Edmund looks from Mariusz to me then back again, his eyes uncertain. Is he going to ask Mariusz to be friends with me?

“Don’t overstep your bounds, King,” I snap.

“Oh, hush, Alex. I am allowed to gather my thoughts, even in your impatient presence. Especially, I should think. You have a scattering effect.”

Mariusz makes a sound in his nose that might be a laugh, but his eyes are unsmiling. Today, they are not quite meeting mine, nor the king’s either. His gaze hovers somewhere about my knees, and there is a thin line between his brows.

“I just want to wish you luck and happiness before I go,” King Edmund says after a pause. “This may be a political match, but you both have my sincerest blessing and good wishes.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” Mariusz looks anything but happy. Nonetheless, he steps forward to accept the kiss my uncle lays on his cheek.

King Edmund gives me a look of resignation. “Alexandra?”

“I need not your good will, sir.”

“You have it regardless. You both it have it. And if ever you find that you need my help, in personal or political matters, I hope you will not hesitate to seek it. You are family now.”

He speaks to Mariusz more than me. He knows I will never seek his help. Mariusz bows his head in silent assent, or perhaps merely silent acknowledgement.

King Edmund gives me one last, regretful look. “Farewell, Alexandra.”

“Goodbye.”

“Mariusz. Farewell.”

“Farewell, Your Majesty.” Mariusz bows low as King Edmund leaves the room. When he is gone, he flings himself down on the bed in the mess I have made of the sheets. He stares at the ceiling, his face still sullen. If I am not mistaken, there are tears in his eyes.

“Are you in pain? Are you sick?”

His bright eyes glare at me. “No.”

“You look like you’re crying.”

“I was saying goodbye to Maria. She is leaving with the king today.” He wipes his eyes. “I hate goodbyes.”

There is something off-putting about seeing him cry. I never cried much, even as young child. My mother had no patience with tears. Even when my father was executed, even before then, when he was imprisoned and tried, I did not cry. I can’t even remember the last time I did. I must have been very young. I don’t know what to do when other people cry either. If this were anyone else but Mariusz, I would simply leave. I try to think of something comforting to tell him.

“She’ll be very well looked after in Rothalia. My cousin Christian is very gentle and respectful to women.”

Mariusz gives me no response. He stares at the ceiling, his mouth tight.

“I’m sorry she’s going,” I say after a while. “I’m sorry for you. But she’s not gone yet. You could spend a little more time with her, until the carriage leaves. You could even go with them to the station.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

“Yes.”

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “There, you made me laugh. My mood lightened for a moment. You have succeeded in your object.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m just trying to be kind.”

“I don’t want your kindness. I want to be sad. By myself.” He meets my eyes. “Please, leave me alone, Alexandra.”

“You will not let me help you.”

“You can not.”

I go through to the sitting room and shut the pocket doors on him. Perhaps I shut them louder than necessary. His rejection hurts my pride, if not my heart. He has decided to dislike me, decided it before he even met me, and no matter how kind I am, despite his rudeness, he is unwilling to change his mind.

Very well then. I will have to convince him.

__

2024-04-26: King Edmund explains why he sent Alex there… if she can believe him.

12. Unwanted Company

Henryka and Zofia are supposed to be my ladies-in-waiting. It is an arrangement that pleases none of us. For me, it is an insult. Zofia is only twelve. Her company annoys me, and she is of service in no more than the most menial of tasks, for which I would rather ask a servant. Henryka, at fifteen, is not entirely too young for the position, but she and I do not like each other. Besides, I know all too well that they have only been chosen because the other women of the court refused to take the role and Henryka and Zofia are unable to refuse their mother’s request.

Being alone would have been preferable, if boring. Being with Mariusz would have been best. He continues to sleep in our honeymoon bed at night, leaving me the chaise, and we breakfast and dine together each day, but outside those moments, he is never to be found. Sometimes I send Zofia in search of him, but there are many hiding places in the palace and grounds, and she always returns unsuccessful. I suspect that sometimes Zofia lies to me, and says she does not know where he is when she does.

A spate of wet, stormy weather improves my chances. I make Henryka and Zofia take me about the palace, pretending I am interested in the portraits or the histories of the rooms. Really, I am looking for Mariusz. Passing through a gallery, I hear raucous laughter and chase the sound, despite Henryka’s protests. It leads to a small parlour in which Mariusz is playing billiards with his fat friend, who I now know is Count Barany, and the man who brought the goat to our wedding, Lord Valery, while a handsome blonde woman, Countess Celina, watches from a sofa drinking wine.

When I enter, she says something in Selician, making Mariusz laugh and miss his shot. Henryka and Zofia exchange shy greetings with the others.

“Would you like to watch?” Henryka asks me in French.

“Can I play?”

Countess Celina says something in Selician, addressed at me, I think. I frown at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She repeats it, making all the men laugh.

“What are you saying?” I ask. “Do you not speak French?”

Her answer is not in the language. I look to Henryka, who blushes. “She says she does not wish to speak French.”

“You can’t play,” Mariusz says in my language. “We are in tournament. Be quiet, and you can watch.”

Celina says something to him in Selician, and he rolls his eyes at her. He returns his attention to the billiard table. Celina smirks at me from her sofa. It is the only seat in the room close enough to watch the game, and she lounges on it, her skirts spilling over the cushions. I do not wish to drag other furniture closer.

“Please give me room,” I say in French. I know she will ignore it, know too that she understands it, and when she remains where she is I sit down upon her skirts as if they are part of the furniture.

The smirk on her face becomes a frown. She tugs her skirts from under me and sits straighter.

“Fetch yourself some chairs,” I say to Henryka and Zofia. “We are going to watch the tournament.”

The two girls go to get chairs. Celina pours herself another glass of wine and casts a sidelong glance at me. A contemptuous smile spreads across her face. She says something in Selician.

“I don’t understand,” I say in my own language.

She sips her wine, still smiling.

No wonder she and Mariusz are friends. They have the same sense of cruel humour, to say things that hurt people for amusement. At the very least, Mariusz is not laughing now. He is watching Count Barany line up his shot, his eyes narrow. Only Lord Valery is smirking at Celina.

Zofia and Henryka return with their chairs and sit near me. Celina asks them something, and they respond in negative, polite tones. I want to know what she is saying, but I know if I ask she will only laugh at me more.

“Speak in French,” I tell the sisters. “Or don’t speak at all.”

Zofia hides her glare by looking down at her hands. Henryka flushes pink. Mariusz looks up as Count Barany takes his shot.

“My sisters will speak any language they like in their home,” he says in Rothalian. And then something else in Selician, which I assume must be a repetition of it.

He turns back to the pool tables and swears in Selician as a ball shoots neatly into a pocket. Count Barany laughs and lines up his next shot.

Countess Celina says something else to Henryka, who, after a long pause, makes a short reply. Zofia takes up the conversation with a defiant glance at me. Celina is only too happy to continue it, but a few moments later, Count Barany sinks the final ball and the room erupts into clapping and cheering. Mariusz shakes Barany’s hand and regretfully hangs his cue on the rack. Celina jumps up from her chair. It is her turn to play, apparently, against Lord Valery. She makes a big fuss of having Mariusz chalk her cue for her, pressing it into his hands and chatting merrily — and loudly — all the while. Henryka watches this with one side of her mouth faintly curled upwards. Lord Valery, with ostentatious gallantry, approaches Zofia, who shyly chalks his cue for him. The curl on Henryka’s upper lip deepens.

At last they are ready to play. Celina opens the game with a shot that sends balls ricocheting around the table. The men clap, but she has not managed to sink one. Valery steps forward for his turn.

It seems that neither Celina nor Valery are very good. Every few turns, one of them manages to pocket a ball, but then they trade misses for several more. I cannot see very well from my sofa. At length, I stand up and come closer to watch the play. I used to pretend to play as a child, but I was too short then to reach the table properly, and besides, I was never sure about the rules. It is a graceful game. Lord Valery displays every long inch of his body to advantage when he bends over the cue, and Celina swirls her skirts elegantly around her hips as she leans on the table to reach a distant ball. I think I would look good playing it, and I am annoyed that I missed most of Mariusz’s match.

I hover near him. “I would like to learn how to play. Can you teach me?”

Celina, waiting her turn, interrupts in Selician. Mariusz scowls at her.

“No,” he tells me in Rothalian. “I don’t want to.”

Count Barany smiles at me and makes a series of wild gestures and expressions, which I can only assume are an attempt to describe the game of billiards.

“Do you not speak French?” I ask.

“Non… no… nein?” he says grinning. I can’t tell if he is making fun of me or not.

Valery is waiting for his turn, as Celina is having some success with the balls at last. He says something to me in Selician. I look to Mariusz, who is watching Celina play. I turn to Henryka, sitting on her chair, looking quietly annoyed with us all. She lowers her gaze.

Valery continues speaking to me. I am sure it is to me, for he looking intently at me and smiling. I cannot understand a word he says. I know that he can speak French very well too, and probably a little Rothalian.

“Please, can you not speak French at least? You know I can’t understand you.”

Valery shakes his head and continues to speak Selician earnestly at me. He is so heartfelt and sincere that Celina, leaning over the billiard table, laughs so much that she flunks her shot. Valery grins and goes to take his turn. Celina scowls and stands back to observe the table. There are only a few balls left on it, and with a little luck either might win.

Mariusz says something to her, perhaps advice on how she should play. She shakes her head and says something pert in response. Barany adds his opinion. Valery, leaning over the table, shushes them and squints at the ball. I long to know what they are saying. Perhaps later Henryka will explain it to me, but right now she sits back with her arms crossed and a thin line between her fair eyebrows.

Valery shoots — and misses. Celina squeals with delight and claps her hands. Mariusz tries to tell her something, but she shakes her head and talks over him. She stalks around the table, eyes narrow, planning her target.

She leans over, long arms holding the cue, full skirts rising over delicately turned ankles. All the men are watching her, even Mariusz, and I have the sudden suspicion it is not because of the game. She must know it, too, for she holds the pose far longer than necessary.

She shoots, and the white ball ricochets around the table, missing all the targets, and right into a pocket. Valery laughs deeply. Celina looks annoyed. Mariusz says something and she snaps back at him.

Valery takes the white ball back from the pocket and lines it up. His next shot doesn’t sink a coloured ball, but it does knock one closer to a pocket. Celina watches, teeth pressing on her bottom lip, as he makes his shot. The ball goes in and Valery cheers.

There is only one coloured ball left on the table now. Valery makes a show of marking the angles with his cue and squinting at it from various angles. Celina says something sharp to him, but he only laughs.

“What did she say?” I ask Mariusz.

“Shush.” He is watching Valery intently.

At last, Valery makes the shot. Luck is with him now, it seems, for the ball shoots sharp and straight into the pocket. The white ball is left alone, a few inches from a pocket. Valery saunters closer, lazily folds his long body over the table, and knocks it in.

Celina scowls, then turns to Mariusz and says something with a wry smile. The back and forth that follows threatens to take the shine from Valery’s victory. He looks annoyed. Even Barany’s overloud congratulations do not remove the frown from his face.

“Is there another game?” I ask Barany in French. “Will you play Valery now?”

Barany blinks at me. Perhaps he really doesn’t speak French. Celina turns from her conversation with Mariusz, meets my eyes, then gives a gut-deep sigh. She breaks away from her conversation, pours herself more wine, sinks to the sofa, and drinks it deeply. Again, all the men are watching her. There is something theatrical about her movements; it demands an audience. She says something, a suggestion, perhaps, for all the men seem to assent. Valery holds out a hand to help her back to her feet. Barany opens the door. They are leaving.

I am sure it cannot be over, for this is meant to be a tournament, but perhaps they have lost interest. Mariusz barks something at Henryka and then leaves the room after the others.

“He said we may play here,” Henryka says. “Do you want to play?”

“I don’t know how.” I glance at the table. It does not seem hard. I could learn with practice, but I am not sure about the rules. “Wait here.”

I go out into the hall. Mariusz is halfway down it, following his friends. I run after him. He turns before I reach him. He does not look pleased with me. His friends go on ahead.

“Will you teach me?” I ask. “How to play, I mean.”

“I do not mind if you play, as long as you don’t mark the…” he frowns. “…the cloth on the table.”

“Baize, I think.”

“Baize?” He considers the word. “Interesting. No, play all you like, but not with me, and keep the table nice.”

“But I don’t know how to play. Can’t you teach me?”

“I don’t want to. I told you, there is no need for us to be friends. I already have friends.” He jerks his chin towards the end of the hall, where the other three are waiting for him.

“They are very rude. They might have spoken French so I could understand.”

“Boris does not speak French. He speaks only Selician. If we accommodate you, Boris cannot understand. Besides, why should we speak French in our own home?”

“It is the only way I can communicate with most people here! With my servants, with your sisters, with your mother.”

“Yes. And I have noticed that your French has improved markedly since you came here. Your Selician, on the other hand, seems to be the same as it ever was: non-existent. And I am forever having to speak to you in your own language, without ever hearing you speak mine. It is a burden. It is your burden, and you are making us carry it.”

“Then teach me your language so I am not a burden.”

Mariusz strokes his chin. “Is it not also a burden to teach? No. This is your problem, not mine. If you wish to speak my language, you must learn. It should not be hard. You are surrounded by it.” He grins at me and says something incomprehensible in it, then turns on his heel and goes after his friends.

I watch them turn the corner and disappear. Celina’s laughter rings out behind them. I am sure she is laughing at me, and I hate her.

“Princess Alexandra?”

I turn. Zofia is standing in the doorway of the billiards parlour.

“Are we going to play?” she asks. “I want to play.”

“Right. Yes. Let’s play.”

At the very least, I can learn to hit a ball with a stick by myself.

__

2024-05-03: Some more side characters get names. I enjoy fleshing out and hinting at their personalities through Alex’s point of view. She’s sort of observant but not always perceptive.

13. The Library

I think it best to start with books. The written word is concrete. I cannot forget it and my ears cannot confuse it as long as it is on the page in front of me. When I ask Henryka and Zofia, the morning after the billiard game, they are confused.

“There is a library… but Mariusz has books of his own. Mariusz has more interesting books. In the library, it is mostly histories and records. And dictionaries.”

“We can start with a dictionary. Where is the library?”

It is on the bottom floor of the palace, in the north wing, overlooking a carefully manufactured wilderness of garden currently drenched in rain. It is not very large, just big enough for a couple of tables and some chairs, but the walls are lined with books from floor to ceiling. At this time of day and in this weather, it is dark, silent and chill. As soon as we arrive, Zofia starts shivering dramatically.

I ignore her and start examining the nearest shelf. The first book I pull out is labelled in gilt: 1845-49. I flip it open. A densely printed page greets me. The next page is covered in tables of figures.

“What is this?”

Henryka peers at it. She frowns, takes it from me, flips through the pages, and reads the title-page.

“Agricultural product and tax records by district.”

I put it back with a sigh. “Where are the dictionaries?”

It takes the girls some time to find them. While they search, I browse other books in the shelves. As Henryka said, they mostly appear to be official records or journals. There must be other places in the palace that have better books. Mariusz is always reading something when we are alone in our apartment.

“Here,” Zofia says. “I found one.”

“Put it on the table.”

She lugs it to the table and lets it slam down. It looks very old, with fraying corners. When I open it, dust clouds the air. Zofia sneezes.

I flip through the pages. The letters are blocky and strange. At first I think it is just the print, but then I notice some letters that are not Latin at all.

“What is this?” I ask. “This isn’t Selician.”

Henryka comes closer. “Ah, that’s Old Selician. It was written in Cyrillic until the Catholic reform.”

“Can you read it?”

She squints. “A little… Not much.”

“Aren’t there any other dictionaries? Newer dictionaries?”

The girls go in search again. This time, Henryka finds a small modern dictionary. I scan the first few words. “ Abak… what’s that?“

“To count with,” Zofia says. “With beads.”

When will I ever need to say that?

“And acekoli?”

Henryka confused. She peers over my shoulder. “Oh! Ačekoli!” She says it quite differently to how I do. “Hm, it is like… but?”

“Though,” Zofia says. “More like though.”

“I’m not quite sure of the French translation,” Henryka says.

“It can’t be a very important word. Is there any word on this page I should know?” I ask. “I need to learn.”

Henryka takes the book and flips through, frowning. “They are all important… it depends what you want to say.”

“Everything!”

“But you should begin with the most important… Byti, perhaps.” She flips the pages. “Here. It means to be.”

Byti ’s entry takes up two-and-a-half columns in very fine print.

“Perhaps a dictionary isn’t the right way to learn.” I sigh and sit down in one of the chairs. “How can I learn to speak it? Teach me something.”

“Teach you what?” Zofia says. “There is so much.”

“Start somewhere.” I point outside. “What’s rain?”

“Dožd. Pada dožd. It is raining.”

I attempt to repeat it. Zofia smirks. “No, dožd.”

No matter how I try, I cannot make the sound. Henryka repeats it several times, more earnestly, but Zofia just looks amused. Eventually I give up.

“Oh, forget about it. Teach me something else. Another word. Something easier.”

From out of the depths of the library, a voice says, “Dožd. The end sound is like, hm, the sound between the words in the phrase shush child. Not quite the same, but similar. It does not exist in your language, so your ear is not used to it and cannot hear the shades of difference.”

We all jump. I turn and for the first time notice that curtains on the wall, which I thought were covering a window, must in fact be hiding a doorway. I get up and drag them open. Beyond is a small reading annex, lit by a single candle. Prince Konrad sits with his legs up on the reading bench, a book in his lap and a pen in his hand.

“What are you doing listening to us?” I demand in Rothalian.

“I could hardly avoid it. I was here when you came in.”

“You might have said something.”

“I thought you would go away without noticing me.” He inclines his head slightly to Henryka and Zofia. “Dobro jutro.”

That, at least, I recognize as good morning.

“Then I became interested in your conversation,” Konrad adds. “It is commendable for you to try to learn. It is a difficult language.”

“It is impossible.”

“Your uncle learned it. Of course, he would have had very good tutors. I am afraid, with Henryka and Zofia, you will find it hard. Mariusz would be a better help.”

“He doesn’t want to teach me.”

Konrad raises one dark, elegant eyebrow. “Really?”

I sense criticism in his tone. “He speaks my language to me. So, it becomes our language.”

“By that logic, it is our language too, yours and mine.”

I feel my cheeks heat. “Perhaps we should speak French?” I say in the language.

“I would rather not,” he continues in Rothalian. “It is home to neither of us. At least one of us should feel at home when we are together, surely?”

“Then I must learn Selician,” I say stubbornly in French.

“Then you must find someone to teach you,” Konrad counters in Rothalian with a smile. “If my cousin will not, perhaps I might offer my services?”

I hesitate. Konrad is perhaps the only person here who has been kind to me since I arrived. Perhaps I should be grateful, but I am only suspicious. “Why would you want to?”

“Frankly, it would give me something to do.” He sighs and shows me his book, filled with crossed out half-lines and words. “My muse has abandoned me. If I distract myself with other tasks, perhaps she will return. And I have nothing else to distract myself with at present.”

“Not your wife or child?”

“There is no poetry in Irena. And only the odd nursery rhyme in Florian.”

“There is no poetry in me either.”

“No. But there is distraction.” He sighs, and the flame of his candle flickers. “Never mind. It is selfish of me to use you for distraction. You must ask Mariusz to hire a tutor for you. I believe Countess Celina speaks your language well enough to help with the basics. That it is all that is needed, really. Once you have a little grasp, you will be able to teach yourself.”

I can just imagine the smug look on Celina’s face if I asked her to help me. “How much of a grasp? How many lessons would I need?”

“It depends how good you are with languages. I think most people could learn the basics of Selician in a month if they really tried.”

“And how long would it take for your muse to return? Less than a month?”

Prince Konrad smiles. “It normally takes about a month, actually.”

“I would rather you than Countess Celina. We can trade favours. I will distract you. You will teach me.”

“Well.” Prince Konrad looks pleased. “We will do it here. Each morning from ten through one, I think. That will give us enough time to practice quite a lot as well. Does that suit you?”

“Perfectly.” I look at Zofia and Henryka, who have been watching our conversation in silent confusion. Henryka is frowning, perhaps trying to figure out what we are saying. I don’t want them to know. I want to learn the language in secret and surprise everyone. Particularly Mariusz. “Let’s start tomorrow. Without the girls. They will only get in the way.”

__

2024-05-12: Sorry about the delay in updates. I’ve had a lot of real world deadlines lately. Thankfully, the very last of them is over this Friday so I’ll be able to get back to more regular postings.

14. Two Royal Love Affairs

It is raining again the next morning when I go to the library for my first lesson. I have not told Mariusz what I am up to because I want to surprise him by learning his language, and I have sent Zofia and Henryka away on the excuse of having a headache so that they cannot inform him. This time, I find Prince Konrad sitting and waiting for me at one of the tables. He has several books and a small pile of pencils in front of him.

“Dobro jutro,” he says as I enter.

“Good morning.”

“And in my language?” His smile cuts the criticism in his words.

I attempt the sound.

“Not bad,” he says. “The r is not at the back of the throat. It is against the back of the teeth.”

“Dobro jutro?”

“Yes, that is better.” He takes out one of the books and opens it. “We will begin with the alphabet. If you can read, you can learn.”

It is another dictionary, a smaller one this time, with pictures next to the words. A child’s dictionary. Konrad flips to the front pages where a neat table of letters is printed next to a series of simple pictures.

“A as in ananas,” Konrad says. “Repeat after me.”

I repeat, and repeat endlessly. There are some letters that are almost the same as in Rothalian, but others require me to twist my tongue in ways I have never twisted it before. Nor can my ears quite distinguish all the sounds on first hearing them. It takes many repetitions before I quite grasp the variety of sibilants in the language, and many more before I can begin to repeat them with anything approaching fidelity. At the end of two hours, however, I manage to read haltingly aloud from a book of children’s stories. Konrad claps.

“Very good,” he says in my language. “You can read and write now.”

“But I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“That will come with time.”

“How much time?” I rub my cheeks. My face muscles are weary from the effort of forming these new sounds. “Can I borrow the dictionary? I want to read it.”

Konrad shakes his head. “Isolated words won’t do you any good. Besides, it is my son’s.”

Two hours of language practice have dampened my energy for learning. I grasp at the distraction, though I am not really interested.

“What’s his name?”

“Florian. He is seven years old.” Konrad repeats the phrase in Selician. “He is strong-minded, like his mother.” And that one too.

I make a token effort at repeating the phrases. “She was a strong woman then, your first wife?”

“Yes. Very much so. Everything that I am, I owe to her. My parents, bless their souls, left me quite unprepared for the world. My wife saw both my talents and my crudity, and nurtured me.”

“She was older than you?”

“By some twelve years. Oh, don’t hide your frown. You think it obscene, the difference between me and my wife. Perhaps I could persuade you otherwise, but to be frank, I don’t care if you think my marriage was obscene. You join a crowd of thousands in thinking so. The weight of public opinion does not bow my shoulders.”

I force myself to smile. “You read too much in my eyes. I was thinking no such thing.”

“It was in the curl of your upper lip, actually.” Konrad seems more amused than offended. “Perhaps I will repulse you even more. I did not marry my wife for love. I married her for her intellect, which fascinated me. And just a little bit, if I am being very honest, I married her for her wealth.”

I don’t bother to try to hide my shock this time. By the laughter in Konrad’s eyes, my reaction pleases him, and there is something about that which displeases me.

“It is not what you have done that shocks me,” I say. “It is the cavalier way in which you describe it. After all, I suppose Mariusz and I married for reasons just as mercenary. I think most royal marriages must be, to a certain degree, practical arrangements.”

“They most certainly should be. For all my poetry, I cannot be convinced that love is but one of our baser instincts. It was love that led my father to ruin. Do you know that tale? Or has no one told you yet?”

“I don’t speak your language well enough to be privy to idle gossip.”

“It is not gossip. It is history.” Konrad drums his fingers idly on the table. “My mother was a very beautiful actress and my father was a lover of beauty. He was too weak to stop himself from loving her, and she was too selfish to send him away and too proud to be his mistress. So they married, despite it being completely contrary to public opinion and good sense.”

Konrad’s symmetrical mouth tightens in one corner and he stares off into a far distance. Then he shakes his head.

“What is lost is lost.”

“What is lost?” I ask. “It does not seem terrible, that your father loved your mother and married her, even if she was an actress.” In fact, there is something rather enviable about it, and Konrad’s ignorance of his good fortune does not endear him to me. “Certainly scandalous, I suppose, but not a tragedy.”

“It was much more than scandal. You may have noticed I have no functioning title, no duchy, no county, not even a castlet near the border that I might pretend is a knight’s stronghold. No. I have not even a political office, not even a letterhead. It is impotent courtesy alone that affords me the use of the word prince. My father abdicated the throne in order to marry my mother. Her blood — common blood — could not be allowed to contaminate royal succession.” All amusement has gone from Konrad’s voice and eyes now. “If it weren’t for my father’s abdication, it would be I, not Mariusz, who is the king now.”

“The duke, you mean.”

“The duke. Of course.” Prince Konrad gives me a conciliatory smile. “I cannot imagine my honourable father would be able to resist political pressure any more than my late uncle could. But still, you see, a great deal was lost in that marriage for love.”

“Certainly. Your father would have been much wiser to marry the nearest princess and love her as well as he could. But if he had, you would never have been born. You are your mother’s blood as much as your father’s. So I think, perhaps, you should be grateful that your father was a fool for love.”

“You are right, of course. It is an idle dream of mine to imagine a different history.” Konrad sighs poetically. “A chambermaid may as well dream of being a countess.” He stands and gathers up his pile of books. “Don’t imagine I’m seriously jealous of my cousin. He is very generous to me and my family. I owe him a great deal. Perhaps in teaching you his language, I can pay a little of it back. We will leave it here for today. Tomorrow, the same time?”

“Yes. I want to learn more, and quickly.”

“It will come with time.” He bows. “Do zautra, your highness.”

“Do zautra.”

He leaves the library. I wait for a few minutes after he has gone so that we are not seen walking the halls together. There is something rather pathetic about Konrad. A poet who does not value love, wistful for a crown that could never be his, and handsome, but not at all attractive, like a doll come to life. I am relieved that he is not the duke, because if he were, I would have to have married him instead of Mariusz.

–

2024-06-12: I emerge from a K-drama fueled burnout recovery to post what is, perhaps, not a very good chapter. I think I have Konrad wrong here somehow. He’s a twerp, but not quite the kind of twerp I describe here. Hm…

15. Thursday’s Dinner

My suppertime intimacy with Mariusz is interrupted on the second Thursday night of our marriage. Every Thursday, he explains, the court holds an intimate but formal dinner. It is an affair somewhat between state and personal function, and as his wife I will be expected to attend each week.

“Why Thursday?” I want to know.

“It has always been Thursday.”

“Why not last Thursday then?”

“I postponed it to spend time with my new bride.”

“You barely spoke a word to me.”

“And our silence was golden.” Mariusz smiles at his own joke. “Tonight, there will be lots of chatter, no doubt. You will not be able to participate, perhaps, but dressing prettily may be to your advantage.”

“Are you giving me advice?”

“Advance warning. Dinner starts at eight. Be ready before then.”

I am ready well before time in a pale silvery gown that glints golden under the candlelight, ornamented by a broad lace collar and matching lace stole and gloves. I think the excess of lace makes me look very sweet and harmless, which is probably the right impression to give any guests. Mariusz, when he comes to change into his evening suit, gives me a sidewards glance on his way to the bedroom.

“Not a gown to spill red wine on,” he says.

“I will drink white.”

“Mm.” He pauses and looks me up and down more closely. “You made wise and pretty choices in that dress.”

“Somehow that does not sound like a compliment.”

Mariusz raises an eyebrow. “Does it not? The dress is very suitable to the demands of the occasion and also very pretty.”

“Yet I have the feeling you do not like it.”

“I am pleased by the dress. Do not ask me to be enticed by the person wearing it. She fishes for compliments, which I find unappealing.”

On those lines, Mariusz goes into the bedroom and shuts the doors. I pace back and forth in our sitting area until irritation overcomes my embarrassment. When Mariusz comes back out, he is dressed in an elegant dove grey evening suit with a crisply knotted black tie and subtly embroidered black waistcoat.

“You look ever so handsome,” I say pointedly.

“Thank you ever so much,” he says, equally as pointedly. “Shall we go?”

We go. It is less intimidating to enter the salon now that I can name most of the people in it, and less intimidating still that I enter on Mariusz’s arm. We are late, it seems, for barely after we enter, before I have time to be introduced to any of my new guests, the dining room doors open and we pass through for dinner. Once more, I am positioned at the tail of the table, opposite Mariusz. To my left is Lord Tarnuv and to my right is Count Barany. Lord Tarnuv speaks my language with halting formality in an accent that requires intense deciphering. Over the soup course, we exchange our general state of health (both well) and our opinions on the weather (too wet). Lord Tarnuv asks how I find Selica and I say I like it well enough.

Conversation stalls.

Count Barany revives it when the first course comes. My fragmented understanding of Selician, aided by his gestures, allow me to understand that he is recommending a dish of roast pork. I take several slices. Under his direction, I take also some stewed root vegetables. He recommends as well a bright red concoction which I suspect to be beetroot, but I refuse on account of my white lace. Somehow, it is easier to talk to Barany, with no common language at all, than it is to talk to Tarnuv.

At the other end of the table, Countess Celina and an elderly woman are seated by Mariusz. All three are engaged in a smiling, cool, polite conversation. By the shaking of their heads, I suspect it is a disagreement. It seems that Mariusz sides with the elderly woman, for after a time Celina turns away to converse with Prince Konrad on her other side. I wonder how Konrad feels about the attention. He is smiling, but he keeps trying to turn back to Dowager Duchess Maria on his right side. Diagonally opposite Maria is the small, plumpish, red-haired woman I believe is Konrad’s second wife. She does not speak, but turns her head to listen to the conversations of those on either side of her. She reminds me of the bird in a cuckoo clock, turning first one way then the other like clockwork.

Lord Valery is on the other side of Tarnuv. He has made no move to speak to me, for which I am grateful. Instead, he speaks mostly to Tarnuv or the woman across from him. Every now and then he casts a hungry glance down the table at Celina. She never even looks in his direction.

Barany presses more dishes upon me. I take a little of everything he offers me, not because I am hungry but because I think he is truly being kind and I want to show I am grateful. He eats — and especially drinks — with gusto. The expensive-looking woman next to him wrinkles her nose and talks only to Valery.

“You seem to enjoy our food,” Lord Tarnuv observes. “Is it much different to your own?”

“A little, yes. It is more heavily spiced than Rothalian food, and we do not use so much vinegar. I am growing to like it, but some of these dishes are quite strange to me.”

Lord Tarnuv frowns in the effort of thinking up a reply. Before he can respond, Valery interrupts his thoughts. Tarnuv is drawn into a rapid conversation between Valery and the expensive-looking woman. I suspect Valery did it deliberately. Barany sympathetically offers me more wine.

A short while later, the main dishes are removed and the dessert course is placed. Barany dispatches a footman to the sideboard to fetch servings from a pyramid of crystal glasses containing some kind of deep red jellied substance. I tuck the ends of my stole under my arms and carefully sample it. The jelly is firmer than I expected and tastes of wine and cherries.

“It’s delicious,” I tell Barany. “I love it.”

He smiles uncomprehendingly at me and eats his own.

Tarnuv is still in conversation with Valery or I would ask him the name of this dish. Valery steals another hungry glance at Celina and I cannot feel entirely dissatisfied.

In Rothalia, it is the custom for the hostess to rise and lead the ladies away from the table when desserts are finished, leaving the men to smoke and drink. When we are all lingering over nuts and sweet wine, I wonder if I am expected to do so. Mariusz did not mention it. Perhaps things are different here.

I boldly interrupt as Valery is in the middle of a sentence to Tarnuv. Tarnuv turns to me.

“I must ask a question of manners,” I say. “In my country, the women and the men will separate after dinner. Is such the custom here, or do we stay together?”

Valery looks contemptuous. “It is not Prince Mariusz’s custom.”

Then he does speak my language, and with a better accent than Tarnuv.

“Custom?” Tarnuv frowns. “Ah. No. Dowager Duchess Maria sometimes drinks tea in the salon. Prince Mariusz sometimes plays with his friends.”

“Cards? Billiards?”

“We have many interests,” says Valery. “But tonight we have important guests and will stay with them.”

“I have important guests,” I say. “Though I would not name you amongst them, Lord Valery.”

“You cannot name them at all,” Valery says.

He is not wrong, but I think by the flash in his eyes that my words stung a little and I am pleased. I find Valery very dislikeable.

I catch Mariusz’s eye and jerk my head towards the salon door. He thinks for a moment, then nods. I stand up, a little uncertain about speaking before so many people.

“It is late,” I say in French. “I think we will be more comfortable in the salon. We can have tea.”

I would prefer to say it in Rothalian, in a language I know how to make sound gentle and welcoming, but none of my guests would understand me. Thankfully, the women are too well-mannered to do anything but stand up, all except for Celina. I think she would stay at the table with the men, the only woman there, except Mariusz stands up too and says something in Selician and all the other men get up too, with the obvious intent of coming with us. Celina follows behind, looking annoyed.

In the salon, Dowager Maria quietly suggests to me that she orders the tea and I gratefully agree. My guests scatter about the room in natural groupings: Mariusz and his friends along two settees in the middle of the room, Tarnuv, Dowager Maria and the more elderly guests on chairs close to the fire, the expensive-looking lady and Konrad’s wife together in a corner not far from them, and Konrad alone with a book at a distance from everyone. I hesitate, then decide to sit with Mariusz and Barany. Both Celina and Valery give me dirty looks as I sit down.

I hold no hope that they will speak my language and I am not surprised when the four of them begin a desultory conversation in Selician. I try to catch some words I know or follow their expressions to understand what they are speaking of, but cannot discern anything.

Two servants enter with the tea tray. I get up to pass around cups of tea while Dowager Maria asks people what they want and prepares it. That duty done, I sit back down with Mariusz and his friends. Valery slips a small gold flask from his pocket and adulterates his tea with a clear liquid. The flask is passed around to each of the friends in turn, surreptitiously, from palm to palm, with backwards glances at Dowager Maria and her group. When it comes to Barany, who is next to me, Valery leans forward to take his flask back, but Barany slides the flask across the settee and into the folds of my stole. I take it in my palm and dose my tea. I am rather full with wine already, but Valery’s annoyance is too sweet to resist. I palm the flask back to him with a smile.

He mutters something in undertone to Mariusz. Mariusz says something back. He does not sound sympathetic. Perhaps this dinner will be a small triumph after all.

I sip the tea. It tastes unpleasantly alcoholic and settles uneasily in my stomach. Nevertheless, I force myself to drink with the others. Their desultory conversation becomes more lively. Barany gesticulates wildly. Celina laughs far too loud. Valery grins wolfishly at her. Mariusz drinks slowly and quietly, preferring to listen than talk. Every now and then, I look around the room at the rest of our guests. The expensive-looking woman quits her conversation with the redhead to drift around the room looking at the paintings on the wall. Dowager Maria calls her over and beckons her into a conversation which evokes a reluctant smile from her. The redhead joins Konrad with his book, but they do not speak and he continues reading.

We drink more tea, and more spirits. As midnight nears, our guests start to leave. Mariusz and I go to the front steps to bid them goodbye. Every time we come back to the salon, Valery and Barany appear drunker. I am sure by Dowager Maria’s disapproving expression that she suspects the existence of the flask.

At length, our guests are all gone, and Konrad and the red-haired woman have slunk off somewhere. Dowager Maria wishes us good night. The five of us are left in the salon. Barany empties the last drops from the flask into a teacup and offers it around. When no one accepts, he downs it himself.

Valery makes some kind of suggestion. Mariusz shakes his head with a yawn. He stands up and gestures at me to follow him. I suppose he means it is time for bed. When I get to my feet, I find the walls are spinning. Whatever they put in the tea, it was strong — and unpleasant. My stomach is as unsteady as my feet.

“Goodnight,” I say to Barany in Selician.

Valery and Celina laugh at my accent, but Barany looks pleased.

I follow Mariusz from the salon. My swaying steps make it hard to keep pace with him. In the next room, he looks back at me.

“You’re drunk,” he accuses.

“I am not accustomed to taking spirits.”

He clicks his tongue impatiently and comes back to grab my arm and direct me more purposefully towards the door. “Then next time, don’t drink it.”

There is no kindness in the grip of his hand on my elbow, but for a few moments, I allow myself to indulge in his closeness, in the scent of his smoky yet sweet perfume and the strength of his touch. Even through my haze of inebriation, something feels wrong about the night.

“You said this dinner was a state affair?” I ask.

“Somewhat state, somewhat personal. It depends on the week. We had some important guests tonight.”

“But you barely spoke to them. And I cannot.”

“My mother spoke to them.”

“But they are not her guests. They are ours. Who were they? We arrived too late for me to be properly introduced.”

“Ach. The treasurer was there. A priest. A judge. A nobleman from a country estate. A collection of female relatives thereof.”

“Next week I want to arrive earlier, and be properly introduced to everyone.”

“You do not speak their language.”

“Manners demand I must, at least, know their names. It would also help if you could explain beforehand what my expectations are. When the meal is over, will the women come to tea, or will everyone? Or should we all stay in the dining room? Should we have an entertainment? Cards, or music? I need to know what to do.”

We come out into the front hall, where spiral stairs lead up to the private quarters of the palace.

“You only need to dress well and attend,” Mariusz says as we start up the stairs. “You don’t need to think about anything else. You are not to be involved in political matters.”

“It is not political to play my part as hostess to guests in my home.”

“Don’t overthink the matter.”

“Do you even think about your guests, or do you leave it all to your mother to think about?” I demand. “I cannot make you do your duties, but I must insist on being allowed to do mine, limited as they may be.”

“As long as I’m not being made to do mine I won’t stop you doing yours,” Mariusz says snidely.

It is not a promise to help me next week though, and I will need his help to greet people and arrange things for them.

“Sometimes it seem like you don’t want to be the prince,” I grumble.

“I wasn’t meant to be.”

For a moment, I think he is talking about his father, or perhaps even Konrad’s father.

“I had an older brother, Adam,” Mariusz says, his voice oddly flat. “He died nearly a year ago now. He was good at performing the duties of royalty. I am not.”

The spectre of death stalls the conversation. We reach the top of the staircase in silence.

“You can learn to be good at it,” I say. “You will have to, unless you plan to give up the crown to your mother.”

Mariusz lets go of my elbow. “Sometimes, I wish I could.”

__

2024-06-26: Alex has no sympathy for anyone but herself.

16. The Princess Interferes

The palace grounds stretch for some hundred crooked acres around the palace itself. Close to the palace are the formal gardens and terraced lawns. To one side of the palace, a wilderness of foreign plants and winding paths invites exploration. To the other lie woodlets and stretches of lawn. Behind the palace is an artificial lake encircled by tall pines. Small buildings lie scattered about the grounds: grain stores, servant quarters, stables, and the like. In one corner of the grounds is a small farm where the court priest lives. Here, too, resides Eleonora, the goat who interrupted our wedding.

My favourite walks are around the lake or through the ornamental wilderness. The morning after Thursday dinner, I am clearing my spirit-addled head by tracing the path around the lake with Henryka and Zofia in tow when we hear a scream from beyond a curve in the path.

Zofia and Henryka hurry to see what is the matter. I follow more slowly behind, not wanting to aggravate the pounding in my head.

Around the curve of trees, I see two little boys and a maid watching them. It the smaller of the two boys who is screaming, Dominik, Mariusz’s younger brother. His cheeks are flooded with tears as he jumps and swipes at something the other boy holds high above his head.

The other boy laughs maliciously. The maid quietly begs something of him, but he pays her no heed.

“Who is this?” I ask Henryka.

“Florian.” Her upper lip curls. “My cousin Konrad’s son.”

He has none of his father’s elegance. He is big more than tall for his age, stockily limbed and square-chested. His nose is too short to compete with his low brow, lending an odd intensity to his expression. The hand with which he pushes Dominik back is short-fingered but powerful.

Dominik stumbles and lands on his bottom. Florian turns and throws the thing he is holding into the lake. It lands with a faint splash among some reeds.

Dominik screams again and begins to sob. Zofia kneels down to hug and comfort him.

“What happened?” I ask Henryka. “What did he throw in the lake?”

She refers the question to Dominik, who answers through breathy sobs.

“It’s a dormouse,” she says. “Dominik found it in the trees, and Florian took it from him. Dominik says it will drown.”

There is a look of violent triumph on Florian’s too-short face. Behind him, the maid wrings her hands. I am too familiar with the expression on her face — the expression of a servant who is afraid of being reprimanded. No wonder she could not stop Florian.

“Get a stick and fetch the mouse out,” I say. “Henryka, tell her to—”

But the maid has understood. She darts into the trees to hunt for a stick. Florian leers at me.

“It is just a mouse,” he says in perfect French. “Why does he care so much for vermin? Pleurnichard.”

The last word escapes my understanding, but the contempt with which it is delivered does not.

I reach out and pinch Florian’s ear tightly. He squawks, but cannot escape my grip. “You think it is funny to hurt a mouse? I will put you in the lake. I will see you cry. Come on. Get in.”

I pull him towards the lake edge.

“Stop it!” he squawks. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”

“Pleurnichard!” I say contemptuously. “What I do care for vermin?”

Henryka watches me, her mouth open in horror, or perhaps only surprise. She makes no move to stop me. The maid returns with a stick and stops when she sees me, but she, too, seems too frozen to intervene.

“Go fetch the mouse,” I say to her. “Go on. Fetch it out.”

She scurries to the reeds and presses the stick amongst them.

“It is not dead,” she says in heavily-accented French. “It swims. Come here, come here.”

Dominik looks up from Zofia’s shoulder, hope breaking through his tears. Even if the maid manages to get the mouse out, it will be dying from cold or fright anyway. I twist Florian’s ear tighter.

“Can you swim?” I ask. “Can you swim better than a mouse?”

“Don’t!” he screams. “Stop!”

“Princess Alexandra,” Henryka says uncertainly. “Your highness.”

I pull Florian towards the lake edge. He tries to resist, hunching over, boots tearing clumps out of the muddy grass.

“What do you think?” I ask him. “Is it funny? Ah, look, none of them try to rescue you. Dominik tried to rescue the mouse, but no one tries to rescue you. Can you swim? The water is very cold today.”

We are right at the edge of the lake now, our feet slipping on the stones bordering it. Florian starts to cry, fat tears and snot pouring down his face, almost too afraid to try to pull away.

“Don’t,” he begs. “Don’t do it.” The begging continues in Selician, and I have the pleasure of understanding a few of the words he says. “Please. No. Please, please. No.”

Behind him, the maid has just succeeded in getting the mouse onto the stick.

“Ah, look. She has the mouse on the stick. She has rescued it. It is climbing the stick. She has it in her hands.” I release my grip on Florian’s ear. “Go away now.”

He stumbles back, slips on the wet grass, skids around, and runs off towards the palace. The maid passes the mouse delicately to Dominik, who cradles it in his hands. It sits there, motionless but for the full body tremble that will not stop, eyes dull and half-closed. I know it is dying.

“You put it back in the trees,” I say. “It is best for it to go home.”

Dominik says something in Selician. I catch the word help.

“He wants to look after it,” Zofia says. “Give it food and warmth.”

“It is safest at home with its parents,” I say. “They will miss it if Dominik takes it. They will feed it, and keep it warm. Put it back, Dominik.”

Shoulders slumped, the boy walks off into the trees and sets the mouse down on the ground. There is a faint movement among the leaves. It has hidden itself.

He walks away down the path, wiping his face. The maid casts us an anxious glance, then trots after him.

Zofia and Henryka look at me. They seem uncertain, perhaps a little afraid.

“I’m not going to push you in.”

“Would you really have pushed him in?” Henryka asks.

I shrug. “If I would have, I would have.”

“Florian will complain,” Zofia says. “He always complains.”

“Let him complain. I doubt Mariusz cares to listen.”

__

2024-07-14: Hm hm.

17. Making Trouble

We make another circuit of the lake in silence. From their secretive glances and worried expressions, I suspect that Zofia and Henryka are slightly frightened of me. Slightly more than they were before, anyway. My young cousins back in Rothalia were always afraid of me too. But back then, I used to lose my temper more often, to snap and shout when they were too bothersome or loud. And I enjoyed seeing them afraid of me. I enjoyed seeing Florian afraid of me.

But then, he deserved it.

The thought brings on an uncomfortable feeling, and I quicken my pace and cast memory aside to rid myself of it.

When we reach the palace side of the lake again, we find Dowager Duchess Maria’s secretary waiting for us. The high arch of her brows is as contemptuous and unsurprised as ever. In her perfect French, she informs us that Duchess Maria wishes to speak with me. Zofia and Henryka are not required.

“I told you he would complain,” Zofia says as I leave. “He always complains.”

Despite her warning, until I enter Duchess Maria’s sitting room, I believe I am being called for something else. Only when I see Florian weeping on Duchess Maria’s lap with Mariusz standing behind her chair looking annoyed do I realize Zofia was right.

Lord Tarnuv is here also, a stack of newspapers and a cup of tea resting on the table beside him. Either he and Duchess Maria were involved in a tête-à-tête or she was hosting a tea party and sent her other guests away to speak to me. I scan the room but see no cups other than the two besides Duchess Maria and Tarnuv, not even a biscuit plate. A tête-à-tête then.

“My mother tells me you tried to throw Florian in the lake,” Mariusz says in Rothalian. “I told them it wasn’t true. Is it true?”

“I threatened to. I wasn’t going to actually do it.”

Mariusz sighs.

Tarnuv says something to the dowager in Selician, I think a translation of what Mariusz and I have just said. The thin line between her brows deepens, but she does not pat or cuddle Florian. He sits in her lap and cries against her chest, but her hands lie uncomforting by her thighs.

“Florian was being very naughty,” I say in French. “Very bad. He drowned a mouse, which…” I struggle to come up with the correct French and switch to Rothalian. “…Which Dominik had found. He drowned the mouse because it amused him to see Dominik cry. He pushed Dominik to the ground and threw the mouse in the lake. The maid with them was useless. She dared not speak up. So I intervened.”

Tarnuv begins to translate this for Duchess Maria, but Mariusz interrupts him to take over. She presses her lips tightly together and speaks to Florian. He answers her through tears, shaking his head. I know by the artistry with which his sobs punctuate his speech that he is lying.

“He says it was a dirty rat,” Mariusz translates.

“It was a dormouse.”

“He says he was afraid of it.”

“It was afraid of him.”

“He says Dominik fell over.”

“He would not have fallen if he was not pushed.”

“He says you hurt his ear.”

“Maybe a little.” It does look red. “But I would not have drowned him.”

Mariusz looks at Tarnuv. “What do you think?”

He says it in Selician, and I am pleased that I understand that much, even if I cannot grasp a word of Tarnuv’s reply. While they talk, Duchess Maria speaks firmly to Florian. She seems to be scolding him. Florian makes noises of assent between tears, but there is a smugness to the curve of his mouth which he cannot quite hide.

“Princess Alexandra.” Tarnuv catches my attention, speaking Rothalian again. “I understand your reasons, but I must warn you.”

“Warn me against what?”

“He means caution you,” Mariusz says. “We have been discussing the unfortunate appearance of this episode, were it to get out amongst the general public.”

“Your reputation already is violent,” Tarnuv adds. “If the public hear of this, it will be very bad.”

“Will they hear of it?”

“They will not,” Tarnuv admits. “The palace will keep it secret.”

He speaks as if he is part of the palace, though he is the prime minister and not a member of court at all. I wonder again about the absence of a biscuit plate. Does the lack of hospitality signify that he is on closer terms than a common guest, or is it a subtle sign that the dowager does not really want him visiting?

“Why do you worry about the public if they will not hear of this?” I ask.

“Because he is ignorant of the Rothalian subjunctive,” Mariusz says impatiently. “No harm will come of this incident, but you should be careful are no more incidents like it. You have a history of violence. The people of Selica perceive you as a threat, both for your connection to King Edmund and your past. Were they to hear of what you did today, the papers would be full of gossip. It would take on a life of its own. Tarnuv is saying you should be careful not to do things that risk that kind of gossip.”

“Yes,” Tarnuv says. “Prince Mariusz says it better than I can. We think you should give an apology to Florian.”

“What?” I laugh. “And what of Dominik? Will he receive an apology from Florian? What of the mouse, which is probably dead by now?”

Mariusz speaks quickly to his mother, who responds with something approaching heat in her cool voice.

“She says it is the place of a mother to look after her son,” he says.

“She was not there to look after him.”

“She knows. Do not think she will do nothing, Alexandra. After you leave the room, there will be a little family disagreement. But, for now, apologizing to Florian would not hurt.”

“I will not apologize. He is the one who has done wrong, even if he is seven.”

Tarnuv fixes me with a displeased stare. “We cannot measure wrong in… in black and white. He has not wronged you. You have wronged him. Therefore, an apology is correct.”

“That sounds quite black and white to me,” I argue.

“You are testing the limits of Tarnuv’s Rothalian if you wish to discuss ethics,” Mariusz says. “He is correct in saying that you have wronged Florian, even if Florian did greater wrongs to others.”

“I cannot say— I will not say what I do not believe to be true.”

Duchess Maria’s gaze follows our conversation, though she cannot understand what we are saying. Perhaps, however, she is reading our expressions.

“Princess Alexandra,” she says in French. “Remember what I told you about the crown. It must come first.”

“Before Mariusz and I?”

“Before you and your pride.”

The first few days after I tried to kill King Edmund, I was placed under constant guard in a room in the palace. Every morning and every evening, he would come to my room to beg me to apologize, to relinquish my vow to kill him, to say that I had been overcome by grief and not in my right mind. The guards would hold me by my arms so I could not hurt him. They held so tight that afterwards I would be left with bruises outlining the shape of their fingers all down my wrists and elbows and shoulders, like bracelets of fat black pearls. If I would just say the right words, it could all be put in the past, my uncle said. I could be forgiven.

Every morning, and every evening, I refused to say them. I hated him all over again just for asking. But sometimes, in my loneliest moments in the tower, when I was at my most desperate to be free, I wished I had just said what he wanted and thrown myself on his mercy. And hated myself for wishing it.

“I cannot say what is not true,” I repeat. “If that is all you want, for me to lie to your faces, then I have no more to say at all.” I give the briefest of curtsies to the dowager and Tarnuv. “Good day.”

I cross the room and leave. Behind me, Florian sobs louder. When I am halfway down the hallway outside, Mariusz catches up to me.

“Alexandra.” He takes my arm where the soldiers used to hold me.

I shake him off. “I can’t say it—”

“I’m not asking you to. To be honest, I wish you had pushed the little pig in.” There is something almost sympathetic about his smile. “Florian is a… a  slimak. I am just asking you, please, don’t make trouble for me. Tarnuv is right when he says that the newspapers would be unforgiving if they heard of this. Public opinion is already set against you. Don’t do anything that could make it worse. Be careful.”

That, I can say. “I will be.”

“Good. I will see you at dinner.”

He turns and goes back to his mother’s suite. I rub my arm where he grabbed me. His touch will not leave bruises like fat black pearls. It won’t leave a mark at all.

But it feels the same way now as it did back then, and I have to make three fast circuits of the lake with Henryka and Zofia trotting along behind me before I feel freed of the memory.

__

2024-07-21: After this scene, I feel I should underline that this story is more a drama with an eventual love story subplot than a romance.

18. Persuasion

The next day, as is becoming routine, I sneak off to the library in the morning for my language lesson with Konrad. He is waiting for me when I arrive, a new stack of books in front of him, the usual polite smile on his regular features, however when I greet him and sit down, he keeps his hands folded on top of the stack of books.

“We begin?” I ask in Selician.

“In a moment,” he says in Rothalian. “First, we must have some small, er, argument.”

“An argument?” It is impossible to decipher the emotion hidden behind his polite smile and firmly folded hands. “About your son?”

The polite smile deepens. “I am not angry, you know.”

“But we are to have an argument?”

“A philosophical debate, perhaps?” Something real comes into his smile, the heat of genuine humour. “We must weigh the merits of force against those of persuasion. The incident at the lake yesterday shows that you favour force, but I find myself firmly on the side of persuasion.”

“And you would rather I persuaded your son to cease his behaviour than forced him into regretting it?”

“Certainly.” Konrad’s voice is soft. “For one reason, I am naturally protective of my son and I was shaken to hear that he had been hurt. For another, I admit that his behaviour does need correcting but your manner of correcting it is effective only in the moment. He will not change his ways after yesterday. He will simply make sure that you do not see him make mistakes.”

“He was not hurt. A little pinching, a momentary fear. I would not call that hurt.”

“Ah, but fear can hurt. Fear can hurt more deeply than bruises and blood.” Konrad caresses the binding of a book with his long fingers. “You are not easily afraid, I think, or you would understand.”

“Not easily. But I do not believe Florian was hurt, even by fear. He seemed quite recovered when I saw him in Duchess Maria’s rooms afterwards.” I decide it would be unwise to call Konrad’s son a whinger or a liar to his face. “Quite unafraid.”

“Perhaps. But the fact remains, you used brute force against my son when persuasion would have been the stronger tool. It always is.”

“Not always.”

“No?” He raises one elegant dark eyebrow. “And how did your uncle take over this country? Did he send his army of thousands to camp in our villages, to slaughter our men, rape our women, and starve our children? Did he imprison our parliamentarians? Execute the king and queen and their children? No. No, not at all.” Konrad leans on his elbows over the table, his eyes reflecting the shimmering candlelight. “He sympathised with King Adam when Prussia and Austria rattled their sabres at our borders. He offered his help, his protection, his friendship. And once it was accepted, he let King Adam know its price. Submission.”

I don’t want to talk about my uncle with Konrad. “That is politics. What happened yesterday at the lake was not.”

“Politics is just personal relations on a grander scale, with greater consequences.”

“And what happened at the lake was very much personal. I saw one boy bullying another, and intervened. I will not apologize for what I did, nor how I did it. If that affects our arrangement for you to teach me your language, then I will, naturally, regret the consequences of my actions, but I will not regret my actions themselves.”

Konrad sighs. “And there you go again, with force, rather than persuasion.”

“What force? I used nothing but words.”

“And your words were bludgeons, not needles. You opened up no avenue for compromise, not even difference of opinion. You leave me with no option but to profess that I most certainly do wish to continue our little lessons.”

“Then let us continue.”

I reach out for the stack of books, but Konrad pulls it away from me.

“A moment, please, your highness,” he murmurs. “See what your words have done. You have closed the door on our argument, though it is not resolved. How very forceful your nature is. But what happens when you meet a force stronger than your own? You end up, like Florian, crying for mercy. But persuasion, you see, as I am doing now, resists force and leads to permanent change in one’s opponent.”

“We are both talking,” I say impatiently. “Though one of us is talking nonsense.”

“And there you go again, closing the door!”

We fall into a brief and uncomfortable silence. Konrad plays with a ribbon dangling out of one of his books. I fiddle with the silk of my skirts and wonder how badly he is offended. I don’t want him to stop these lessons. Even in only a week, I am starting to understand fragments of words which I never could before.

“I didn’t want to hurt Florian,” I say, which is true. “I only wanted to make him understand what it would be like to be that little mouse, thrown into the lake. To understand how cruel he had been.”

“And that is why I am not angry with you,” Konrad says. “Your intentions are too clearly good. But you raised your hand against a child, my child. I must beg you never do that again, no matter the reason.”

He looks at me, his blue eyes wide and earnest. He clearly wants to make the promise not to, but knowing that is what he wants makes me wary of giving it to him.

I decide, instead, to evade the conversation.

“I lost my temper.” I try to sound sad. “Perhaps that is what you mean by force. I am afraid I do not quite know what you mean by persuasion.”

“Perhaps you have been too sheltered from the world, away from court, courtiers, and court politics. You were only a child when you were… imprisoned.” He says the word delicately, as though he is afraid I will be hurt by it. “You’re a little green, aren’t you, your highness?”

My pride flares, but I resist the reflex to deny the insult. It will only remind him of what we are really arguing about. “For now, let us work on the assumption that I am ignorant. Teach me what you mean by persuasion.”

His hands, still folded on the books, relax. “All relationships, whether between nations or people, are characterized by dynamics of brute force or persuasion. But force, ah, what does it do? It has everything its own way, or it has nothing at all. One wins through the other’s loss. So commonality, accord, affection, in relationships of force eventually crumble away. Persuasion by contrast allows for a shifting in standing between two people. A coming together. An alignment of opinion.”

“Compromise, in other words.”

“Not always. True persuasion, political persuasion, will make your foes believe you have compromised with them, when in reality you have deceived them, shifted the terrain beneath their feet without them noticing, given them a choice that they believed to be free, which was in fact no choice at all.” Konrad is silent for a moment. “King Edmund is very good at that, I believe.”

I have no argument against that, but I still do not wish to speak of my uncle with Konrad. I don’t even want to hear his name.

Our brief silence is broken by the sound of the library door opening. I turn to see Mariusz in the doorway. He stares at us for a moment, then goes over to a bookcase and scans the shelves. He takes out a book, tucks it under one arm, and leaves again, all without saying a single word to break our silence. We might not be there at all.

“Where does genuine friendship fall into your theory of force and persuasion?” I ask when Mariusz has gone. “If we are all persuading or forcing others into doing our bidding, how can genuine friendship exist?

“True friendship?” Konrad opens one of the books in front of him at last. “It is rarer than emeralds.”

__

2024-07-28: Konrad, stop mansplaining. You got no idea what you’re talking about. None.

19. The Parliament Ball

That night, Mariusz and I, and the rest of court, are to attend a ball at Parliament House. Apart from my wedding, it is the first time I have left the palace since I arrived here. The city seems less bleak at night. Gas lighting lends warm colour to the grey buildings, and the shadows, where they fall, hide all manner of sins. Like this, I can almost pretend I like the city, but when our coach draws up to the parliament steps and Mariusz helps me out into the crowd below, I remember that a city is made up of people as much as stones and my dislike hardens.

A young, pretty matchstick-seller presses her wares upon us, and is hastily, but gently, moved on by one of our guards. I think I see a coin pass hands. No doubt the girl will make a small fortune tonight, probably without losing a single one of her matches. Equally certainly, whatever she earns will be gone by the morrow.

Mariusz takes me on one arm and his mother on the other and leads us up the steps between our guards. We are not made to wait in the queue that is forming from the doors. Instead, we pass straight through, people parting ways for us and whispering.

Some of these people, I suppose, must be friends — of the court, at least, if not of Mariusz — but the stares that light upon me are hostile. I meet them with my own stare, determined not to be beat down.

“Smile,” Mariusz says. “You look angry.”

I try to find a smile to meet the gaze of a hateful looking woman.

“Don’t smile,” Mariusz says. “It frightens me.”

He isn’t smiling either. By the way he kept moving his feet and rearranging his legs in the coach, I had some idea he would rather have run away than attend this ball. But we have no choice. The ball, Dowager Duchess Maria explained to me, was arranged by the city to celebrate the two hundredth anniversary of the founding of the Selician Parliament. Our presence here shows that we publicly support the existence of parliament, even though that very existence limits the power the duke can wield. If we did not come, the public — the non-titled politicians, wealthy business owners, judges, physicians, priests — would see it as a great insult, and perhaps a threat to parliament.

From the cool gazes of those around me, I suspect I am seen as an insult and threat regardless. Perhaps Mariusz too.

We are announced and descend into a grand chamber, marked out with a dance floor and an orchestra at one end. An elderly woman greets Mariusz and his mother, lets her eyes flick briefly over me, then pulls Dowager Duchess Maria away into conversation. I hold on tight to Mariusz’s arm.

“Don’t leave me,” I say. “I can’t talk to anyone.”

“They will understand French,” he says. “I am going to see if the food is out yet.”

He moves with purpose towards a set of archways in the far wall. I keep my hold on his arm. People move to let us pass, rather than stop us with a word. Their eyes, however, quite definitely notice us.

“I am beginning to get the impression you are not very well-liked here,” I say.

“It is you they are staring at,” Mariusz says. “If you left me alone, they might spare me a smile.”

All the same, he makes no effort to dislodge me from his arm. It occurs to me that perhaps I am shielding him from having to use his small talk. And perhaps that is why he is so tolerant of me tonight.

Through the archways, we come to a room laid out with little groups of chairs and settees and long tables of covered trays at one end. It is quieter in here than the main hall, with only a few sparse couples sitting down. We go to the tables, where Mariusz plucks some grapes from a bowl of fruit and eats them slowly. I dare not start to eat — I am sure it is not polite. We should be in the main hall with the crowds, trying to be sociable and pleasant, and saying what we are expected to say.

“Introduce me to someone,” I say. “I will have to dance, yes? Introduce me to someone who will want to dance with me.”

Mariusz looks up from his grapes. “Yes. You will have to dance.” He chews another grape and swallows. “At ten, you might get a headache and we might leave.”

“I feel quite well.”

“I mean it can be one of our little deceptions.”

“I know what you mean. But I feel quite well.”

“Pfuh.” He spits out a grape seed. “Eleven?”

“No headache. We will call for our carriage at half-past midnight. That is an acceptable hour, yes? No one will whisper we could not wait to leave. No one will suggest we overstayed our welcome.”

“Fine.” He looks annoyed. “Come with me. I will introduce you to some men — someone heavy, with two left feet.”

We go back through the archways and Mariusz scans the crowd. He heads towards a pair of old, round-bellied men in shiny waistcoats. I clench my toes in my silk slippers and hope these men are truly important, not just the least likely dancers Mariusz can see. Fortunately, while they are rather cool to us, they accept our introductions in Mariusz’s excellent French, and I learn that one is the Minister of the Mint and another owns the paper factory which supplies it. They must have been at our wedding too, but I have long since forgotten their faces and apologize profusely for my poor memory. This apology garners me a reluctant smile from the man who owns the paper factory. He, too, has a poor memory for faces, he says.

The ghost of an unsaid polite cliché hovers in the silence that follows that.

The Minister of the Mint clears his throat. The factory owner shuffles his heavy feet.

“Is your daughter here?” Mariusz asks the Minister of the Mint. “My wife tells me I must dance, and if I do not remember faces well, I do remember feet. Elvira must be one of my partners tonight.”

“Elvira is with her mother in the country,” the Minister of the Mint says.

Mariusz clicks his tongue. “Then my plans are foiled. You will have to dance with me instead, my dear Alexandra. I can see no other partner equal to Elvira in the room.”

The factory owner shuffles his feet again. “My niece is here,” he says slowly. “She is with my son. Perhaps, if you would like…?”

“It would be my pleasure, I am sure.” Mariusz looks around the hall. “Which beauty is she?”

The woman pointed out is no true beauty, but Mariusz exclaims of her height and her grace from a distance. I squint at the tall, gangly youth hunched next to her. If the factory owner does not offer me his hand, I will make a play for his son. He looks eminently biddable.

However, after we go over and get through the next round of introductions, the factory owner, shuffling his heavy feet, suggests that as his niece is dancing the first dance with Mariusz, I might offer him the pleasure (dubious, by his tone) of taking it with him.

I accept, no better offer on the horizon. Before the dancing begins, however, Mariusz and I, circling around the room, are able to gather more partners for future dances. There is something disconcerting about watching Mariusz smile and utter flattering clichés at people who all too clearly are not warm towards us, and whom I doubt he is fond of either. At least in his rudeness, he is genuine with me, I tell myself.

It is a very thin silver lining.

The dancing begins. I am sure my toes are black and blue by the end of my dance with the factory owner, but I stalwartly ignore the pain and seek my next partner. He is an army general in formal dress, still straight-backed and stiff-limbed despite his advanced age. Throughout our dance, he converses with me in French as stiff as his limbs. Would I kindly share King Edmund’s intentions for the Severni people? I have never heard of the Severni people. Then perhaps I can inform him of King Edmund’s view of increasing the Selician military presence in the northern mountain ranges? I did not know there was a military presence in the northern mountain ranges.

By the end of that dance, I have thoroughly disappointed the general with my ignorance.

I take a short break to get myself a glass of wine. While I am sipping it and searching the room for my third partner, I feel a soft touch at my elbow and turn to see Konrad. He looks particularly elegant tonight, in a well-fitting dark suit with a cherry-red waistcoat and black bow tie. His hair is slicked back with so much wax that not a strand moves when he bows.

“May I beg the honour of a dance?” he asks.

“I’m afraid I am already taken. I was just looking for my next partner. Lord… Rol…? Lord Rodney? No. I can’t remember the name. He owns race horses.”

“Lord Orla. He breeds race horses.” Konrad scans the room and discreetly gestures to the man. “I promise I dance I better than he. Perhaps after Lord Orla I might find you?”

“After Lord Orla you will find me dancing with Mister… He manufactures rifles?”

“Mister Mazur. After Mister Mazur, might I have the pleasure of your company?”

“I am afraid not. I am partnered for every dance of the night.”

“Too late, too late,” Konrad says ruefully. “I will have to content myself with poor imitations.”

It is a particularly greasy compliment, and not typical of Konrad’s usual speech in my language. I wonder if he cribbed it from a book of manners.

“Excuse me,” I say. “The music is starting. I must go.”

As I dance with Lord Orla, who leads me through the dance as though I were one of his horses, I notice that Konrad has found a partner in time. Indeed, he dances every dance of the night with a different woman, his smile and feet unfatiguing.

At midnight, I find my last partner of the night, a banker, and I am just repeating my very well-rehearsed remark on the crush of the ballroom when Mariusz appears by my side.

“My darling, you look exhausted,” he says in French. He fetches out a handkerchief and flutters it over my brow. “Might I be ever so rude, Lord Volan, and beg my wife be excused from this dance? No, don’t protest, my little cabbage, you are perspiring, positively swampy.”

Lord Volan shudders slightly. “But of course, your highness. I will gladly dance with Princess Alexandra on another night.”

He leaves, haste in his step.

“I’m not swampy!”

“A little damp at least.” Mariusz presses the handkerchief against my palm to prove it.

“Ugh. It’s wet! That’s not me. What did you do to it?”

“I poured a little wine on it,” Mariusz admits in Rothalian. “In case Volan was stubborn. It is after midnight.”

“Two minutes after. We leave at half-past,” I say in French.

“I’m weary of dancing,” Mariusz says, still in my language. “I’m tired of talking. Come. Let us sit, and eat, and rest. No one will bother us if we are together. They will think we are making love.”

“Another little deception.” I let myself lapse back into Rothalian with relief. I’m tired too. “Fine. Let’s sit.”

We go back to the refreshment room, which is much more crowded now, and sit down together in the quietest corner we can find. Mariusz fetches us wine and pastries. I eat and drink slowly, realizing only now how painful my feet are in their tight, sweaty dancing slippers.

“Who are the Severni people?” I ask after a while.

“Hm?” Mariusz looks up from his pastry. “They live in the mountains. They have their own customs, their own language, but they are my people.”

“And we have a military presence there?”

“At the border, yes.” Mariusz narrows his eyes. “You should not be asking me these things. You are not meant to be involved in politics.”

“Must I be entirely ignorant then?”

“It makes it harder for you to spy on us if you are.”

“If I were a spy, I would not have to ask such ignorant questions.”

“Hm.” Mariusz picks the spinach from a cheese pastry. “Why were you in the library with Konrad today?”

“Do you think he’s a spy too?”

“Maybe. What were you doing with him?”

I want to keep it secret but there is no easy, believable lie. “He teaches me Selician,” I say reluctantly. “One hour, sometimes two, each morning.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

Mariusz deposits his unwanted spinach neatly in his empty wine glass. “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust me either.”

“Exactly. It makes you both more dangerous.”

As we speak, Konrad himself enters the refreshment room, one of his dance partners on his arm. She is laughing riotously, but Konrad is only smiling. Mariusz watches as Konrad fetches the woman a glass of wine, bows, and leaves the room.

“I don’t like him,” Mariusz says quietly.

“Then perhaps you should teach me Selician instead.”

Mariusz shakes his head. “I don’t have the patience.”

“Then you have no right to complain.”

He scowls. “Just learn it quickly, will you?”

__

2024-08-04: I don’t like that last line, hm. Hard to find something snappy this chapter.

20. The Reckless Prince’s Heir

The morning after the ball, I wake up at dawn with a heavy, aching belly and a hot wetness between my thighs. I scramble up off the sofa in a panic and drag my blanket from it. In the thin light, I scan the sofa seats thoroughly, but I can discern no revealing stain. However my skirt is saturated behind, and there are scarlet pebbles of colour on the blanket.

I straighten the sofa cushions then go to the bed and kick the mattress. Mariusz stirs.

“What?” he grunts.

“I need to get in bed.”

“Then get in.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“Hm?” One eye flutters halfway open. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m bleeding. I need to get in bed, so the servants think I bled in bed. Or our little deception will be over.”

“What do you mean, bleeding?” He sits up properly, presses his palms to his eyes, then squints at me. “Oh!”

I’ve never heard him sound so uncertain. He slides out of bed and stares at me.

“You get in then,” he says. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get dressed and go for a ride.”

I crawl into bed, shuddering at the feel of my damp skirt between my thighs, and pull the stained blanket over me. Even in this discomfort, it doesn’t take long before I fall into the halfway state between waking and sleep. I shut my eyes, only dimly conscious of Mariusz moving around the apartment. The rush of the tap water, the rustle of his clothing, the soft thump of his bare footsteps, the clink of his boot buckle, the sharper thump of his booted feet.

“I’m going,” he says, half-waking me.

“Mm.”

But he does not leave.

“Do you need anything? You look pale.”

“I feel sick.” I bury my face in the pillow. “Leave me alone.”

He leaves me alone.

I wake what feels like hours later. The heavy, hot feeling in my gut has lightened and cooled, but I still feel unwell. I crawl out of bed to see a tray of tea and toast on the bedside table. I touch the teapot to find it cool. Mariusz must have asked the servants to make tea for me before he left. The unexpected kindness pleases me.

I leave the cold tea and ring the bell for the servants. When the maid comes, I order a hot bath and for the bedclothes to be changed. The maid also brings more tea and toast while I am bathing. The tea helps settle my stomach, but I still feel weak and unwell when I finish my bath and wrap myself in a dressing gown. I settle myself down on an armchair by the window and look out over the gardens. It is always like this on the first day of my monthly courses — body-heavy, sick, and weary. In the tower, I was alone in my suffering. Here, I have a runaway husband who orders me cold tea and toast before he disappears.

Things have improved.

My husband appears in the view through the window, cantering down the lawn on a chestnut horse. Behind him rides Lady Celina on an elegant grey, laughing. They ride circles on the lawn, careless of the grass they kick up.

Someone knocks at the door and I turn as it opens. Dowager Duchess Maria enters.

“I hope you will excuse the interruption,” she says in her slow, accurate French.

“Of course. Good morning, your grace.”

“Good morning, Alexandra.” She comes closer and looks out the window with me. “Ah. Mariusz is riding.”

“He is.”

We watch in silence as Mariusz, goaded by Celina, directs his horse towards a high hedge. The horse makes it over, kicking its back legs up, but Mariusz does not. He is dislodged by the horse’s ungainly hind legs and slips out of sight behind the hedge. Celina canters up behind him, calling out. After a moment, Mariusz crawls to his feet, covered in mud, and laughs off the event.

Duchess Maria lets out a faint sigh. I look at her. One hand is over her heart.

“He is reckless,” she says. “He never thinks of the risk.”

“And you do?”

“I’m a mother. Of course I do.”

We watch as Mariusz remounts his horse and he and Celina canter out of sight beyond a line of trees.

“I came to see if you needed anything,” Duchess Maria says. “The maids tell me you are in your courses.”

“I am. I need nothing but rest.”

“That is good.” Still she does not leave. Instead, she fixes me with an uneasy gaze. “It would be best if you became pregnant soon and had a son.”

Heat comes to my cheeks. Does she suspect I am still a virgin? But her eyes are completely unsuspicious. “Do not ask of me what I cannot control. It is in God’s hands.”

“And I am praying for it. However, if you are using any cunning techniques of avoiding pregnancy… I would not put it past Mariusz to persuade you to try.”

“There are techniques?” I do not have to feign my surprise.

The dowager duchess clears her throat. “I do not mean to ask of you what you cannot give, Alexandra. What I mean to, uh, emphasize is that it would be very good, very desired, for you to give Mariusz an heir. After all, he is reckless.” Her eyes narrow with annoyance. “He is participating in the national steeplechase next week.”

At last I understand that Duchess Maria has not visited for my sake. She is angry with Mariusz, in the way that I have seen other mothers be angry with their children. My own mother, though frequently angry, never carried this sort of disappointment in her voice. Her hopes of me were never high enough to be disappointed.

“Perhaps it is Mariusz you should be talking to. I’m not the reckless one.”

“That’s why I have to talk to you.” For the first time since I have known her, she gives me a genuine, frail smile. “He won’t listen. You might.”

“I will always listen.” I look out the window again as Mariusz and Celina come back into sight. Mariusz is riding for the hedge again. This time, when his horse makes the jump, he manages to stay with it. “I just can’t promise you that he will listen to me.”

__

2024-08-05: Hasty update for reasons. Mariusz does actually do something nice for Alex, even if it doesn’t really work out.

21. Lady Celina’s Favour

I attend no language lesson that morning. Instead, I lie between my new clean sheets listening to the rain drum on the windows until laughter and talk in the next room alert me to the fact that Mariusz has returned — and with him, his friends. I try to decipher their language without much success, but I recognise frequent numbers and realize they must be gambling. Perhaps dice.

They probably won’t let me play with them.

The thought angers me enough to rouse me out of bed, despite the dull ache in my lower belly. I slip into a dressing gown and open the door. The four of them sit around the dining table, playing not dice but cards with a German deck.

Mariusz looks over his shoulder at me. “Are you feeling better?”

“A little.” If they are playing cards, they will not want a fifth. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Of course.” He looks back at his hand and scowls. “Milejši?”

I try and fail to decipher the meaning.

Barany, to Mariusz’s left, shakes his head. “Ne. Sedm.”

No. Seven. I feel a little thrill at understanding even that simple phrase.

Mariusz replies with a single word I can neither translate nor parse.

Across the table from him, Celina presses her index finger to her cheek and taps once. Mariusz’s scowl deepens. It is some kind of partner game then. They will not have room for a fifth. And it is complex, judging by the brief negotiations that go on between the players before Barany even puts down his first card.

I watch the hand, which Barany and Valery win. Celina marks up the scores on a slate.

“Your mother told me this morning that you are riding the steeplechase,” I say as Barany begins to shuffle.

“I am.”

“It can be dangerous, can’t it?”

“I’m a good rider.”

“I saw you fall off your horse this morning.”

“I’m good at falling too. I always land on my rump.”

Celina and Valery laugh which makes Barany pause in shuffling the cards. He smiles along at the joke he does not understand and offers the cards to Celina to cut. Then he deals.

I wait as the negotiations and silent signals recommence. This time, Celina nominates queens before the play begins, and again I feel a thrill at my new understanding when she plays the Queen of Acorns and wins the first trick. However, once again, Valery and Barany win the hand, three-to-two.

“You play cards as well as you jump hedges,” I say to Mariusz.

“We all have strings of bad luck.”

“And what happens if your bad luck visits during the steeplechase?”

“I am getting it all out tonight, don’t you see?” He looks at his hand, then grins. “Kings,” he says in Selician.

He has three kings, which I think must mean he will win the hand. Valery chooses an unpronouncable word as trumps, which turns out to be hearts, and Mariusz smiles and lays his hand open on the table.

“Not all of it,” I say, judging by Valery’s snarl of disappointment that Mariusz has won the hand.

“Some good must go with the bad.” He takes up the cards and begins to shuffle. “I have always competed in the steeplechase. Every year since I was fifteen, except for last year.”

An imperfect silence follows that statement, broken only by the shuffling of the cards. The other three watch Mariusz. Valery and Celina look wary, but Barany looks almost guilty.

“What happened last year?” I can’t help myself asking.

“Why do you have to know everything?” Celina shoots back. “Deal, Maszek.”

Maszek. The nickname bothers me, though I have heard others refer to Mariusz as such. Mariusz offers the cards to Barany to cut and begins to deal.

“It was when Adam was dying,” Mariusz says. “He died a few days after the race, actually. So I did not compete last year. This year, I will compete again. Next year, I will compete again too. I like the steeplechase. It is fun.” A stubborn note rises in his voice. “My mother hates it, of course. That is why she spoke to you about it. She thinks you will convince me not to ride.”

“Can I? It is dangerous.”

“You cannot.” Mariusz meets Barany’s eyes. “Milejši?

This time, Barany agrees, and he and Mariusz discard their hands facedown in the middle of the table and Mariusz deals five more cards for each of them. They decide upon nine with acorns for trumps and Barany begins the trick with nine of hearts.

When play comes around to Mariusz again, he takes the trick with the nine of acorns.

“I have never hurt myself in the steeplechase,” he says. “My luck always comes out for the steeplechase.”

“I will help your luck,” Celina says. “I will give you a favour.” She makes a great show of patting her sleeves and skirts. “Ach! I cannot find my handkerchief. No matter, no matter.” She bends down, disappearing out of sight below the table. Valery leans over to watch her, one eyebrow raised. A few moments later, she sits up again, a strip of gauzy pale silk in her hand. “You may have my stocking instead!”

She throws it across the table at him. It falls limply onto the discarded cards. Mariusz looks at it for a moment, then laughs under his breath and tucks it into his pocket.

“There, I am now safe.”

Celina smiles across the table at me. There is triumph in it. And spite. She hates me, I realize. Not just my reputation, not just my connection to Rothalia, but me, personally.

An echoing feeling ignites in my own heart.

__

2024-08-11: I know some of these chapters are quite short… it’s just the way it works out for this story.

22. The Steeplechase

The steeplechase begins at a village church some five miles out of the city and ends at another little church on the city outskirts, not far from the palace. Along the winding road which connects the two churches, barriers of twigs, mounds of earth, and ditches of water have been built. Crowds of spectators line the road to watch the race. The wealthier of the city’s inhabitants occupy the churchyard by the finish line, with tents set up for refreshment and shelter and garden chairs brought in for little old ladies to sit on.

I wait there along with the others. The starting line is out of sight beyond the horizon, but several young men, including Barany and Valery and Konrad, have climbed the bell tower so that they can see it. They cheer and wave above us when the race begins.

I drift through the crowds in the churchyard, wondering when Mariusz will be in sight, feeling very out of place when everyone else seems to have someone to talk to. Even Celina is standing with two other young women and saying something with a sly smile that makes them laugh.

Zofia and Henryka have not come with me today. Dowager Duchess Maria refused to let them. Without them or Mariusz, I have no one to talk to. Barany would at least be company, even if we cannot really talk, but he is up in the bell tower.

I drift closer to Celina and her friends. “How long is the race?” I ask them in French.

Celina looks coldly at me and says nothing.

“The winner normally takes about twenty minutes,” one of her friends says. “We can see him in about five.”

Celina says something to her in Selician, with another sly smile. The woman giggles. I know Celina is talking about me.

I turn away. At least I will only have to waste five minutes before I can disguise my isolation by watching the riders come in.

I am not the only lonely woman here. The small, rather plump, red-haired woman I have seen about court is also drifting rather awkwardly through the churchyard, eddying on the edges of other people’s conversations as though she wishes to be invited in.

She meets my eye then quickly looks away. I cannot tell if it is fear or shyness.

I look down the road, but no rider has yet appeared on the horizon. Slowly, unsurely, I make my way to the woman.

“You are Prince Konrad’s wife, no?” I say in French.

“Yes.” Her voice is soft and high. “You must have forgotten my name. We were introduced at your wedding. I am Lady Irena Ledelek.”

A lady. Since Konrad’s title is a courtesy only, Lady Irena’s father must be a count. But she does not have the confidence I expect of nobility.

“How old are you?” I ask. “Eighteen?”

“Twenty-one.” She seems slightly ashamed of it. Her fair cheeks darken to pink.

She is older than me then, though she looks younger thanks to her mannerisms and height. And her face, which is very round. In fact, it is her face and height which makes her seem plump — up close, I can see she is not really plump at all.

“Do you have older brothers?” I ask, curious as to where her shyness comes from. “Many mean brothers?”

She shakes her head. “I have one sister, younger and very kind.”

Our conversation dies. We look at the crowds around us, then back at each other.

“Do you have brothers?” she asks eventually.

“No. No brother, no sister. It was just me.”

“That must have been lonely.”

“I think I liked it best that way.”

Again, our conversation dies. I look around the churchyard and see Celina watching us.

“Tell me about Lady Celina,” I say. “She is bothering me. She flirts with Mariusz.”

The pinkness in Irena’s cheeks darkens to red. “Oh no.”

“She does. Is she in love with him? Is that what I did to earn her hatred?”

“Oh.” Irena touches her red cheeks. “Oh. No. No, she can’t be in love with him.”

“Why not?”

“It would be impolite.”

“And she is impolite. So it would suit her.”

Irena blinks her mousey eyelashes rapidly. “Oh dear. No, no I don’t think she is. They are very good friends.” Irena looks wistfully in Celina’s direction. “She is very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” Irena is shocked into silence once more. I give her time, and eventually, she says, tentatively, “You don’t like her?”

“She flirts with Mariusz.”

“She flirts with everyone. I think I understand. Her husband was so old that—”

“Her husband?”

Irena nods. “She is a widow. Count Vovesni died two years ago. It was shortly after Konrad arrived at the palace with little Florian. I think it surprised everyone that Konrad married me when Celina was newly freed — horrible to use that word, but she was freed when Count Vovesni died. He was so old.”

“People expected Celina to marry again so soon?”

“Oh yes. It was tremendous gossip.” A light comes into Irena’s hazel eyes. “I adore gossip, isn’t that horrible of me? I never have much to say myself, but I love listening to people talk.”

“So do I. Though I’m not fond of being talked about.”

“Oh no. That is humiliating.” Irena giggles nervously. “We are such hypocrites, are we not?”

“I think it is only natural.” I watch Celina laughing with her friend. “Tell me more about Celina. Why did she marry such an old man?”

“The usual reason. Her family had no money, so they sent their eldest, most beautiful daughter to find a rich husband, and she did, in Count Vovesni, the king’s treasurer.”

“And now he is dead and she is rich.”

“He is dead, and she is poor,” Irena corrects. “They had no children, so his fortune went to his nephew. King Adam pitied Lady Celina, so he invented a role for her: Mistress of Ceremonies. It allowed her to stay on in the palace, without going back to her family. I don’t think she ever forgave them for making her marry Vovesni. He was a horrible old man.”

“I can’t imagine Celina ever being made to do anything. She was probably as ambitious as her family.”

“I don’t know. I was too young at the time to really take much interest in it.” Irena falls into silence, but this time we are not silent because we do not know what to say but because we are thinking. “It makes me glad I have Konrad.”

It is an odd match. Konrad is sophisticated and knowing. Irena is innocent and gauche. But perhaps that is what Konrad found appealing.

The crowd around us starts to cheer. A horseman has appeared over the horizon. Irena and I move together to the churchyard wall and strain our eyes to see. More horses appear, leaping over the barricades. I wonder which rider is Mariusz.

Soon, the lead riders are close enough to make out the colours of their riding coats. Mariusz was wearing blue and red, the colours of the duchy. He is not among them. Slowly the riders get closer and the spectators in the fields alongside the road begin to cheer, but I watch the back of the race. At last, I see the flash of peacock blue that I think is Mariusz on his black horse. He is straggling at the back of the pack, but he manages to keep his seat on his horse as it leaps the barricades. In front of him, a rider falls off, but he swerves around and keeps riding.

Around me, the entire church yard begins to cheer. I look away from Mariusz for a moment to see two men in the lead galloping the last few yards to the finish line at the church gate. I turn my gaze back to the crowd of slower riders, heedless of the winner. It takes me some time to find Mariusz again. He has passed several riders and is pushing his horse even faster now. He jumps a ditch with ease but has to slow a little to manage a high fence of piled branches.

Only a thin stretch of road separates him from the finish line now. He disappears behind obstacles then rises above them, slowly gaining on the rider in front of him. On the open stretch of road before the church gate, however, his horse slows to a canter, impervious to Mariusz urging it on, and another rider passes him. Laughing, he rides slowly through the gate waving a ribbon of gauzy silk over his head. Celina’s stocking. People laugh as he passes through. More than a few send me amused, knowing glances. They must think it is my stocking. My cheeks burn.

“What is it?” Irena asks. “I can’t see from here. Your scarf?”

“Not a scarf.” I do not wish to admit whose it really is. “I wish he had not. He embarrasses me.” Humiliates, even, though my humiliation is secret where my embarrassment in public.

Irena smiles in confusion. She seems to think it wisest to ask no more questions and takes refuge in silence, but we stay together as the last stragglers of the race trail through. Afterwards, there is a brief ceremony in which the winner is presented with a gold cup and cheered and clapped. Grooms take the horses away for bran and rub downs. Some of the spectators start to head home. Others pile into the tents for food and drinks and celebration. There is always a cause for celebration in Selica.

I look at Irena. “Are you coming to the royal tent?”

“I would rather not. There is always a lot of busy talk. I prefer the quiet.”

“Unfortunately, I have to join the busy talk. It was lovely talking to you today though. We will speak another time, Irena.”

It was not precisely lovely, but it was informative and she was pleasant to me. I am in no position to refuse a friend. She smiles and curtsies, and I move away into the royal tent. Someone has brought out the champagne and Mariusz is being toasted. Celina’s stocking is draped around his neck like a cravat. Barany and Valery are clapping him on the back as they drink champagne. Someone sees me and calls out my name. Men push me towards Mariusz. I understand the phrase ‘lucky’ or ‘luck’. I am not quite sure which. I try to pull back, but the men push me forward until I am next to Mariusz. When he sees me, his smile falters until he laughs guiltily to restore it.

His guilty laugh infuriates me. “I don’t know why they’re saying I’m lucky when you lost.”

“But I finished the race. Let me kiss you, for the audience.”

“No.”

“They expect it.”

“I said, no.”

I push away through the crowd towards the table of food and champagne. Keeping my mouth full will keep me from saying anything I might regret later. Mariusz laughs off my rejection and continues celebrating. I eat an apple pastry and am halfway through another when Konrad comes to the refreshment table to pour himself a cup of tea. He bows slightly in my direction.

“Your husband rode well,” he says. “I watched him from the bell tower. I think if he were to really put his mind to it, he could win one day. But he never has put his mind to it.”

“Why should he? He is a prince, his ambitions should be higher than being a jockey.”

Konrad smiles. It is one of his polite, disagreeing smiles. “You are right, of course. He is very busy putting his mind to being a prince.”

We watch Mariusz drink champagne, his arms around Barany and Valery. Very busy, indeed.

“I saw you talking with my wife during the race,” Konrad says.

“I was, yes.”

“She must be dull company for you.”

“Not at all. I like her.”

Konrad looks surprised. “Really? Though I suppose there are very few women your age at the palace.”

“Only Lady Irena and Lady Celina.” I cannot help the coldness that comes into my voice when I say Celina’s name.

“Ah. And Lady Celina you do not like.”

I watch Konrad carefully, trying to gauge through his expression what he thinks of her. “She is not very kind to me.”

“She is rarely kind,” Konrad murmurs. “The word we use in Selician for women like that is svirepa. Cruel, like a cat.”

“Svirepa.” I like how it sounds. “What else?”

Konrad smiles, a proper smile this time. “A word you must not repeat, your highness.” He lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. “ Suka.“

It is satisfying to say under my breath. “What does it mean?”

“The female dog.”

__

2024-08-18: We learn a little of Celina’s backstory and finally meet Konrad’s wife. And Alex learns a dirty word.

23. An Argument Interrupted

Thursday dinner, the week after the steeplechase, is held in honour of Dominik, whose name day falls that week. Rather than the usual collection of important people, Dominik invited whomsoever he desired without consideration of rank or wealth. His nursemaid and a gardener’s son are among the guests, as are his sisters and even Lady Irena, though neither Konrad nor Florian are present. For reasons I fail to understand, Celina is one of Dominik’s so favoured, though neither Valery nor Barany are. Throughout the dinner, which begins at six out of consideration for Dominik’s bedtime, I watch Celina make faltering talk with Dominik’s nursemaid and ignore Irena on her other side.

Svirepa suka, I repeat in my head. It feels like a prayer.

After dinner, we move to the salon where tea and a special cream cake is served. Dominik eats his fill of cake then starts playing a card game with the gardener’s son. His nursemaid enters into earnest conversation with Dowager Duchess Maria. Lady Irena sits near them, listening in her pigeon-like manner, head turning from one to the other. Mariusz watches the boys play cards, every now and then saying something in a teasing tone that makes them giggle. Celina moves around the room, pretending to examine the pictures on the walls and darting glances at Mariusz, before eventually settling into conversation with two of Dominik’s guests — two young women who I was earlier introduced to as Dominik’s cousins on his mother’s side. They are pretty young women, about my own age, and their conversation with Celina is lively.

“Is your cousins’ company pleasant?” I ask Henryka.

“They are ten years older than me,” Henryka says. “They are kind enough, but I rarely spend time with them.”

“I have forgotten their names.”

“Emilia and Edyta.”

“Let us go talk with them.”

Zofia and Henryka trail after me as I cross the room to where the three women sit talking.

“Good evening,” I say in Selician.

Celina says nothing, but rolls her eyes contemptuously in my direction. The other two say good evening in return. I take that as invitation to sit down with them, and as I do, the smiles die on their faces. I do not think they are cruel, like Celina. Rather, they look anxious.

“Do you speak French?” I ask in the language. “I am afraid my Selician is very limited.”

The older cousin — Emilia, I think — hesitates. “We do, yes. How do you find Selica, your highness?”

“I am growing accustomed to it.” The uncertain silence that follows my polite response gives me time to really think about it. “It is not always comfortable, of course, being among so many strangers. Sometimes I feel quite lonely.” But, then, I always felt lonely at home too, even before they put me in the tower. “Mariusz and his family have been very kind to me though.”

That last bit is a polite lie, but it affords me the pleasure of seeing an irritated frown cross Celina’s brow.

“My aunt is very gracious, and my cousins likewise,” Emilia says. “I am sure Zofia and Henryka will make you feel most welcome here.”

There is a sense of finality to that statement. She turns her head slightly towards Celina and speaks in Selician. I think she is asking how well I speak the language. Celina laughs and shakes her head as she replies. Edyta joins the conversation, and they chatter away, heedless of my presence.

“Perhaps you can suggest some entertainment for me,” I interrupt in French.

The three women look at me.

“I am a little bored sometimes. I walk around the palace and gardens, I play billiards, and I read, but sometimes I find I want for things to do. Going out to see the steeplechase was exciting. Perhaps you can suggest some entertainments around the city that are suitable for a woman?”

“I know not what you like,” Celina says. Her tone makes it obvious she also does not care.

“Nor do I, until I try it. What is it that you like to do, Lady Celina? Other than drinking, that is.”

Two pink spots appear high on Celina’s cheeks. “What do you mean by that?”

“It is not an entertainment for me.”

Her eyes glitter. “It seems that your entertainment lies in casting stones at those beneath you, who cannot speak back against the crown. How very unfair.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I have cast no stones. If you feel bruised, it must be your own wounding.” I turn to the younger cousin, Edyta. “What is it that you do for entertainment in the city?”

She looks nervous. “I attend dances and dinners.”

To which I am not invited.

“There are many charming rides about the palace,” Henryka says helpfully. “Perhaps we can go riding one day.”

It is not a terrible suggestion, but I do not want it to come from Henryka. I want to talk to these two cousins, in their fine silk dresses, with their elegant makeup, not to a pimply-browed fifteen-year-old.

“I do not ride,” Edyta says.

“We can ride together, Princess Alexandra,” Henryka says. “Do you like riding?”

There would be little more pleasure in riding with Henryka and Zofia than there is in walking aimlessly with them about the gardens. I remain silent, knowing Henryka will not ask me again.

By my side, Zofia examines her pearl bracelet intently, looking painfully bored. She laughed under her breath when I insulted Celina, but she has very little patience for polite, adult conversations. I can tell she would rather not be here.

“Why don’t you both go and play cards with Dominik,” I suggest. “I do not need you now.”

A look of hurt crosses Henryka’s face, but she gets up and follows Zofia to where the boys are playing.

“I think…” Celina says slowly, “…I would like to watch them play cards too. Come with me, Edyta, Emilia.”

She gets up and the two women follow her, leaving me alone. I cannot follow them now. It would make me look silly. Instead, I relax back into my chair like its comfort was why I came to this lonely part of the room to begin with.

Svirepa suka.

After a few minutes, Irena gets up from where she is listening to the duchess’s conversation and comes over to me.

“May I sit down?” she asks.

“Certainly.”

She sits near me. For quite some time, we sit in absolute silence. It is not that we are enjoying each other’s company, but we are enjoying in this dual solitude, the reprieve from others’ company.

“You see that Celina is rude to me,” I say abruptly, in undertone.

“I saw.”

“At every turn, she tries to keep me from talking to people. The only reason she is not here now, trying to me from talking to you, is…” I hesitate, not wanting to insult Irena.

“…Is that she does not think me important,” Irena says softly. “I know that. I used to wish to be friends with her. She never really had much to say to me, though. Perhaps because I rarely have much to say myself.” She falls into silence again. “You’re much easier to talk to than the other women here.”

“No one has ever accused me of that before. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

She flushes pink and says nothing.

“What do you do when you are bored?” I ask after a while. “What is your entertainment in the city?”

“I like to attend the theatre when I can. It is not often, but I like the opera, the ballet, anything musical with a story, really.”

“What is your favourite opera?”

“Oh, it is Ruslan and Lyudmila,” she says instantly. “I saw it four years ago, with my mother and father. It is so romantic.”

“I have not heard of that one.” I know little of opera at all. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s very fantastic. There are faeries and thunderstorms and demons, conspiring to get between the two lovers. And it has a happy ending.” She laughs nervously. “I prefer a happy ending. I have no heart for tragedies. Which do you prefer?”

“I don’t really know that I have a preference. I have not much experience with opera to decide. I did not know that any ended happily.”

“Oh, the comedies do, but there are few really happy love stories that I have seen. That is why I liked Ruslan and Lyudmila so much.”

“Tell me more about the opera,” I say. “Is it popular here?”

Perhaps I will take up a new hobby. Even if I do not understand the words, I might enjoy the music, the costumes, the spectacle. It would certainly be preferable to riding with Henryka.

So Irena tells me about opera until the clock strikes nine and Dowager Duchess Maria chides Dominik to go to bed. He goes, protesting, and once he is gone our sober little party breaks up by twos and threes. I head upstairs to my apartment with Mariusz in silence.

When we are in our sitting room, I say, “Will you change first, or can I?”

“Wait a moment,” he says. “I want to talk.” He sounds displeased.

“What have I done now?” I ask. “Insult Celina? It was only by implication.”

“You insulted her?” He looks annoyed but then shakes his head. “I suppose she provoked you. It is not that. You spent all evening in hushed conference with Lady Irena.”

“We were talking about opera. What is wrong with that?”

“Nothing, but she is my cousin’s wife, and I do not trust him. You know that. If you cannot a trust a man, you cannot trust his wife. I would much rather you make friends with Henryka than spend so much time with Lady Irena.”

“Henryka is a child. I cannot be expected to make friends with children.” I see by Mariusz’s expression that he intends to defend his sister, and speak quickly before he can. “And for that matter, if we are objecting to friendships, I am not pleased with how close friends you are with Lady Celina. That stocking she gave you was an absolute insult. In front of me too.”

“It was a joke!”

“On me! On your wife! Do not pretend you are blind to the implications! Your triumph at the steeplechase was my humiliation. And I think you enjoyed it. I think you enjoy when she plays jokes on me. As long as you enjoy that you have no right to tell me who I cannot be friends with because it remains very clear that I cannot count on friendship from you.”

Mariusz gives me a dirty look. “I told you at the beginning that I have no wish to be friends.”

“And now I am telling you that as long as you are not my friend, I will find my friends wherever else I please. That may be Irena. That may be Konrad. You have no right to complain as long as you are friends with Celina. I feel the same way about her as you do about Konrad.”

“Celina can be trusted.”

“By you. Not by me.”

We fall into an uneasy silence. Mariusz shoots me petulant glares. I stare at him, determined not to look away and show weakness. He is in the wrong. He must know he in the wrong. I heard guilt in his laughter the day of the steeplechase. He would have to be an idiot to think there was nothing wrong with that joke.

Someone knocks at the door, interrupting our silence. We both jump.

“Enter,” Mariusz says in Selician. “Who is it?”

It is a footman. I catch the name Lord Tarnuv in his message. Mariusz frowns and looks at the clock, then responds in Selician.

Lord Tarnuv comes directly into the room. He must have been waiting behind the footman. I wonder if they heard our argument. Were they were waiting for silence before they knocked? But we were not shouting, and at the very least the footman could have understood nothing.

Lord Tarnuv speaks to Mariusz briefly in rapid Selician. Mariusz looks worried.

“I am needed at Parliament,” he says. “It is an emergency.” He hesitates. “You should come too.”

__

2024-08-25: Alex hits back at both Celina and Mariusz. Not big hits, but she’s not taking things lying down.

24. The Prince’s Duty

It is nearly ten o’clock when we reach Parliament. The hall where we danced is empty now and our footsteps echo deep into its shadows. Mariusz and I and Tarnuv pass right through, onwards into wide passages, and emerge into a long chamber of gilt and royal blue velvet. At one end is a great gilded chair and table on a dais. A gold-robed man sits on the chair. At the other end is a set of stairs leading to a small platform on which is a humble wooden bench, unoccupied. Along the sides of the chamber are rows of tiered seats, like in a theatre. These are filled with expensively suited men. Some are sitting up and alert. Others are asleep. In the very centre of the chamber is a round red marble circle, like a sun, in the middle of all the blue carpet around it. Here stands a young man, not expensively dressed, barely dressed at all in fact. He wears no waistcoat, and his shirt, billowing out between his coat flanks, threatens to come untucked from his wrinkled grey trousers.

Everybody stands as we enter the room. Mariusz heads for the platform with the humble wooden bench. Lord Tarnuv pushes me gently in his direction.

“Go with him,” he says.

I follow Mariusz. Lord Tarnuv makes his way to a seat on one of the lower rows of the chamber.

Mariusz sits down on the humble little bench. There is just enough space for me next to him, but I hesitate.

“Sit with me,” he says.

“Can’t I stand?”

“It’s best if you don’t. Only the one speaking is allowed to stand.”

A political ritual, then. I sit next to Mariusz, my skirts billowing out over his ankles. The unkempt man down on the floor begins to speak, gesticulating wildly with his long arms and waving around a sheaf of papers.

“What’s it about?” I whisper.

“He is an independent,” Mariusz says in a low voice. “He has come up with a petition, which he is now describing. He has ten thousand signatures of people who wish to dissolve the monarchy. He is casting a motion in parliament now to dissolve it.”

“Can he do that?”

“No. I can veto his motion. I have that power. Even if I did not, I doubt he would get a majority. Most of parliament supported my father absolutely. Much of them still support me.”

“But you can’t risk letting them take the vote?”

Mariusz looks out over the crowd. “It would take more than a motion, but it would not be wise to let it get that far.”

The unkempt man finishes his speech. A few people — not many — clap. The man in the gilded chair speaks out. I catch Mariusz’s name. He stands up, then looks down at me and offers me his hand.

“Stand up,” he whispers.

I take his hand and get to my feet. When I am standing, he does not release me.

He says one short, clipped sentence in Selician, very loudly. A few people — more, this time — clap. A few others boo.

Mariusz’s hand is shaking in mine. When the claps and boos fade, the unkempt man walks off the circle, nestling his sheaf of papers to his chest. He does not look disappointed. He must have expected this result.

The man in the gilded chair says something again. Every man in the room stands up, and Mariusz begins to head down the stairs, still holding my hand. As we leave the chamber, Tarnuv comes after us. His mouth is set, like he is trying to keep words from rushing out. Anger is in his eyes.

He manages to keep the words in until we reach our coach. He swings himself in after us and once we are rolling off towards the palace again, he starts.

It is fluent, fast-flowing Selician, too fast for me to follow, but I do not need to understand the words to know that he is berating Mariusz. Fury is in his tone and expression. On the coach seat beside me, Mariusz slumps back and offers no reply but shrugs and the occasional “Yes, I know,” or “Yes, I understand.” He sounds completely unconcerned, which only makes Tarnuv’s tone more clipped. I had not known that a man as polite and restrained as Tarnuv could be angry. To be sure, he never once raises his voice or says any of the words I recognize as curses, but there is fury in every inch of his taut posture and every syllable of his racing words.

Listening, crammed in the coach with these two men, I feel all the shame which Mariusz does not.

At last, we reach the palace. Mariusz opens the door even before the coach has completely stopped and hops out onto the gravel. He turns to help me out and bows to Tarnuv.

“Good night,” he says.

Tarnuv shakes his head and says something else — perhaps we are not finished, or this is not over, but Mariusz says something to the coachmen and the footman shuts the door and the coach moves off again.

He lets go of my hand and starts up the steps to the door, hands in his pockets, head bowed. I follow a few steps behind, not wishing to see his face. When we reach our suite again, Mariusz flings himself down on a sofa and covers his face with a cushion.

“I need a drink,” he says, muffled through the cushion.

“It’s eleven o’clock. Go to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.” He pulls the cushion down to look at me. “Tarnuv thinks I could have kept Salamon from getting his petition signed if I were better at this. That’s why he was yelling at me.”

There is, in his voice, more than the suspicion of a whine.

“He wasn’t yelling at you,” I say. “He was expressing his opinion with force. I daresay, without some force, opinions don’t sink through your thick skin.”

“Pah.” Mariusz tosses the cushion on the floor. “What could have I done, Alexandra? Court public popularity with smiles and charity the way Adam used to? He was so good at this. People loved him. They thought he cared about them.”

“And did he?”

Mariusz stares at the ceiling for a long moment. “Yes. He did.”

“Perhaps you could do the same.”

“I don’t not care. I want them to be well. But I don’t have Adam’s gifts. I don’t have his warmth, his selflessness, his optimism. I don’t know how to talk politics with people, the way he did. I don’t know how to be the prince.” With a sudden lurch, Mariusz sits up. “I never asked for this.”

He speaks like a wounded child who has been told he cannot have a particular sweet he desires. My withered patience dies.

“If you are so opposed to your responsibilities as duke, then abdicate. My uncle cannot stop you. The crown will go to Dominik, under regency until he is old enough to take power for himself. That will be a good twelve years, I imagine. Enough time to educate him to the position. It would probably be best for the duchy, in fact. You would be wounding no one.”

Mariusz glares at me. “I should have known I can’t expect sympathy from you.”

“You’ve more than enough for yourself.”

Mariusz scoffs and gets up. He goes to the bedroom, where he kicks off his shoes and rips off his coat. The smaller buttons of his waistcoat take more time than his impatient fingers have. I lean against the doorway, waiting. I know he will not leave our argument here. I have scored too many points tonight for his pride to take it.

“Dominik would hate it more than me,” he says. “There is no one else — my sisters, perhaps. Maria’s child, when she has one. It’s not fair to put it on them.”

“Then dissolve the monarchy. A parliament is enough.”

He stops undoing his waistcoat and stares at me. “Is that why King Edmund sent you here? To persuade me to dissolve the monarchy? Without it, he would have complete control. Parliament would sell out, or fall out, the nobility would divide and be conquered, too concerned with their own individual ends to protect the whole, the separatists would try to take command — and be overpowered — and King Edmund would have everything, with no small measure of independence left for us.”

“I do not think even King Edmund is that conniving.”

He continues watching me a moment, eyes narrow, then returns to his buttons. “Neither abdication nor dissolving the monarchy are possible.”

“Then you are left with no option but to do your duty.”

“Indeed.” His fingers fumble on the buttons and he gives up and throws his hands in the air. “I have no choice but to be the prince and I don’t know how to be the prince.”

Again, the self-pitying note comes into his voice. It grates at my soul.

“Then learn. I would suggest your first lesson would be in finding allies beyond your drunken friends. Do you think flirting with Celina helps you run the country? All it does is make Valery jealous. Can you afford to have a nobleman jealous of you? And Barany, that delightful, smiling, idiot — he’s certainly no help. Stop drinking and fooling around with other fools. Find people who can help you to do your duty. I think Tarnuv is trying, but all you will tell him is ‘I understand’ and ‘I know’ though you clearly don’t.”

I speak through Mariusz’s aborted interruptions, and by the time I finish he is silent and balefully staring.

At last, he laughs and shrugs off my speech, the same way he shrugged off Tarnuv’s. “As the rumours said, you really are a bitch.”

The word cuts to my soul. “I’m not the one ten thousand people signed a petition to be rid of. You want my sympathy for that? My sympathy lies with your people. Look at what they’ve got for a ruler — a drunken incompetent.”

The cold smile dies on Mariusz’s face. He walks to me — and I think he is going to slap me — but then he walks straight past me as though I am not there. He crosses the room, opens the door, and leaves, not even bothering to shut it.

I stand still, watching the doorway, waiting for him to come back, thinking he must come back and finish our argument. He does not come back. At length, I realise he is not. He is probably off drinking with his stupid friends.

I sit down slowly on the bed. The memory comes to me — unbidden, unwanted — of my father and mother having one of their arguments. They used words like bitch and fool too. And the tone they said them in — that cold, biting, hateful tone, their expressions snake-like with fury. My mother was the one who would slap, and scratch, and bite. My father would shove her away and thrash her with words alone. Words alone when I was watching.

I tried not to watch.

I try not to remember.

An unfamiliar ache uncurls inside my chest. I take up a pillow and bury my face in it, shaking, trying to bury the sound of my sobs. Perhaps I succeed. Perhaps I don’t. It does not matter.

No one is here to hear me cry.

__

2024-09-01: 

👏

👏

👏 for Alex. She finally evened out the score.

25. Too Many Compliments

I wake late the next morning to find myself alone in the bed. Mariusz did not return last night. No doubt he is in a drunken stupor now, on a sofa somewhere in the palace, or perhaps on the floor, his stupid, drunk friends with him.

I get dressed, drink tea and eat breakfast. My eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from the tears I cried last night, and I spend some time pressing cold towels to my cheeks before I feel ready to go down to my lesson with Prince Konrad.

“Today we learn adjectives,” he says in Rothalian once we have finished our usual greetings. “On jest vysoky. He is tall. Ona jest nizka . She is short. The adjective declines in gender and number, and takes the same case as the noun it modifies. Kniga vysokogo muža. The tall man’s book. Koš nizkoj ženy. The short woman’s basket. Am I confusing you? You look confused.”

“Yes, a little.” I try to puzzle out what he has said, but my mind was only half on it. “Nizka becomes nizkoj?”

“In the genitive feminine singular. You remember the genitive singular for nouns?”

“Yes… but I don’t know what nizka means.”

“Short. I told you that.” He looks concerned. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m a little tired today. That’s all.” Tired of heart, if not of body.

“Then we’ll do something easier. We will keep it in all in the nominative. Jesm ustaly. It means I’m tired, but for a woman…?”

“Jesm ustala?”

“Exactly.” He smiles at me. “Jesi ustala.”

I frown, puzzling out his grammar. “Aren’t you supposed to use the third person singular?”

“Only in formal speech. Are we being so reserved? We are cousins. We are family. We can use the informal you, surely?”

“I suppose. Give me some more adjectives. I will try to remember them. What is… what is unfortunate?”

“Neščestlivy.”

It takes me several attempts before I can repeat that one. Konrad supplies me with another dozen or so adjectives. He gives me some time to write them down and commit them to memory, then tests me verbally.

“The window is tall?” he says in Selician.

“The window is tall,” I respond in Rothalian.

“The weather is unfortunate?”

“The weather is unfortunate.”

“You are tired.”

“I’m tired.”

“You are pretty. When you are tired.”

I pause for a moment before answering. “I am not pretty when I am tired.”

“But you are.” He leans closer over the table between us. “It makes your cheeks pale and your eyes dark,” he says in Rothalian. “You are very pretty when you are tired.”

“I understand. Next sentence.”

He looks smilingly at me. “You are intelligent, and good, and very pretty.”

It could just be an attempt to make me feel better. He must see that I am sad, for all I have tried to disguise it. All the same, I don’t like it. His smile has the same flavour as Celina’s when she gave Mariusz her stocking. Is this what they are like in Selica? Are they all like this?

My mouth tastes bitter. “I am too tired to learn more today, Prince Konrad. I will go and rest now.”

I stand up, gather my books, and head to the door. Prince Konrad stands and bows slightly.

“Rest well. We will meet again tomorrow, your highness.”

I go back to my apartment, my heart pounding with uncertainty. Perhaps I am being unreasonable. Perhaps that is what they are like here, and they do not mean anything by it. The French, I have heard, can be very complimentary in their language. Perhaps Selicians are the same.

When I open the door to the apartment, I stop short. Mariusz is back. He sits in an armchair by the fire, facing away from the door. Celina is in another opposite him. Today, she is pale, almost sickly looking. The set of her shoulders makes it look as though she is hunching against some pain. Perhaps she is hungover. She stops speaking abruptly as I enter and darts a wounded glare in my direction.

Mariusz looks over his shoulder at me. “Aren’t you meant to be at your lesson?” He speaks too quickly, almost snaps.

“It finished.”

I want to ask what he and Celina are doing alone in a closed room, but I do not dare. Mariusz is wearing the same clothes as last night, now rumpled and wrinkled. I wonder where he slept — if he slept. He does not sound hungover, just tired. But I can’t ask that now. Not in front of Celina. Not when his tone is so short. He must still be angry with me.

“I’ll come back later,” I say, and drop my books on a chair.

I turn around and leave. It is raining again today, so I cannot go to the garden. Nor do I wish for the company of Henryka and Zofia. Nor the distraction of billiards. I want to be — most thoroughly — alone. I don’t want anyone to see me right now.

I wander the palace, seeking empty rooms and finding none. Everyone, it seems, has come indoors away from the rain today. Even the servants are at indoor tasks, waxing floors and dusting ornaments and scrubbing windows.

At last, without quite intending to, I end up in the throne room. It is so quiet that at first I think it is empty. I look around, recalling my wedding day. The carpets and flowers are all gone now, and the room is cold and feels abandoned.

Someone stands up from the throne and I jump.

“I’m so sorry,” Irena blurts. “It’s the only place to sit in here, apart from the floor.”

I stare at her. She had been hidden in the shadows, so motionless I had not noticed her. “What are you doing here?”

She holds up a book, looking guilty. “It is a novel. I adore novels, but the rain makes Florian… um…”

“Difficult?”

“I don’t mean that. He is bored, poor child.” The poor child is not very convincing. “I just wanted to finish my novel. And no one ever comes in here really.”

“Then finish it. I will not stop you. Go ahead. Read.”

Irena looks uncertain, then settles herself back down on the edge of the throne and begins to read. I go to a window and look out over the rainy lawn. There is no sound but the patter of rain and the occasional swish of a turning page. Then that sounds stops and there is nothing but the sound of rain.

I turn to Irena. “Did you finish?”

She nods, her eyes bright. “They both die in the end. I hate it when books do that.”

“On a day like today, it seems fitting.”

She gets up from the throne, trying to smile. “I suppose. Thank you for letting me read here. I know I’m not supposed to. It is very… sitting in the prince’s chair. Very…” She clearly lacks the French for the word.

“Uncomfortable?”

She laughs awkwardly, half-embarrassed. “It is not so bad. A little hard, perhaps.”

“Mariusz certainly seems to think it so.” I turn away from her again, suddenly afraid last night’s tears will show in my eyes. “Don’t let them catch you in here. I think even I should not be here.”

“There are so few quiet places in the palace.” Irena comes over to the window and stands next to me. “In better weather, I spend much time outdoors.”

“So do I.” I think more closely on her words. “It is not peaceful in your apartment with Konrad?”

She shakes her head. “It is just that Florian can be… he needs a lot of attention. Konrad never gives me any trouble.”

“Never? No arguments?”

“Oh never!” She looks horrified. “We never argue.”

I stare out into the rain again. “I argued with Mariusz last night.”

Irena blushes for me and maintains a respectful silence.

“I don’t know what to do now,” I say. “What do you do when you have spoken harsh words to your husband?”

“I don’t know,” Irena says softly. “I never do.”

“Never? Not ever in all your marriage?”

She shakes her head. “Not ever. He has never given me cause to.”

There is perfect, innocent conviction in her voice. I recall Konrad’s smile as he called me pretty and shudder to myself.

But perhaps I am the one who is wrong. Perhaps it was only innocent flattery.

__

2024-09-08: Hm. What were Celina and Mariusz talking about I wonder? Well, I know, but you guys don’t ;p

26. An Unexpected Proposition

I do not see Mariusz again for the rest of the day. Even in the evening, when dinner is served, he remains absent from our quarters. I eat alone, not very much, and none of it tasting good. There is a lingering bitterness in my mouth from the events of the day and the night before. I bathe and go to bed early, taking up my usual place on the sofa with bedsheets all round me. Perhaps the reason Mariusz stayed away last night was because I took the bed.

I am half-asleep and the room is dark when the door opens and he fumbles his way in by the light of a single candle.

I sit up. “Mariusz?”

“Yes. It’s me.”

“It’s late. Where were you at dinner?”

“I went for a long walk. It stopped raining, and I needed to move.”

He sets the candle down on the bedside table, then comes closer and sits down on the edge of my sofa, near my feet. I don’t smell any wine or spirits on him. He smells like rain and wind. I pat at his coat.

“You’re drenched.”

“It started to rain again. And I still needed to move.” He sits there in silence for a long moment, then says something short and soft in Selician.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“You don’t understand?”

“Those aren’t words I know.”

“I was saying sorry.” He sounds disappointed. “I’m sorry for the words I used about you last night. The word. I was… I was not a gentleman. I was very wrong. I apologize, Alexandra.”

I stare at him in the murky light, guilt and shame sinking down over me. I used harsh words too. Should I apologize as well? But it will look like I am apologizing because he did. It will look like a courtesy, without meaning behind it.

“Alex?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My uncle used to call me that,” I explain, fearing that I have snapped at him once again. “He spoilt it.”

“I won’t call you that, then.” He shifts, his coat oozing dampness into the blankets around my feet. “In Selician, we have many nicknames for your name. Sasha? Do you like Sasha?”

“Sasha is fine.”

“That’s good.” He waits longer. “Will you say something, Sasha?”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what he expects from me. But he waits so patiently and so silently that I must say something, and into that patient silence I let slip what presses most on my heart and my pride. “I hate that Celina gave you her stocking for the race. I hate more that you used it. It’s not right.”

“It was not. It was a joke on you.” He shakes his head. “I am sorry for that too.”

There. He has managed to say sorry twice now. If I say it, it will only sound hollow, belated, an echo of his sentiments.

“Do you… accept my apology?” He asks after a long wait. “Do I need to say more? Do I need to do more?”

“Um. No. I accept.”

“Thank you.” He raises my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers. “Thank you.” He kisses them again.

He lets my hand drop to the blanket again, but keeps his over it.

“We will move into new quarters soon,” he says. “No more honeymoon suite.”

“I know.”

“We will have our own bedrooms. There will be no need for you to sleep on the sofa to avoid me.”

“You were the one who started it.”

“No. I never asked you to sleep here. I just asked that you not…” He hesitates. “…that we not make love. Sleeping in the same bed was never a concern of mine. You’re the one who started that.”

“You made it your bed. Not ours.”

“But it is… ours.”

His hand is still on mine. Slowly, he interlinks his fingers with mine and raises my hand to again kiss it, this time on the underside of my wrist. His lips are wind-chilled and slightly damp. They set a shiver running through my veins.

“Come to bed with me,” he says. “Let’s… let’s be man and wife.” There is sorrow in his voice, and resignation.

“I don’t know how it… I don’t know… that…” I whisper.

“I know you don’t know.” His chill fingers trace circles on my palm. “I’ve never told you this, but you’re pretty, you’re really very pretty. Even when you’re half-asleep, perhaps especially when you’re half-asleep, with your hair all scattered across your shoulders and your eyelids low…” He leans forward — the same way Konrad leaned over the table this morning.

I lean back. “What are you doing?”

“I’m kissing you.”

“Please don’t.”

He freezes, then slowly sits upright. “I won’t hurt you. I’m ready now, to take you to bed with me, and I promise I won’t hurt you.”

“But I’m not ready anymore.” My heart races, and I raise my hand to my chest only to discover that it is shaking. “I can’t. I don’t want to.”

He looks at me in the half-light. The faintest sigh escapes his lips — relief or regret? I cannot tell. “Of course. I should have known.” He looks around, takes up his candle, and then heads to the screen to get changed. “You’re right, Sasha. We shouldn’t… make love. It won’t be making love when we’re not in love.”

I watch the shadow the candle throws up on the screen as he strips himself of his coat and vest and shirt and pants.

“What if we’re never in love?” I ask.

The shadow flickers wildly as a draught threatens the candle and Mariusz puts on his nightshirt.

“Then we’re never in love.”

“What if… what if you love me, and I don’t love you?”

The shadow stills for a moment. “I suppose my heart breaks. It would not be the first time.”

“My heart has never been broken.”

“Never? I don’t believe you.”

“Never. I’ve never been in love.”

Mariusz blows out his candle and his shadow disappears into the darkness. “It isn’t always love which breaks a heart.”

__

2024-09-15: That conversation isn’t foreshadowing at all. Alex isn’t tempting fate. No. Not even a little bit.

27. New Quarters

The fuss of unpacking and arranging and organizing for our new suite of apartments prevents me for several days from attending my language lessons in the library. Our new rooms are at the end of the south wing of the palace. Here, I have my own dressing room, bathroom, and bedroom, connected by a single door to Mariusz’s bedroom. Both of our rooms open onto a sitting room, which further opens onto a small dining room. It is comfortable to have my own private space again, without Mariusz’s scent on my pillows, without wondering if he notices my naked shadow on the dressing screen, without having my evening baths interrupted by his apologetic knock on the door. At night, though, with all the doors shut and the darkness of the room pressing in, I find it too silent and too lonesome. I creep to the door between our bedrooms and open it just wide enough for the sound of Mariusz’s breathing to pass through. Some mornings, if Mariusz wakes first, the click of the door shutting wakes me, but he never makes any comment upon my opening it, so I don’t think he minds.

In fact, he rarely makes even the most cursory conversation with me at all. After my rejection of his advances, he retreats to a fastidiously polite, embarrassed distance. No more am I subject to rude remarks or insults. Every morning at the breakfast table, he is perfectly well-mannered in asking me if I would like sugar for my tea or jam for my bread. Every evening at the dining table, at which his mother and siblings are now frequent guests, he speaks in French so that I can understand what he is saying, though he never speaks to me. I gain a vast knowledge of Dominik’s progress in mathematics and history, his opinions on the respective merits of Pushkin and the Brothers Grimm, and his preference for backgammon over chess. Sometimes, we all play cards after dinner, and he is not unwilling to teach me the rules of the games, most of which are new to me, and puts up with my mistakes with more patience than Zofia. If we dine alone, he reads a book or a newspaper throughout the meal, but responds to any question I might have about its topic or any request I might have to pass the bread or wine, so I know he is not completely ignoring me.

I don’t know if I truly prefer this new Mariusz or not, but it certainly makes my life easier.

One morning, about five days after our move, as we are having breakfast in the sitting room a maidservant comes with a message from Konrad. Since the maidservant does not speak French or Rothalian, Mariusz translates for us.

“Konrad wants to know if you are coming to your language lesson today, or if you will miss it again,” he says.

Perhaps I imagine the shade of disapproval in his voice.

“I’ve been so busy with moving,” I say. “I still have, um, my shoes to organize.”

“Your shoes?” His eyebrows rise a fraction, an echo of his old scorn. “That cannot take you all day, surely?”

I don’t want to go down and spend the morning with Konrad. Perhaps I was wrong about his intentions. Perhaps he was not flirting. Perhaps he was only trying to flatter me. All the same, I feel guilty and afraid. It is better not to see him.

“You know… you could teach me.”

Mariusz shakes his head. “I told you, I don’t have the patience. Nor the time.” He frowns. “I did not like this arrangement at first, but it is convenient. You are learning, at least.”

“Not very fast. I’m not sure he’s a very good teacher really. We could hire a tutor.”

“If we must, but you have learned some, no? And it is a difficult language. It will take time, at least a year, I think. This morning might as well be part of that year as not.”

“I don’t want to learn from him for a year.” I realize too late that I have revealed my feelings for Konrad, but Mariusz only laughs.

“I won’t make you learn with him all year,” he says. “I think in the spring, I will find a university graduate to teach you. But right now, they are all preparing for their examinations, and only the very stupidest would take the job.”

Spring. It is mid-November now. I might not have a tutor for six months.

“Even a very stupid tutor might be better than Konrad,” I say, half to myself, knowing Mariusz has made his mind up already.

“His poetry is very bad, but he is not stupid. Go to your lesson this morning. He might as well be useful for once.”

Mariusz seems to think the conversation at an end, because he turns to the maid and tells her what I can just parse as confirmation that I will attend. Afterwards, he returns his attention to the letter he received this morning. It is the second time he has read it, and from the frown on his face its contents trouble him.

I tear up the bread on my plate into little pieces and wonder if I should tell Mariusz I think Konrad was flirting with me. How would he react? I can’t quite imagine him being angry about it. I don’t think he cares enough about me to be angry if other men flirt with me. If it even was flirting. Perhaps he would only be angry with my suspicions, or annoyed. Perhaps he would think I was being over-particular or making excuses. Yes, I can see that happening. If I speak up now, he will think I am making excuses. And I still can’t be sure myself. Irena was so certain of Konrad’s goodness. And what did he say, really? Nothing more than a few simple compliments.

Nothing to make me feel guilty and afraid. Nothing even to make him feel guilty, perhaps.

I will have to go to my lesson. I get up to get dressed. When I am at the door, Mariusz looks up from his letter.

“Sasha?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Are you unhappy here? In our new rooms, in the palace, in Selica. Compared to your home.”

“It’s not my home anymore.” There is relief in saying those words. “I could never be happy there, not anything close to happiness. I would rather die than return.”

An emotion flickers across his face, too quick for me to catch it. “But here? Are you unhappy here?”

“Why are you asking, all of a sudden?” I look around our sitting room, at its pale mint walls with deep emerald trim, at its comfortable velvet sofas and the bearhide rug in front of the flickering fireplace. At the windows, with their view of the grey, sleety sky outside, and the trees stretching away to where the spire of the royal chapel can be seen in the distance. At the man within it, frowning at me, his forelock falling lopsidedly over his brow, shadowing his grey eyes, his dressing gown open to his chest, his letter held against his heart, like a secret.

“What’s in that letter?” I ask. “Does someone want to send me back?”

“It’s nothing.” He folds it up and slides it under his breakfast plate. “I wouldn’t let them anyway.” A crooked smile presses against his lips. “My separating from you would be even more unpopular than my marrying you was.”

“I wouldn’t go.” I lean against the doorway and watch him, suspicious, though I know not what of. “Who’s the letter from?”

“It doesn’t matter. You never gave me an answer. Are you unhappy here?”

“Only when you keep secrets.”

“Be honest with me. I want to know if it is better for you here than it was in Rothalia.”

“Better? Yes. Undoubtedly. In every way.” That, I can answer without thinking.

“But you’re still unhappy, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? You’re not happy either.” As I say it, I understand how true it is. “I think I made you unhappy by marrying you. I’m sorry. But even if I could take it back, I would not. You see, it made me less… unhappy. That’s what I am. I’m less unhappy. Less angry. Less alone.”

“It’s not you,” Mariusz says vaguely. “And anyway…” His frown twists, as though surprised by his own thoughts. “Anyway, you should go to your lesson. I will look for a tutor for you soon.”

I wonder what he was thinking, but I know if I ask he will only pretend it was nothing at all, so I go into my bedroom and call the maids to get dressed.

When I am ready, I go downstairs to the library as before. As before, Konrad is waiting for me at the desk. He stands up and bows when I enter.

“I was beginning to think you had given up,” he says.

“No. I was just busy with moving.”

“Ah, yes.” He sits back down again. “Perhaps we can begin there. How would you describe your new quarters? In Selician, please. Do you recall your adjectives?”

“Yes… the room is gre… grand?” I say in Selician.

“Good,” he says, nodding. “And comfortable, too, no?”

“Yes. Comfortable.” I practice the pronunciation of that word a few times. “It has green walls.”

Konrad shakes his head. “It must take the accusative plural, not the nominative,” he says in Rothalian. “You recall?”

“Right. Of course.” I try to remember the declension and try again. “Better?”

“Better. You have memorized the pattern now. You just have to practice it until it becomes second nature.”

He looks earnest and encouraging. I try to recall his exact words from last week. He called me pretty. Was he only being polite? If he was being more than polite, he would surely look guilty now, or at least self-conscious, but his cheeks are as unblushing as ever and his eyes entirely innocent.

He taps his fingers on the table. “What about furniture? Do you know the words for furniture? It seems the next logical step. How many chairs and tables?”

I must have been wrong. I must have seen something was not there.

“Eight chairs,” I say, half-distracted.

“And tables?”

“One. And a… a little one. One big table. One little table.”

“And where are they?” He adds something else I do not catch.

“Wait a moment.” I try to puzzle out what he is saying. “You’re going too fast.”

“I will slow down.” He repeats himself, but still I do not understand, which exposes another gap in my knowledge — the names of different rooms of the house. For the rest of the morning, we drill household vocabulary in the locative and accusative cases. By the end, I am fatigued and my head is ringing with new words.

“It gets worse when we move onto prepositions,” Konrad says. “They take completely unpredictable cases. You have to memorize each of them individually.”

“No more today. I need to remember what I just learned before I move on to more.”

“Undoubtedly. We have time.” Konrad smiles at me, the usual polite smile. “Go and rest. I will see you tomorrow.”

I must have imagined it last week. Or mistranslated it.

All the same, as soon as I am out of his eyesight I feel relieved, and I hope Mariusz finds me a tutor soon.

__

2024-09-24: Mariusz shows faint improvement… But distant and polite is still not hero worthy yet.

28. A Sentimental Trinket

I never manage to apologize to Mariusz for calling him a drunken incompetent. It always feels like bringing it up again will only stir up trouble for us both. Besides, however much I regret what I said, I can’t be displeased by its effect. Whenever Mariusz and Celina are together now, he treats her with the same distant, faintly embarrassed civility he treats me, and she barely speaks to him at all. In fact, I think she may be trying to avoid him. While Barany and Valery spend many hours idling away the time with Mariusz in the sitting room, Celina never even comes to see our new quarters.

So I am surprised when, one afternoon as I am reading a book alone in the sitting room, there comes a knock at the door and Countess Celina enters.

“Mariusz is not here,” I say.

“I am not here to speak with Mariusz. I am here to speak with you.” She sits without being invited.“Mariusz’s name day is at the end of December.”

“It does.” I try to keep my voice flat and pretend this is not new information to me.

“And have you bought him a present yet?”

I had not even thought of it. Mariusz is one of those unlucky people born on Christmas Day, which I had taken to mean as freeing me from the responsibility of finding him a birthday present. For a Christmas present, however, I had already sent for a set of Goethe’s novels. It had taken me a great deal of thought and much scouring of his bookcase to determine what he might like that he did not already have. It is an unexpected nuisance to have to come up with a second present as well.

“I am still thinking about it,” I say. “It is a way off yet.”

“Well, you will need to buy him one. It will be part of his name day festivities. As his master of ceremonies, I arranged the celebration. It will begin with a sort of play. Mariusz will be kidnapped by fairies — paid actors — and taken on stage. People will offer the fairies gifts for his rescue. It is a sort of game. Everybody, almost everybody, will go up on stage and offer the actors a coin or some kind of small token to free Mariusz. It saves Mariusz from receiving gifts he does not need or want from people who wish to curry favour with him, and whatever money the actors raise will be given to the church.”

“I have coin, if that is all that is needed.”

Celina shakes her head. “Mariusz’s friends and family will of course be expected to give him real presents. The actors will reject such gifts and take them to Mariusz instead. So you will need a present to give him.”

There is a hard glint in her eyes and her voice is stony. I am sure the idea occurred to Celina not to tell me about this game, to let me be publicly embarrassed by giving him nothing. I wonder if she was persuaded against it by a wiser friend, or if she decided to be decent of her own accord.

“What else will happen at this celebration?” I ask. “Dancing? Music? Champagne?”

“Champagne, certainly. And fireworks at midnight, since it is the new year as well. The actors will play music after the play, no doubt, so probably people will dance, but it is not a ball. I think if you get bored, you can run away after the fireworks and no one will notice.”

“And how many people are coming?”

“Some two hundred, I believe.”

“I think I will be missed in a crowd of only two hundred. You might have to think of something more entertaining.”

A cold smile curves across Celina’s lips. “You could always join in the conversation. Oh. I forgot. You can’t, can you?” She adds something in rapid Selician after that, which I know is an insult without trying to translate it.

“You are right. I am quite mute here.” The worm of a malicious idea occurs to me. “I don’t even know how I will manage to buy him a present. I need an interpreter to shop. You are not busy now, are you?”

Celina’s smile freezes. “Me? Why would you ask me?”

“Because other than Mariusz, you are the only one who speaks my language well, and I cannot ask him. You must help me.”

“Embroider him a pair of slippers.”

“I have no slippers to embroider. No, I insist you help me. It is my official request, as duchess, to my Master of Ceremonies, come shopping with me.”

Celina narrows her eyes at me, but she cannot refuse an official request. “What were you planning to buy him?”

“Jewellery, I think.”

“We can go to the silversmith district. Perhaps a watch would do.”

“Something a little more personal than that, I think, but silver will do very nicely, yes. Do you mind sending for the coach, Lady Celina?”

Celina makes the arrangements for us to go to the city, and while we are waiting for our coach and personal guards to be ready, I decide on a whim to ask Henryka to come too. It is not much fun shopping alone, and I might as well be alone if I shop with Celina.

The silversmith district is a single, narrow street on the southern edge of the city’s centre. It is crowded with little shops selling jewellery and trinkets of all kinds, some dingy and mysterious, others gas-lit and glamourous. It is an additional pleasure to me to notice Celina growing visibly more impatient as I explore each one of them. Henryka favours delicate jewellery, while I prefer the mechanical items — Döbereiner lamps, music boxes, or telescopes.

“You cannot give him a weapon,” Celina says when I linger too long over an ornamental pistol. “Not with your reputation.”

“Papa got him a pair of pistols four years ago,” Henryka adds in French. “Though Mother won’t let him use them.”

“I would not give him a pistol.” I speak in French also, so Henryka can understand. “I was thinking he might like this hip flask.”

Celina looks at the flask in question. “It will look like you encourage drinking, and I know you nag him about it.”

“It depends who he is drinking with.” But it occurs to me that Mariusz must have at least half-a-dozen hip flasks already.

“What about a letter opener?” Henryka suggests.

“He never uses a letter opener,” I say. “He rips them open like an animal.”

Henryka laughs. “He’s always been like that. Too impatient for his own good.”

The shopkeeper watches us anxiously, desperate to please. Every shopkeeper has been like that. I try to smile at them and say thank you as I leave, but I still feel like I have disappointed them by not buying anything. On the other hand, I am having a great deal of fun looking and as soon as I purchase something I will have to return to the palace.

“The prince is a great reader,” the shopkeeper says in French. “We do have a number of silver-bound books.” He guides me to a glass display case. “The bible, or a set of Vesalius’s anatomy, perhaps?”

One of the anatomy books is displayed open, depicting two skeletons, one in a position of intense thought over a plinth and the other hunched over with his hands steepled as though plotting. It certainly might interest Mariusz, but if I giving him books for Christmas I cannot give the same for his name day. I take a closer look at the display. As well as books, they have engraved silver pens, propelling pencils, ink-wells, rulers and bookmarks.

“That’s a pretty bookmark,” I say to Henryka, pointing to one that shows a woman being dragged into a stormy sky by winged creatures while a man calls to her from below.

“It is from an opera,” the shopkeeper says eagerly. “Ruslan and Lyudmila.”

The name is familiar to me, and after a moment I place it. Irena mentioned it as her favourite.

“We have others as well,” the shopkeeper adds. “Scenes from Oberon, La Straniera…”

“It is hardly to Mariusz’s taste,” Celina says, peering over my shoulder. “And I have never seen him use a bookmark. He folds the pages.”

“But look at those pens,” Henryka says. “He would love a pen set. He is forever losing his pens.”

“Then should I give him a present just for him to lose it?”

“He will be sure not to lose it if you give it to him.”

I actually quite like the idea. He writes enough letters that it is sure not to be entirely useless to him, and besides, most of the pens are prettily engraved and come in ornate silver cases.

“Perhaps not very romantic, but useful, certainly,” Celina says.

“He likes useful things.” I turn to the shopkeeper. “If I buy one, can you engrave a message on the case for me?”

He can. He has the engraving tools at the back of the shop, as I had hoped. Henryka and I take our time choosing the exact pen set, and decide upon one with a pen knife, quill, and propelling pencil in a silver case embossed with bees and flowers.

“And the message,” I say, “it must be in Selician, I think. Yes. It will be, let me think…” I pause to translate the words in my head. “My darling Mariusz, happy birthday.” I come to words I do not know. “And, Lady Celina, how do I say, with love, your Sasha? Can you translate that for me? And is my grammar correct? I get so confused about these declensions.”

I have, as I intended from the beginning, the pleasure of watching Celina stammer out a translation of my words of affection to the shopkeeper. The filthy look in her eyes gives me a thrill of triumph. I am only slightly anxious as to how Mariusz will feel when he reads the message. He is my Mariusz after all, if not my darling.

While the case is being engraved, Henryka and I continue to look around the shop. I keep coming back to the bookmark. It is not expensive at all, the merest trinket really. I think it is the kind of thing Irena would like, and I want to buy it for her and see if I am right. Is it strange to buy something for someone you hardly know?

But I hardly know Mariusz either, and I have bought him two presents now. One, with a personal engraving. I also bought his mother a Christmas present, and his sisters and brother. I think I know Dominik even less well than I know Irena.

The shopkeeper finishes engraving the message, shows it to me for my approval, and wraps the pen case carefully in black paper and ties it with a white ribbon.

“Is there anything else?” he asks hopefully.

“And that bookmark,” I say quickly, before I can persuade myself out of it. “The Ruslan and Lyudmila one.”

“Mariusz hates that opera,” Celina remarks snidely. “He says it is sentimental.”

I am sure he is right, but it is a pretty little bookmark, and if I do not give it to Irena I will use it myself.

__

2024-10-01: Alex gets one over Celina. I enjoy their little catfights. They’re so passive aggressive.

29. Christmas Eve Morning

I keep the bookmark in a drawer in my dressing table, neither using it myself nor ever having the opportunity to give it to Irena. Of course, I could always go to Konrad’s apartments and knock on the door and ask for her, but I do not dare. My language lessons — not every morning now, as I am quick to snatch at opportunities to skip them — continue to make me uneasy. The occasional wistful compliment and the eager warmness of Konrad’s smiles make me feel uncertain. I suspect he admires me more than he should, and I cannot help but feel that it is my fault for spending so much time alone with him. Then again, there are times when nothing I can do pleases him and he will correct my pronunciation by minute degrees for hours on end before losing his patience and declaring himself at a loss for teaching me. I am left apologizing for my stupidity and promising I will try harder. At those times, I am sure he has a very low opinion of me indeed.

Closer to Christmas, it becomes easier to make excuses to avoid my lessons. There are any number of important dinner parties, concerts and church services to attend. In the mornings afterwards, I send my maid with excuses to Konrad, pleading tiredness from staying up late the night before.

On Christmas Eve, there is no time for lessons at all. Mariusz and I go to his mother’s apartments for breakfast with Henryka, Dominik and Zofia. Afterwards, we play games on the hearthrug, paint eggs and make garlands to decorate the room, and nibble at spiced cakes and drink mulled wine. Everyone is consciously polite to me, Mariusz included. All the same, they are too obviously a family circle — broken by the deaths of the father and brother and tarnished by their shadows, fragmented further by the absence of the eldest sister — but a family circle all the same. They share old jokes I could not understand even if I did speak their language, and translate the most amusing stories about relatives I have never met whom they all know and remember intimately. At one point, when the old stories start to wear thin, when all the eggs are painted, the garlands hung, the spiced cakes eaten and the wine drunk, Zofia says to me, rather accusingly and somewhat affected by the mulled wine, “You never talk about your relatives.”

“There is not much to say.”

“Tell us something. There must be someone you miss, some friend, or favourite aunt.”

“No one.” I pare back my thin, scattered memories of childhood in the hopes of finding some harmless story to sate her curiosity. “We used to sing carols to the adults on Christmas, my cousins and I. I have one cousin, Viktoria, who would always insist on a solo part. One Christmas, when she started her solo, I sang along with her. So she cried, so loudly no one could sing above her. I don’t miss her at all.” Perhaps the wine has affected me as well. I turn to Mariusz and add in Rothalian, “If it weren’t for me, you might have married her.”

“You don’t think I would appreciate a woman content to play a solo part?”

“But Viktoria always insists on an adoring audience. You really don’t know how lucky you are to have me. My other cousins are equally defective. Elisabeth is so timid she would never dare say a word to you, and little Karolina is obsessed with cats. She sleeps with five of them in her bed every night. There would be no room for you, even if you wanted to join her.”

Mariusz laughs. “Then I shall count you among my blessings.”

He translates what I said about Karolina for the others, which coaxes a smile from even his mother. For the briefest of moments, I feel not like a guest, but like I belong here.

In the late afternoon, we all gather on the hearthrug to share our presents. Dominik, as the youngest, has the most numerous and the most interesting presents, the prize of which is a model train from Barany, including a functioning steam engine in miniature. With the addition of a lump of burning coal set into a well in its guts, the train runs across the sitting room floor until it gets trapped in the curtain which it sets on fire. Henryka douses the fire with the tea left-over from breakfast and Duchess Maria confiscates the train.

I am nervous that my gifts will not be well-received, but every time one of my presents is picked up from the pile, whoever opens it exclaims with polite gratitude. Zofia, I think, cannot really care for the silk shawl I give her, and the box of sweets I give Dominik palls in comparison to his mechanical train. I watch Mariusz particularly carefully when he opens the books I bought him, but he respects me too well to fake a smile. Instead, he flips through the pages, examines the illustrations, and remarks distantly that they are very fine editions and he will enjoy reading them.

I find it harder to receive presents. Dominik carved me a wooden horse from pine, which I find delightful, though I don’t know how to adequately express it. The more I try to convince him that I like it, the more he blushes and seems to believe I do not. Duchess Maria gives me a locket which once belonged to her grandmother, which makes me feel guilty, as though I am stealing from the dead. I feel even guiltier for secretly thinking that it is a very ugly locket, even if it is very kind of her, and that I will struggle to wear it enough to make her feel as though it was worthwhile giving it to me.

Perhaps the real struggle is that I know presents are what you give people when you like them, and I know these people do not really like me. They are only being kind and polite.

That might be why Mariusz does not get me a present at all. We reach the end of the pile of presents, the last one is a bottle of perfume from Duchess Maria to Henryka, and still I have received nothing from Mariusz. I try to pretend I have not noticed. It is easy enough, as Dominik is trying to convince his mother to let him open the box of sweets I bought him even though, according to Selician tradition, we should all be fasting until supper. Perhaps no one else has noticed either. At length, Duchess Maria wins the argument and Dominik retreats sulkily to the table to practice shuffling the deck of cards he received from Zofia.

“What did you get Alexandra as a present?” Zofia asks in the silence. “She only has four presents — what did you get her, Mariusz?”

Mariusz colours. “It is not ready yet.”

“Hah.” Zofia looks superior. “You forgot. You always forget someone, and you forgot Alexandra.”

“I did not forget.” Mariusz’s cheeks are quite pink now. “It is in my room.”

“But not ready?” Zofia raises an eyebrow. “Princess Alexandra, he forgot you. Don’t take it ill. He always forgets someone every Christmas. His little head cannot hold so many ideas at once.”

Zofia has drunk generously of the mulled wine all day, and I think she is a little drunk. Mariusz looks annoyed. I don’t think he did forget really. It was perhaps too much a chore for him to want to bother, or he disliked the whole polite performance of buying me a present and decided not to take part in it.

Duchess Maria looks skeptical too. Henryka pauses in the act of dabbing her new perfume on her wrists.

“It is true that Mariusz can be forgetful,” she says, diplomatic and slightly nervous. “He gave me the same book two years in a row once.”

“You didn’t read it the first year!”

“I didn’t read it the second year either. I still haven’t read it.” Henryka looks guilty. “I did try.”

Between Henryka’s guilt and Mariusz’s frustration, the room falls silent bar for the sound of Dominik spilling cards all over the table.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t have a present,” I say to Mariusz in Rothalian. “I don’t need one.”

“I do,” he says shortly. “I will give it to you later. I just need a little more time.”

It sounds like an excuse.

“I would not forget to buy you a present,” he adds, as though he can see my thoughts written on my face. “I forgot Zofia once. Perhaps more if you count her birthdays. I never remember anyone’s birthday. But I did not forget you.”

Duchess Maria cannot possibly understand our conversation, but she must perceive the uneasy cloud of emotions in the air. She looks theatrically at the clock.

“I’m getting very hungry,” she says in French. “It must be nearly time for supper. Let’s all go downstairs. Come on, Dominik, you must look for the first star to appear.”

__

2024-12-22: I apologize from the bottom of my heart for the long delay and thank you so much to everyone for your patience with me these past 2-3 months or however long it’s been. What happened was… I finished my masters degree and went into like a 10 week burnout because all the pressure and stress was gone and I, apparently, no longer know how to function when I’m not under pressure. This chapter is the first of three about Christmas, so book time is matching up with real life time I guess.

30. Christmas Dinner

We have Christmas dinner in the small palace dining room. When we go down, Prince Konrad, Lady Irena and Florian are already there waiting for us as servants lay a feast of vegetables and fish on the table. Dominik and Zofia take up wisps of hay from a painted basket and strew them out between the dishes, while Henryka solemnly takes two extra settings from the sideboard and lays them at one end of the table.

“Are Valery and Barany to join us?” I ask Mariusz. “Your aunts?”

He shakes his head. “The extra settings are for my dead brother and father. It is a Christmas tradition here. You will see, Florian will lay one for his mother.”

But Florian is over by the window, craning his neck at the sky. It is left to Irena to take another plate and more cutlery and place them for the dead wife she replaced. Konrad sidles over to us and wishes us Merry Christmas in Selician, then turns his attention to the dowager duchess.

I am hungry by this time, despite all the spiced cakes I have eaten, and want nothing but to sit down and eat, but there is more waiting yet to be done. Zofia and Dominik go to the windows with Florian, though I notice that Zofia stands between Dominik and Florian like a bulwark.

“What are they doing?” I whisper to Mariusz. “When can we eat? I’m starving.”

“They are looking for the first star of the evening. When it appears, we can start eating. It is another little tradition.”

I look doubtfully at the sky outside. “It’s rather cloudy.”

“Don’t worry. Florian will not let you go hungry long.”

Even as he speaks, Florian points outside and shouts. Dominik says, “Where, where? I don’t see it,” but Florian ignores him. Zofia squints outside the window and repeats Dominik, but Florian has already left the window and is inserting himself self-importantly into a chair at the table. Duchess Maria and I wander over to the window and peer out, but the snow clouds blanket the sky, reflecting in bilious yellow the gaslights of the city below.

“I didn’t see the star,” Dominik says sadly in Selician.

Duchess Maria pats him on the shoulder and says something in comforting tones. No one seems keen to argue that there was no star, though I am certain Florian lied. Perhaps we are all too hungry. We shift guiltily towards the table. Dominik swallows bravely and comes with us.

With no guests to entertain tonight, we can sit as we like without regard for formality or rank. By unspoken accord, everyone avoids Florian already sitting at the centre of the table. Zofia and Dominik sit together at one end and Henryka joins them. That leaves Mariusz and I to sit at the other. Before Konrad can think of taking the seat next to me, I pull it out and invite Duchess Maria to sit. This leaves Irena and Konrad to sit with Florian and effectively breaks the conversation into three groups across the table: the children down the other end speaking lively Selician and often laughing, Irena quietly helping Florian to the dishes he demands or talking across him to Konrad, and our end, which is almost silent, but for polite remarks in French about the meal.

After a little while, Mariusz and Duchess Maria start up a quiet conversation in Selician, which I can just about determine is about Mariusz’s dead brother and father. I don’t wish to intrude on it, but I see tears coming and going in both their eyes, which they blink back under the candlelight. I think that a warm, comforting wife might touch her husband’s arm or rub his shoulder were to she to see him on the verge of tears, but I am not that wife to Mariusz, not that woman to anyone, and even if I were the cold weight of Konrad’s thoughtful glances down my end of the table makes it impossible to try.

Halfway through the meal, both the children’s laughter and Mariusz and his mother’s conversation are interrupted when Konrad stands up abruptly. He mutters something in Selician and heads for the door. As he leaves, he bumps one shoulder into the doorjamb, quite heavily. Perhaps he is drunk, though the conversation he had been having with Irena was quiet and irregular. Irena hurries after him. As soon as she is up from her chair, Florian reaches across the table to snaffle a slice of a prized cake, his sleeve dangling into a pot of gravy. Duchess Maria calls sharply to him and he scowls.

“What’s wrong with Konrad?” I ask Mariusz.

“He has a… I don’t know what you call it in your language. A bad headache with blindness. He gets them sometimes.”

“Migraine?”

“Ah. Yes. It is similar in our language. Don’t frown for his health, please. The condition is harmless. He suffers nothing from it but his wife’s sympathy.”

“I wasn’t frowning.” Or if I had been, not out of sympathy. There is something satisfying in knowing that Konrad has such a weakness, and I would not mind if he suffered more from it than Irena’s sympathy. “Ah. She is back already.”

Irena comes back, alone.

“He must have gotten rid of her,” Mariusz says cynically. “No man likes to be fussed over when he is sick.”

“I think it depends on the woman doing the fussing.” Without Konrad here with us, I feel more at ease. “But have it your way. Next time you are hungover, I will offer you no sympathy.”

“You never do.”

“Ah. And you resent me for that. So you do want to be fussed over, but you don’t want to admit it.”

“No.” Mariusz laughs. “Maybe.”

It is the second laugh I have earned from him today, and I can’t help but feel pleased, even if he did not give me a present. Perhaps he was just too uncertain about what to get me. Certainly, it cannot be a deliberate snub, or he would not have seemed so embarrassed by it. I don’t think he dislikes me. Not anymore.

The meal draws lingeringly to a close. Dominik and Zofia adjourn to the hearth rug, where they play with Dominik’s new dice game. Mariusz slides back in his chair and hooks a knee over the corner of the table, despite his mother’s disapproving glare. Irena gives up on restraining Florian from the gingerbread and drinks wine like she has someone to be sympathetic to her hangovers.

Somehow, I can’t picture Konrad in the position.

I feel sorry for her, not just for the way she looks now, but for the man she has married. For how much she loves him, though he clearly does not deserve it.

I glance at Mariusz, dozing in his chair. But I do not love him. It hurts me less.

I get up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Mariusz asks sleepily.

“My room. I have something I want.”

“Be quick then. We have to leave for midnight mass soon.”

As soon as I am out of the room, I lift my skirts and run on my toes. I’m out of breath when I reach our apartments and have to stop to catch my breath. It is dark within, except for a soft glow from beneath Mariusz’s door. I feel my way across the room and open his door. He has left a candle burning on his desk, worn nearly to a stub and flickering in the draught coming from his open dressing room door.

“Foolish man,” I say to myself. “Zofia’s right. He is forgetful.”

But his loss is my gain. I take up the candle and go to my own room, where I find Irena’s bookmark in my desk. It is still in the brown paper the shop wrapped it in, ribbonless and unadorned, but it must be enough, for I have no time to prettify it now. I take it and leave the room, blowing out the candle as I go.

Back downstairs, everyone has shifted from the table and started to put on cloaks and gloves, ready for the journey to the cathedral for mass. I slip quietly over to Irena, who is trying to help Florian with his buttons.

“Here,” I say, passing her the bookmark in its paper wrapping. “I have a small present for you. It’s nothing much, but I thought you might like it. Merry Christmas, Lady Irena.”

“What is it?” Florian demands. “Don’t I get one?”

“Hush,” I say. “It is your stepmother’s.”

Irena unwraps it curiously. “Oh! How pretty!” She looks closer, and her face lights up. “It’s Ruslan and Ludmila! The scene where she is spirited away by the evil wizard. Thank you! I just love it. And I have nothing for you but my best wishes.”

“They are enough. If they are sincere, they are enough.”

“Of course they are. Oh, I wish you knew this opera. Would you like to come and see it with me?” A hint of familiar shyness returns to Irena’s voice. “I think, if I say you want it, Konrad will offer to take us. There is sure to be a showing some time this coming year.”

“What do we need him for?” I say. “We can go alone, together. There’s no need to bring a man who doesn’t like opera. He would only darken the mood.”

A broad smile lightens Irena’s face. “I never thought of doing that. Oh, we could. We could indeed. You will just love it. I know you will.”

Florian demands her attention again — he has undone one of his buttons and cannot get it back on. I notice Mariusz watching us from across the room, holding my cloak in his arms. I go to him and let him help me into it.

“What did you give her?” he asks.

“A bookmark. It’s nothing really. I just feel sorry for her.”

“She is a little pathetic, I suppose. The ineffectual type.”

Mariusz’s callousness annoys me. “Anyway, Zofia is right. You are forgetful. You left a candle burning in your room.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. It was burning when I came in. I saw it under the door.”

“Well, I suppose I must have.” He does not seem insulted. He looks at me curiously. “Would you be very angry if I had forgotten to get you a present?”

“But you did not forget,” I say archly. “It just isn’t ready yet.”

__

2024-12-24: Alex finally finds a way to give Irena the bookmark.

31. Christmas Mass

We arrive on time and with great discretion for the midnight mass, sneaking in to the Royal Pew through a side entrance to the cathedral. It is the first time I have been here since our wedding, as we attend Sunday services in the private chapel on the palace grounds. Tonight, though we are not here to be looked at, we attract stares from nearby pews all the same. I sit between Mariusz and Henryka and keep my gaze upon the bishop in his gilded finery throughout the two hour service, though I can hardly understand a word he says. I hope I look inoffensive and virtuous, but the coolness of the stares upon me warn me that I have offended some all the same.

In the coach on the way home, Dominik falls asleep. It is left to Mariusz, as the only man among us, to gently scoop him into his arms and carry him through the palace to his room. Something about the sight of Mariusz so gently and protectively holding the child causes a strange rippling sensation through my gut. Mariusz notices me watching me.

“Take up a candle, won’t you?” He speaks softly so as not to wake his brother. “I can’t hold him and a light.”

The ripple makes me eager-to-please. I take up a candle, though Dowager Duchess Maria, heading to her own room near Dominik’s, might easily have done so herself. Henryka and Zofia break off first, to go to their own rooms, then inside Duchess Maria’s apartments, she says something about being tired and bed and disappears beyond a door. Mariusz directs me to a different door, which opens into a child’s bedroom. Very, very delicately, Mariusz lays Dominik down upon the bed. He is not delicate enough. Dominik’s eyes flicker open.

“Papa?” He says sleepily.

“No,” Mariusz says in Selician. “It is only me.”

Dominik’s heavy-lidded eyes struggle against the dim light of the candle. He murmurs something else, then falls asleep again. Mariusz watches him for a moment then carefully takes off his shoes and unbuttons his coat. Duchess Maria reappears at the door, now wrapped in a dressing gown. Without saying a word, Mariusz gets up from the bed and leaves. I follow him. He walks quickly, like he has something to hide. When we reach the hallway, I take his arm.

“Mariusz?”

He turns to me. The light of the candle shimmers golden in the tears on his cheeks. “It’s our first Christmas without him. Without Papa. I don’t know why everyone isn’t more sad about it. I don’t know why I’ve been happy, most of today. Until now.”

I step back. “Oh.” I had suspected tears, but I had not expected honesty, and I do not know what to say in the face of it. I’m not sure I want to know more than I already do.

But Mariusz wants to tell me. He wipes his face. “At first, I was so angry that he killed himself that I wasn’t sad at all. It felt like he had thrown all of his burdens at my feet and left me, alone, to pick them up and bear them. By the time I started to feel sad about it, it seemed that everyone else had stopped. Mother was too worried about looking after us all to allow herself to be sad. Maria was looking forward to marrying your cousin. She was excited about it. Henryka cried violently for three days and then went about exactly as normal thereafter. Zofia… Zofia started to expect bad things to happen after Adam died. She was never surprised about what happened to Papa, somehow, so I don’t think she ever really felt sad. Dominik was saddest. He cried the most. He didn’t understand. But now I think he’s starting to forget Papa all together. He was only seven when he died. But maybe we’re all starting to forget. Because if we remembered properly, surely we wouldn’t have had such a… happy day.”

“No one can be sad all the time.”

“But everything used to remind me of him. I could not walk down a single hallway in this palace without some memory leaping out at me. I couldn’t so much as fill my pen without thinking that he always preferred blue ink to black, and, in consequence, I had to use black because… because blue is his colour.” The candlelight gutters under Mariusz’s shaking breath. “Now, I don’t care what ink my letters are written in. I don’t even notice. It’s only when we have an empty plate at the table, or when Dominik, half-asleep, calls me by his name, that I start to remember. And I’m afraid one day I will stop remembering at all.” He wipes his eyes again and sniffs. “You’ve been at this longer than I. What reminds you of your father? You do still think of him, sometimes, don’t you? You haven’t forgotten all together, have you?”

“But I do not like to remember.” My stomach fills with acid at the threat of memory. “He loved me.” That conviction drives memory away. “He loved me.”

“Of course he did. He was your father.”

“He is the only person who ever loved me.”

Mariusz watches me through glittering eyes. “That is not true.”

“It is, I assure you. My mother never loved me, and there was no one else to love me. No brothers. No sisters.”

Mariusz looks at me for a long time without replying. Finally, he takes the candle from my hand. “Come with me,” he says. “I have something to show you.”

He goes to our apartment. When we are inside, he goes to his bedroom. I hesitate on the threshold.

“I’m not going to seduce you,” he says. “We’ve answered that question already.”

“I know.” Still, I wait by the door as he goes to his desk and opens a drawer. From within, he takes a small packet of folded papers and holds them out towards me.

“Here,” he says. “These are yours.”

“What are they?” I come closer. “I can’t read them.”

“It is the deed to a hunting lodge in the mountains. I had it made over to you.” He takes something from his inside pocket, a small velvet jewellery box about the size to fit a bracelet and ornamented with a red ribbon. “This holds the key. It is your Christmas present.”

“So you did get me a present.” I stare at the ribbon. “And didn’t give it to me.”

“I started to doubt myself.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

He shakes his head. “It would be very bad for me if you left. That’s why I wasn’t sure about this present. But I can see that the palace is not comfortable for you and I thought you might need a retreat. Somewhere safe. Somewhere you are in control of everything. It’s fully staffed, the servants are ready any time you want to go. It is cold in winter, but very pleasant in summer.”

“You’re giving me a house?”

“It’s more of a palace, really. A very small one.”

“And I can live there? If I need?”

“You can do whatever you want with it. Live there. Sell it. Turn it into a nunnery. Lock your mother up in it and throw away the key.”

I stifle a laugh. “I don’t think she would accept an invitation.”

“Well it’s yours, to do whatever you want with.”

It takes time for the reality of that statement to sink in. I come into the room and take the velvet box from Mariusz, pull apart the bow, and open it. Inside is a brass ring holding a collection of a dozen or so keys, of all different shapes, sizes and ages. Three months ago, my uncle gave me a choice between the tower and Mariusz. It was no real choice at all. Now, with these keys, Mariusz has made that choice real. I can choose against him if I so desire without also choosing against myself.

I did not know Mariusz understood me so well.

“Thank you,” I say, because it is all I can say.

“You’re welcome.”

We might have already answered the question of seduction, but somehow it feels like not enough just to thank him. I step closer, hesitatingly, and lay my hand on his arm to steady myself as I kiss his cool cheek. He might have kissed me before, even on the lips, but it’s the first time I have kissed him — or any man. I can feel the bone beneath his flesh, the cold smoothness of his skin, taste the salt of his dried tears. He remains motionless under my touch. Once I release him, he bows his head slightly, looking at me from under his eyelashes, uncertain.

“It’s a perfect gift,” I say. “It’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. And I hope I never have to use it.”

__

2024-12-27: And so we learn that Mariusz did, in fact, get a present for Alex. I think partially he was probably afraid to give it to her in front of his mother, tbh.

32. Unwanted Gifts

A few days after Christmas, I run out of excuses for missing my language lessons. I go down to the library hoping Konrad is still suffering from his migraine.

I am not so lucky. He is in one of his flattering moods today, and when I inquire after his health, spends quite five minutes expressing effusions of gratitude for my inquiry. When he has thoroughly exhausted that topic, I think we might start upon the lesson at last, but he has more to be grateful for: Irena has shown him the bookmark I gave her and she is delighted with it.

“It is a pretty small nothing,” I say in Selician. “I am happy that…” I pause to wrangle my brain around the reflexive verb. “…that she liked it.”

“But even a pretty little nothing means so much to my wife,” Konrad says in Rothalian. “She does not expect people to think of her. I did not expect you to think of her. I did not know you knew her so well.”

“I don’t know her well,” I say stubbornly in Selician. I am quite sure I chose the wrong case for the phrase, but Konrad offers no correction.

“In fact, it puts us a little at your disadvantage,” he says in Rothalian. “For we have received a gift from you but never given one, and a gift deserves a gift.”

“Gifts are not favours.” My Selician fails me and I fall reluctantly into Rothalian. “Neither you nor Lady Irena are at a disadvantage. It was only a very small present.”

“You put my heart at ease.” Konrad offers me a timid smile. “Perhaps, then, I might offer you a token of my admiration without it being seen as audacity?”

He slides a box out from behind his pile of books and pushes it across the table towards me. It is the same sort of velvet jewellery box that Mariusz used to give me the keys to the hunting lodge, the same size too, only this one, I know, will not be hiding anything so unusual as old, tarnished keys.

“That would be more admiration than is proper,” I say.

Konrad pulls the box away, looking hurt. “I only mean to reward your efforts in learning such a difficult language. I thought you would like it.” He opens the box to reveal a miniature book. “You are always asking to borrow Florian’s dictionary.”

My heart skips several beats in embarrassment and only catches them up when my cheeks start to burn. It is only a pocket dictionary after all. Of course Konrad would not be so absurd as to buy me jewellery. Even if I am correct in my suspicions that he admires me too much, he cannot be such a fool as to think it would be at all appropriate.

“We should start the lesson,” I say. “We are running out of time.”

“Of course, of course,” Konrad says in Selician. He makes a big fuss of opening and organising his books and deciding which page to turn to. “However, I was thinking…” He reverts to Rothalian. “…It is time to broaden your education.”

“Pardon?”

“There is only so much that you can learn out of books in this library. You need to be reading more, listening more. Irena mentioned that you expressed interest in attending the opera. It could be an educational event for you.”

“No more than attending dinner, I should think. I am surrounded by Selician every day. I don’t need to seek it out through entertainment.”

“But it is not the same. A driving narrative, the spectacle of theatre, it clarifies the context of the language and its message. What you hear at dinner must be mostly obscure to you, unless it is something very commonplace, such as pass the salt.” Konrad frowns. “But perhaps you are not interested in the opera after all and were only trying to make my wife happy by talking of it.”

I am tempted to say yes, to get Konrad off this topic, but if I do, I am sure he will repeat it to Irena and spoil things between us. “Opera would be an interesting diversion, but not for the chance to hear Selician. Besides, I assume the opera would be in Italian or German.”

“But, no. Not Ruslan and Ludmila. It is a Russian opera, so it translates very nicely to our language. I think that must be why it is so popular here. Personally, it is a little sentimental for my taste.” He looks critically at me. “You do not strike me as a sentimental woman. You probably won’t like it either.”

“What do you mean I’m not sentimental?” Somehow it sounds like an insult.

Konrad shakes his hands apologetically. “I hope I have not offended you. It is a compliment. Far too many women are completely at the mercy of their emotions. Tears are so disabling.”

The image of Mariusz, tears gleaming gold under candlelight, slips unbidden into my mind. I did not cry like that for my father when he died. I did not cry at all. And I am sure — quite sure, despite Konrad’s sincere gaze — that I am the deficient one.

“I really think you must be one of the most rational women I know,” Konrad continues in a soft voice. “You contain your feelings in the neat little cage of your heart and you never let them control you. You never cry, you never show a hint of sorrow or fear. No matter the insult, the provocation, you never lose your temper. You always do what is right for the occasion.

You will certainly be a wonderful ruler… if Mariusz ever lets you out of his shadow.“

“What do you mean? I have no part in ruling this duchy. I cannot.”

Konrad looks surprised. “But nothing forbids you from it. In fact, you are the duchess, it is expected. You are meant to be more than ornament to Mariusz’s coronet.”

“Both King Edmund and Prince Mariusz have made it very clear to me that I am not.”

“And you so unquestioningly follow their orders? I am surprised. I thought you had more spirit than that.”

“I would not wish to have more spirit than sense. I cannot speak Selician and I am widely disliked. No one would support me were I to take any active part in politics. I am inadequate even as an ornament, I fear.”

Konrad drums his fingers softly, slowly on the table. He has forgotten entirely about the lesson it appears. “Does it not occur to you that both King Edmund and Mariusz might have ulterior motives for not wanting you to take part?”

“King Edmund certainly does. Mariusz… he has no desire to rule himself. He rules reluctantly. But he makes a wise decision in keeping me away from it. I am too unpopular to help him.”

“He does not see your potential,” Konrad says. “His brother Adam would have had you visiting hospitals and giving toys to orphans on Sundays, and advising his ministers by Monday morning. You would have liked Adam. Everyone did. It’s no surprise Mariusz can’t follow in his footsteps. Adam was talented.”

“So is Mariusz. I’ve never met anyone in my life so clever with languages as he is.”

“Certainly, he is very good with languages.” The stress Konrad places on the word makes it sound more like an insult than a compliment. “If he had a little more application, he would be quite the academic, I believe. But a good ruler needs more than academic understanding. Adam was talented with people.”

“Mariusz is not untalented with people.”

Konrad does not even raise an eyebrow, he merely meets my gaze, waiting.

“Well, you can learn to understand people,” I argue. “To work with them. He hasn’t had as much as practice as Adam, no doubt. Adam was meant to be the king and educated accordingly. Mariusz was not. I think for someone who’s been thrust into this role unexpectedly by the death of his brother, he’s actually doing very well. It’s not easy for him. None of this is easy for him. He’s trying very hard.”

“Yes,” Konrad says slowly. “That is quite my point. It is not easy for Mariusz because he is not very good at it.”

Against that implacable logic, I run silent. The silence grows prickly. Konrad rearranges his hands across his pile of books. He has not yet opened one today. He has fluttered their covers, rearranged their order, thumbed their pages, but he has not shown me a single word of what is within. We have spent more time speaking my language than the language I am meant to be learning.

“We are not here to discuss Mariusz. We are certainly not here to disparage him. We are here so I can learn Selician.”

“Of course, of course.” Konrad takes a book out of the pile and flutters its covers. “Though I might suggest, your highness, that I may be of use to you for more than simply language. I could help you understand Selica, its court, its people. Even its politics. As I said, you are meant to be more than ornament.”

There is the hint of a challenge in the last word. I resent it, and resent also the soft, sly smile Konrad gives me with it, as though we are sharing in a secret.

“You promised to teach me the language, yet we have been here some twenty minutes already this morning and you have taught me nothing. Are you asking for the opportunity to further disappoint me? I deny it. From you, I have no interest in learning anything but Selician.”

Konrad’s cheeks flood scarlet. The colour lends sudden animation to his doll-like blue eyes, ripples the perfect regularity and symmetry of his features like a jagged stone thrown in a silent pool. And, like ripples in a pool, the disturbance reveals something lying beneath, something shadowed and mired and ugly.

He composes himself before I can define it. His face leaches slowly back to white and he laughs a little awkward laugh. “I am afraid I must beg an apology, my dear princess. I have been a poor friend to you this morning. My mind has been on other matters and I was unable to stop myself from musing aloud upon them — to you, who certainly does not care to hear my unworthy thoughts, who certainly would prefer her time is spent in learning.” He gets up from his chair, comes around the table, and kneels at my side, his head bowed. “Pray accept my apology.”

I am too embarrassed to speak.

“Your highness?” he says to the floor.

“I accept your apology.” I say it only to end this uncomfortable moment. “Stand up.”

But he does not stand up. He takes my hand as if to kiss it. I snatch it away and stand up so quickly my chair topples over behind me.

“I did not say you could kiss me.”

“It is tradition in this land to accept an apology with a kiss.” Konrad looks up at me with wide, hurt eyes. “It heals the wound.”

“It is not my tradition.” My heart is racing unpleasantly and I have to force myself to meet Konrad’s eyes. “I have no more to learn from you, Prince Konrad. Not languages, not culture, not politics. Certainly not tradition. I have learnt enough. There will be no more lessons.”

“Ach, I have overstepped! Please, allow me to apologize, once more, for my thoughtless actions.”

“No.” I cut him off before he can begin another humble, humiliating speech. “I am finished with our lessons, and I will not let you waste any more of my morning with an apology I do not wish to hear. Good day, Prince Konrad.”

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2025-01-05: Happy New Year, beautiful readers!!!

33. The Prince’s Ransom

Mariusz’s nameday celebrations begin long after the winter sky has turned dark. I cannot fault Celina on her planning. The palace drive is lit up by hundreds of burning torches laced with copper salt to turn their flames green. A green carpet leads from the entrance hall through to the ballroom where a stage has been constructed at one end. It is bedecked with vines and moss and sprays of leaves, all set under a canopy of forest-green gauze dotted with glinting pieces of broken glass. A great wooden chair sits on the stage, a wicker box at its feet. The only other set piece is a black cauldron some distance away. Sprays of leaves are hung about the ballroom — not in regular patterns, but in all sorts of strange ways. A spray of mistletoe hangs above a portrait of Dowager Duchess Maria and her dead husband. A crown of holly is affixed to a stag in a painting of a woodland hunt. Vines twist around the chandeliers. It smells like a herb garden. On the floor, green chalk marks out a maze of confusing, contradictory arrows and signs. I can read some of them. One says, “Don’t look back” and another says “Beware the wolf”. Before the party really begins, when our guests are thin on the ground, Dominik finds great amusement in running around trying to find his way out of the maze. I don’t think there is an exit. I think it just goes round and round in circles. As more guests come into the room though, the maze is obscured by their feet, and the chalk slowly polished away.

Dominik is sent to bed before the footmen give out the first round of drinks. These are green too, thimble glasses of absinthe. Celina, on the stage, gives a short speech and urges us all to drink to Mariusz’s health. I stand next to Mariusz in the middle of the ballroom and take a sip of my drink. It tastes like a bitter fennel tea and makes me grimace, which in turn makes Mariusz laugh.

“Be careful with the absinthe,” he says. “It comes at you from behind.”

Before I can asks him what he means, eerie lute music starts playing from nearby and sweet, thick smoke rises mysteriously throughout the room. I squint through the crowd. The lute player must be hidden behind the stage, and the smoke is explained by bowls of burning dried herbs sitting on the footmen’s trays. One of the footmen starts sneezing which rather ruins the effect.

Three men swoop and dart through the smoke, doing cartwheels and flips, their long green capes arcing behind them like wings. They make strange, bird-like cries and a drum joins the lute, getting faster and faster with the men’s movements.

I step discreetly back from Mariusz’s side. A man swoops past me, his cloak brushing against my bare neck. He kneels before Mariusz and shouts out. I think it must be just sounds, not words at all. The other two men swoop in and surround Mariusz. The smoke grows thicker and thicker, and the drum drowns out the footman’s sneezing.

The drum stops. The lute falls silent.

The biggest of the men, a complete beast, well over six feet tall and barrel-chested, lifts Mariusz onto his shoulder like a child. Mariusz pretends to struggle, but I think even if he meant to try for real, he could not have escaped.

The smallest man, who up close I can see is not much more than a boy, perhaps younger than me, points to the stage and shouts. I catch the words home and prince.

Slowly, softly, the drum starts up again like a heartbeat. Following its pace, the men make a solemn procession to the stage. The crowd parts as they move through the room. The smoke is starting to dissipate now. By the time they reach the stage, it is little more than wisps lingering in the air, and the footman has at last stopped sneezing.

The big man sets Mariusz down in the chair. The boy produces a length of green ribbon and solemnly winds it around Mariusz’s hips and thighs, tying him to the chair. Mariusz is starting to enjoy himself. He makes a great show of shouting at the boy and pretending to try to get free. The big man holds Mariusz down so that he can’t. While they are arguing, the third man, who is tall and classically handsome, takes a crown of pine needles from the wicker box and holds it aloft. He gives a speech to the crowd. I recognize the words prince and gold and freedom.

Behind him, the other two manage to get Mariusz successfully tied to the chair. The ribbon is so loose it threatens to fall off. Mariusz tucks it closer under his legs. I suppose they must have been too afraid of hurting him to tie him down properly.

The lute starts up again, playing triumphant music this time, and the handsome man carries the pine-needle crown to Mariusz and places it reverentially on top of his pondweedy blond hair.

“Our prince,” he says, and I am pleased with myself for understanding. The sentence that follows, however, eludes me.

The lute falls silent again and the actors wait. Valery steps forward from the crowd where he has been standing next to Celina. He goes up onto the stage and speaks to the actors. From his tone, I think he is complaining, or perhaps insulting someone. The actors stamp their feet and cross their arms and deny his claim, whatever it was. Valery sighs and pats at his pockets. He extracts several large silver coins and holds them in his upturned palm, saying a phrase. The boy actor gestures Valery towards the cauldron. Valery throws the coins into it.

“Is that enough?” he asks.

The actors shake their heads. “Not enough. We want more.”

I get very used to those phrases over the next hour or so. I also learn the phrase Valery used — I offer you this. Everyone seems to say it as they go up to the stage and give the actors their coins. When Dowager Duchess Maria goes up, she uses it, though what she offers is a sable-trimmed cloak and sable-trimmed gloves. The actors make a big show of trying them on.

“Too small,” the big man says, and hands the cloak to the boy.

“It’s too big,” the boy says, and hands the cloak to the handsome man.

It fits the handsome man rather well. He struts about the stage in it, making everyone laugh. All of a sudden, he throws it off and scratches himself madly. I don’t understand his complaint precisely — too itchy, I imagine — but the boy picks it up and tosses it next to the box at Mariusz’s feet with another phrase I cannot identity.

“We want more,” the actors say in chorus. “We want more.”

The game continues. It does not demand the full attention of the guests who, if they have had their turn to give coin, investigate the food tables and stand in groups to chatter and drink champagne. I wait until the cauldron is nearly full of coins before I come up to the stage with my present for Mariusz, hoping that people will not watch me. But it is always more interesting to see a real gift being offered as the actors invent amusing reasons to reject them all, so most of the ballroom have their eyes on me.

“I offer you this,” I say in Selician.

I have been silently practicing the words in my mind as I wait, trying to get them as close as possible to what I hear. I can tell it is not at all correct, but the big actor smiles as he takes the present from me. It looks tiny in the great paw of his hand.

“What is it?” he asks, opening the box.

“It’s a…” Unprepared, I struggle to recall the word. “It writes.”

“It writes.” He stares at the quill and pencil within. “What is writes?”

The boy snatches the box from him. He criticizes the big man loudly. I recognize the word stupid, which I have learned from Florian. His language is faster and much more complicated than the big man’s, and I can understand no more than that. He takes the quill from its mooring and sticks it jauntily in his nest of fair curls. The handsome man puts his face in his hands. He seems to be lamenting the others’ stupidity. He retrieves the quill from the boy’s hair and the case from the big man. Carefully, he puts the quill back in its place and shuts the case. He points out the engraved message to the others.

“This is writing,” he says, and slowly reads out the message.

Remembering the words I chose, my cheeks flame. I had not imagined anyone but Mariusz would read them. I dart a glance at him and find myself trapped by his return gaze. The curve of his mouth is both amused and contemptuous. Perhaps he is as embarrassed as I am, or perhaps he is offended by my insincerity.

Our guests are easier to please. A sentimental sigh echoes around the room, punctuated by warm laughter.

The boy grows contemptuous. He is not impressed by writing. The big man pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye and gestures for the handsome man to give the pen set to Mariusz. The handsome man tries to argue, but the big man is louder. The pen set, too, goes into the wicker box. Once again, the actors give the chorus, “We want more, we want more,” and I am free to leave the stage.

The moment has left my heart racing, so I find a footman and get myself a glass of champagne. While I am drinking it, Konrad appears suddenly at my side. It is the first time we have spoken since I ended our lessons. He smiles warmly at me as though we did not part on cold terms two days ago.

“That was a pretty little message. Do you know what it meant?”

“I wrote it.”

“I did not think you knew the words.”

“Mariusz taught them to me.”

“Oh.” He removes a speck of invisible dust from the sleeve of his coat. “From the way you blushed up on stage, I thought perhaps the message was a lie.”

“I blushed because it was true.”

I have the fleeting triumph of making Konrad fall silent. Celina is on the stage now, and I want to watch her. I want to see what she gives Mariusz. She must give him something, for Valery went up to the stage a second time with a bottle of spirits and Barany gave him a set of ivory dice and counters.

Celina holds out her hands flat, palms raised. She seems to be saying that she has no coin to give the actors.

“I have nothing,” she says — a phrase I can understand. She adds further phrases which I do not. Then comes the now familiar phrase, “I offer you…”

It is followed by a word I do not understand. The boy actor shouts with glee and Mariusz sits up straight and stares at Celina.

By my side, Konrad laughs softly. “Do you know what that word means?” he asks. “Pocelunok?”

“It has not come up in our lessons.”

“Mariusz did not teach you? So he will call you ‘my darling’ but he will not tell you to give him a kiss?”

The flame returns to my cheeks, hotter this time. “If she dares!”

But she has dared, and the actors are performing their usual farce about her gift. Celina watches them smugly. They seem to be arguing about which one of them will get the kiss. It becomes physical. The boy shoves the big man, and the big man clips at the boy only to miss and get the handsome man instead. It becomes a brawl. The guests laugh and call out. The big man, naturally, wins, knocking the others’ heads together and sending them groaning to the floor. He turns around and marches towards Celina. The handsome man, still groaning on the ground, shoots out one long arm and trips him.

The big man goes down like a felled oak. The handsome man stops groaning, somersaults to his feet, leaps over the big man, and stops in front of Celina, grinning.

Celina puts her hands to his cheeks and kisses him. It is not a polite kiss. After a moment of surprise, the actor’s arms close around her. Her hands shift to his shoulders. Some of the guests whistle and clap. Mariusz looks at the wicker box at his feet.

“You look upset,” Konrad observes.

“It is distasteful.”

“It is only a kiss. I am beginning to think you are rather prudish about kisses. But perhaps that is just your culture. Rothalians, I think, can be a little cold.”

Up on the stage, Celina disentangles her lips and arms from the actor’s. She is pink-cheeked and luminous.

“Is it enough?” she asks coyly.

The handsome man looks at his fellow actors. They nod.

“It is enough,” they say in chorus. “Now, it is enough.”

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2025-01-12: Oh my, oh my. The drama. And there is more to come, for the party continues long into the night.

34. Sweet Absinthe

The actors untie Mariusz from the chair and the big one gives a speech which makes everyone clap. Then they bow. Mariusz bows too, but he seems distracted. He talks to the actors quietly, and they disappear behind the stage and return with the forth member of their troop, a woman, and three lutes and drum. They begin to play music. Not the sort of music normally played at royal events, but Selician folk music. It starts people dancing. At the same time, the footmen bring out fresh trays of hot food and steaming jugs of mulled wine to the refreshment tables.

Mariusz plunges from the stage and goes directly for the food. I cross the room, weaving my way around dancers, and join him. He has a glass of mulled wine and a plate loaded high with little pastry knots.

“What are they?” I ask.

“Cabbage and mushroom,” he says. “They’re very good, but they scatter crumbs.”

I look down at the white bodice of my dress and decide not to risk it. “I didn’t know they would read the message I wrote on the pen case.”

Mariusz chews carefully on a cabbage and mushroom pastry. “I think people liked hearing it.”

“You didn’t.”

He puts another pastry in his mouth. When it is finished, he drinks his mulled wine. At last he says, “I think you did very well tonight. You spoke our language. You blushed — you look very charming when you blush. People liked you. And hearing that message, they might very well believe we are in love. So, I am pleased, Sasha.”

But he doesn’t look pleased. His eyes are tight, like he is trying to hold back irritation. Perhaps it is merely the spectacle and publicity that irritates him.

“Do you want to sit somewhere quietly and pretend to talk?” I ask.

He laughs, shattering the tightness of his expression. “Thank you, but no. Perhaps later. It is mostly friends here tonight. I will be friendly to them.” His eyes are still shadowed by some hidden feeling. “Thank you for the present, Sasha. I will use it a lot.”

We have not further opportunity to talk, because two of Mariusz’s friends come up to us and start chattering, loudly. I think they are talking about the play. I drift away from them on the excuse of looking for something to eat. There is nothing that does not risk staining my gown, so I settle for a glass of mulled wine, which I take to an empty chair at the edge of the room to drink. The party tonight is less formal and stilted than typical royal events. I think most people really are here just to have fun. Barany is dancing his war dance, very badly as usual, though he still wears his shirt and coat and I don’t think he is drunk — yet. He has quite an audience around him, cheering him on. Henryka is among them, laughing shyly behind her hand. Zofia is with her mother, yawning and looking like she wants bed. Duchess Maria is playing some sort of card game with her friends. Celina and Valery sit together on a sofa, drinking champagne. Valery is bitterly talking at length about something, but I don’t believe Celina is listening. Her eyes are upon the handsome actor playing his lute. Perhaps that is why Valery looks so bitter. Konrad is dancing with a woman some years older than him, approaching middle age. Irena isn’t here, or I might have some company. I wonder if Celina did not think to invite her or if she had some reason not to come. Perhaps Florian needed watching. She would have liked the play, I think.

I finish my drink and sit and watch the party. Every now and then, people approach me. Lord Tarnuv comes to wish me good health and good fortune in the new year. Two of Duchess Maria’s friends come my way and test my Selician by complimenting my dress and inquiring after my health. Henryka comes to sit with me, though she has little conversation to offer. I suppose she thought I looked lonely. After a while, though, one of Barany’s friends comes and asks her to dance and she shyly gets up and goes with him.

At midnight, Celina gets up onto the stage again and makes a short announcement, shouting over the crowd. Footmen open the doors onto the terrace and people pile through them. I join the crowd and go through to the hedge garden beyond. It is very cold and clear tonight, and I shiver in my short-sleeved gown. The sky lights up above us with a dull bang. I crane my head and watch as orange and pink and green clusters of fireworks explode from the palace roofs. The scent of smoke fills the garden.

I look through the crowds for Mariusz, wondering if he has tired of people yet. I can’t see him, but I do see Valery, standing alone by a statue and drinking from his hip flask. He catches my eye and scowls. I am reminded, quite suddenly, of my cousin Viktoria, who used to roll her eyes at me behind Uncle Edmund’s back.

I go over to him, smiling. “Aren’t these fireworks beautiful?”

“Pah.” He drinks from his flask. “It is an amusement for children.”

“Then tonight, at least, you do not refuse to speak my language. I suppose you are lonely.”

He gives me a dirty look. “I saw you sat alone all night.”

“As did you.”

“I had a friend to talk to.”

I look around. “Where is she now?”

Valery takes another deep swig of his drink. His usual smug manner is blunted tonight by bitterness and self-pity. Perhaps that is why he is bothering to talk to me.

“Did you like the play?” I ask.

“No.” He almost spits out the word. “I think it was stupid. Fairies and taxes! Romantic nonsense! And the actors were not very good. I did not laugh at their jokes. I did not laugh even once. And they cannot play well. Their music is very… very simple, very low. It is music for peasants. I do not know why anyone likes it.”

It is not anyone he means, I think, but Celina.

He looks suspiciously at me. “Did you like it?”

“The play went on too long, I think. It was quite tedious by the end. And I thought the actors sense of humour was a little crude.”

He nods. “Yes, yes I agree.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “Do you want a drink?”

“What is it?”

“Absinthe, but I made it sweet.”

“Thank you. If you have a cup.”

He does. It slides off the bottom of the flask like a sock. He pours a generous measure and hands it to me. We drink in silence while the fireworks break above us. Outside in the winter chill, the burn of the spirit is more a gentle warming than a thorny blast, or perhaps the sugar Valery added softened its edge. When it is sweet, it tastes quite pleasant. The fireworks finish, and through the falling ash and scent of smoke, people start to head back indoors.

“Are you not going back in?” I ask Valery.

“No. It is boring in there. Will you go in? Will you sit at the wall and watch Mariusz?”

I can see that I have exhausted Valery’s shallow stock of sympathy. I drain the last of my cup and give it back to him. “I will sit at the wall and watch the actors,” I say sweetly. “They may have been crude, but they were all very handsome. I think it is not their music anyone likes.”

Valery chokes on his drink. I leave him, feeling as though I have scored a point against him. Yet, like all the times I scored a point against Viktoria, my satisfaction is just a little uneasy. I am not sure that this is a game I should be playing.

Inside the ballroom, only the female member of the troupe is playing music now. The big actor and the boy are doing flips and cartwheels in the middle of the room, surrounded by an audience. I think the boy is showing off a bit. He lets the big actor throw him high into the air and then twists and tumbles back down to land light as a feather on his feet. The handsome actor has disappeared.

Mariusz is watching them too, looking very interested. He tries to mimic their cartwheels, only to end up flat on his face on the floor. Barany laughs, but until Mariusz starts laughing too, no one else dares. Mariusz gets to his feet and talks to the actors. They demonstrate the technique for him and give him instructions. His second attempt is better and he manages to land on his feet, even if it is more of a hand-hop than a cartwheel. Barany tries too, and fails earnestly and spectacularly.

I do not want it to look like I am watching Mariusz. I search for Zofia and Henryka, but they have disappeared too, probably to bed. Duchess Maria is still talking with her friends. I don’t want to interrupt them.

I don’t think I will be missed if I leave. Mariusz is too entertained by acrobatics to need rescuing.

People are still dancing, so I make my way around the edge of the ballroom for the door. The footman opens it for me and I pass quickly through the room beyond and into the marble and gilt entrance hall, which is the quickest way up to our rooms.

Prince Konrad sits quietly on the marble stairs, reading a book by the light of a candle.

I stop still as he looks up.

“Princess Alexandra?” He sounds surprised to see me. “I have retreated to my usual safe company, you see.”

“Yes, I see. I was just going to bed.”

He gets to his feet. “Let me walk you to your room.”

“No. There is no need.”

“But there is. It is dark upstairs. I will light the way for you.”

As he speaks, the absinthe, as Mariusz warned, comes at me from behind. The spiral staircase on which Konrad stands spins. It seems to spin around him. A vivid instinct tells me not to go with him. I feel like Red Riding Hood, staring into the wolf’s bright eyes.

“I have forgotten something. I have to speak to Duchess Maria.” I turn, stumbling rather, and go back into the anteroom. I can take the back stairs to the first floor.

But Konrad is following me. I have no choice but to go back into the ballroom. Mariusz is now doing fluent cartwheels. He seems to have at least four legs. I squint through the multiplied crowd of guests. Their faces are blurred. I try to remember what the dowager duchess was wearing.

Konrad touches my arm. “Your highness? Are you well?”

Blue. She was wearing a blue like a kingfisher’s wings. I spot the blue of her gown across the room. She is beyond a maze of dancing quartets. What did the maze say earlier tonight? Don’t look back?

I keep my gaze forward as I cut through the dancers. It is easier than looking at them. Their movements make my stomach do unpleasant acrobatics. I step on someone’s toe, and an elbow lands at my waist. I mutter blind apologies. At last I reach Duchess Maria. Her blurred face watches me. I suddenly think of my own mother. And where is Konrad?

“Mariusz is getting rather good at…” I do not know the word in French. “The acrobatics?”

“Yes. He has always been athletic.” Her voice clinks with disapproval. “Do take a seat, Alexandra.”

I cannot sit down. I know if I try I will end up on the floor, as spectacular and earnest a failure as Barany. I turn around. I cannot tell where Konrad is in the blurred, moving crowd.

“I think I need some air,” I say. “Excuse me.”

But I cannot tell which of the curtained rectangles on the wall are windows and which are the doors to the terrace. I walk helplessly the length of the wall and end up in the corner of the room. I stand here, trying to quell the sudden rising of my stomach. A man’s soft voice rises over the hum of music and chatter and dancing feet and laughter. I think it is Konrad’s, but I cannot see well enough through my haze to see where he is.

A man materialises out of the wall next to me. I stare at him. He is much too tall to be Konrad, and his blurred face is too broad.

“Excuse me, your highness.”

He clicks his heels and walks past me. A footman. And he did not materialise out of the wall. He has left the servants’ door, disguised as part of the panelling, slightly ajar.

I slide through it into a welcome darkness. Here, I cannot see at all. I feel for the wall. If I follow it, I must soon come to a kitchen where I can beg a maid for a basin.

I come instead to stairs and fall up them. Their cold damp wood is comforting and solid beneath my hands. I kneel and breathe.

Footsteps sound from behind me in the blackness. I know it is Konrad. He will be bringing his candle to light my way.

I crawl up the stairs. The footsteps keep pace behind me. I get to my feet and run. The stairs turn endlessly around and up. I can find no exit from them, nothing but more stairs. I start to believe that my tower room lies at the end of them. It was all a dream. I never left.

The stairs stop.

My legs are shaking and my sweet absinthe breath comes in rags. I feel through the dark and find the cold steel of a doorknob. I turn it and push and stumble out onto the palace roof.

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2025-01-19: Bit of an announcement… I’m going to be changing the rating of this story from not mature to mature before I post the next chapter. It starts to explore some darker themes and Wattpad is quite strict with its mature content rating. It feels weird to me, because this book is heavily inspired by some YA books I read and loved as kid, so I don’t think it’s mature, just… dark. But Wattpad is a different beast, so there you go. If you’re a regular reader and you have mature content set to non-visible, this might make the story look like it’s disappeared, I suppose? Not really sure. But, anyway, there will be a rating change soon.

35. King Edmund’s Request

The chill air clears my head. Stumbling, drunken clarity has me questioning how many people noticed my condition in the ballroom. Konrad, probably. Duchess Maria definitely. Perhaps with some luck I escaped the others’ notice.

Stumbling, drunken clarity also tells me that I am lost. I step carefully forwards to the low parapet that guards me from the slope of copper tiles below. I have come out, somehow, at the top of the centre wing of the palace. Far below me, the marble palace steps glisten under the starlight. The torches that light the drive now burn soft and yellow.

They are not much unlike gaslight. I used to watch the city at night from my tower window and the view was not dissimilar. I squint, trying to resolve my blurred vision into singular. I want to see some differences in the view. I want to be certain that that dark silhouette is the conifers lining the garden, not the crenellated walls of Justice Square.

Clear vision evades me. Absinthe — or perhaps memory — makes my stomach churn. I clamp my hands over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut. If I don’t breathe, perhaps the feeling will go away.

Quiet, stalking footsteps rise from the stairwell behind me. I turn around and back away from the door, my hands still over my mouth. A blurry figure in a white dress shirt emerges slowly, carefully from the doorway. I step backwards. The edge of the parapet presses against my skirts.

“What are you doing?” Mariusz speaks low and urgent. “What are you doing, Sasha?”

Thank God it’s not Konrad. But I dare not open my mouth.

“Come closer. Come towards me,” he says. “Please.”

I know if I move I will be sick.

“Sasha.” Mariusz comes slowly closer, his arms outstretched. “Don’t move, and I’ll come to you.”

He comes closer by inches. My stomach rises within me and my hands over my mouth tremble. I know I am going to be sick and I don’t want him to see it.

He grabs me and drags me into his arms. My shaking knees will not hold my weight and I fall against him. He stumbles backwards, taking me with him. My face smashes into the door. Mariusz collapses beneath me. I hit the cold hard slate of the rooftop before I can make sense of gravity and find all my limbs.

Mariusz’s arms are still around me. He groans and loosens his grip. I roll away from him and retch onto the slate. Salt comes with the acid. I’m bleeding. I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek. A body-shaking pain surges through my face and I stop.

Mariusz still clutches at my skirt. “You idiot,” he mutters. “You stupid little fool. What the hell are you doing up here?”

The pain keeps me from speaking. I must have broken a tooth. I try to force back the urge to vomit, because I know it will make the pain worse.

Mariusz sits up slowly with another groan. He releases his grip on my skirt and rubs his back. I crouch on the roof, my whole body trembling. My stomach leaps to my throat and I swallow it back.

“For God’s sake, let it out,” Mariusz says. “You’ll feel better when you have.”

I clench my mouth shut.

“It’s rather nice to be the sober one for a change,” he adds spitefully.

I open my mouth to tell him to go away and lose control of my stomach. The absinthe tastes sickly sweet as it comes back up. I taste more blood, which makes me sick again. Pain radiates from my jaw. I clench my trembling hands and wait for it to fade.

“There,” Mariusz says. “You feel better, don’t you?”

I want to cry. “You’re horrible.”

“And you’re drunk.” He sounds somehow relieved. “I warned you about the absinthe.”

I walk my palms backwards inch by trembling inch until I can sit on my heels. Now that my stomach is empty, it has stopped jumping, but my vision is still running double and in the pale starlight I can make out no more than the blur of his face and his white shirtfront.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“I followed you. Why are you here?” Mariusz takes something pale from his pocket and passes it to me — his handkerchief. “You weren’t thinking of jumping, were you?”

I dab at my mouth, wincing as pain lances through my jaw. I don’t think I did break a tooth. I think the pain is outside, where I smashed into the door.

“Were you?” Mariusz asks again, quieter. I realize he means it.

“No.” I quiver as another wave of nausea runs over me. “No. No.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Through my drunken haze, the panicked conviction presses itself firmly upon me that he cannot know I was running away from Konrad, but I am unable to think of a lie.

“Sasha?”

I shake my head and throbbing pain resounds through my jaw.

After a moment, Mariusz says, very quietly, very gently, “Your uncle told me about the bars he had to have put on the tower window.”

I touch my face, trying to figure out where the pain is coming from. My cheek is damp. I try to pat it dry with the handkerchief, but the damp keeps coming.

“He said you were more fragile than you let show.”

I give up stemming the flow of dampness. The handkerchief is dark under the starlight. The darkness stains my hands.

“He asked me to keep you safe.”

“I’m bleeding.” I touch my cheek again. It’s hot and wet under my chilled fingers. “I’m bleeding a lot. It hurts.”

Mariusz touches my chin to turn my face to the slender starlight. He swears gently in Selician. “We need a surgeon.” He swears again. “Come on. We have to go downstairs and find help.”

__

2024-01-26: I feel sorry for Alex. Also, it’s really hard to write from the perspective of a very drunk person.

36. A Token of Friendship

It takes seventeen stitches to close the cut in my cheek. The doctor insists on giving me a tincture of morphia before the surgeon is allowed to perform the operation. He suspects I have fractured my cheekbone as well. Mariusz struggles to explain how it happened. He has to explain many times, because there is no way down from the rooftop except back through the servant’s door into the ballroom where people are still dancing and having fun. As soon as they see the blood on my face and the blood dripping down my white gown, they cluster around us and barrage Mariusz with questions. He keeps one arm around me so I do not stumble and begs them to give us room. By the time we get to the spiral staircase, Dowager Duchess Maria is the only one still following us. She and Mariusz argue all the way to my room. I am thankful, for once, that I cannot understand them.

I feel better once the morphia sinks over me. It brings down a veil between me and my drunkenness that feels almost sobering. The veil comes between me and my feelings too. It blunts my anxiety and softens my shame. I am able to look quite calmly at Duchess Maria through my still double vision as she dispatches servants to hot water and fresh clothes. I can even admire her efficiency.

The pain in my cheek feels distant and unimportant as the surgeon makes each slow, careful stitch. Mariusz watches guiltily. His mother looks away. Afterwards, my maidservant takes me into my dressing room to put me into my nightgown.

“Can you clean my dress?” I ask, but she does not understand me because I have spoken Rothalian. I try to think French, but the morphia seems to have put a veil over that too.

I go back out. Duchess Maria takes my hand and leads me to bed, which she has already turned down. She tucks me in like a child, speaking all the while in incomprehensible French. I don’t tell her I cannot understand, because I think it would worry her.

She leaves. Mariusz stays behind, leaning against the end of my bed. We are alone now.

“I have to go back down to the party,” he says. “They will be telling all kinds of gossip if I do not.”

“They don’t matter.”

“They matter to me. They will matter to you in the morning.”

Morning is far beyond the veil of morphia.

“I won’t be more than an hour,” Mariusz says. “When I come back, you’ll probably be asleep. We’ll have to talk about this tomorrow.”

Morphia is not without clarity. With my anxiety and shame blunted, I can spare my attention to catalogue Mariusz’s actions tonight.

“You threw me into the door.”

“It was an accident.”

I think the moment over. Yes, it was an accident. He wanted me away from the roof edge. That was probably quite correct of him. I remember something else.

“My uncle asked you to keep me safe.”

“And I did a good job, didn’t I?”

“You threw me into a door.”

Mariusz sighs. “Sasha… let’s talk about this tomorrow.” He comes around the bed and touches the unscarred side of my face. “You’re tired. You’re hurt. Go to sleep.”

As he speaks, a pleasant weariness sinks over me. I shut my eyes. His touch and footsteps recede. I lie in the dark and enjoy the sensation of being so pleasantly weary. Sleep pulses behind my eyelids like waves upon a shore.

Someone is here.

Someone breathes softly over me. They’re watching me. I can tell they are watching me, even through the weight of sleep pulling me under.

I open my eyes.

Konrad stands by my bed, looking down upon me.

“What are you doing?”

The stub of a candle on my bedside table lights him from below, casting deep shadows over his eyes. For a long, dark minute he says nothing. Then, softly, sorrowfully, he says, “I thought we were friends.”

Panic pricks dully through the veil of morphia. My sticky thoughts attach to a memory from earlier tonight. “Where is your book?”

“My book?”

“You were reading a book. You were reading a book on the stairs by the light of the candle. You still have the candle, so where is the book?”

Konrad pats his breast pocket. “Here.”

But it wasn’t the book that made me panic. My sticky thoughts untangle another memory: the candle I found in Mariusz’s room on Christmas Eve. And Konrad left the table early.

“I want to be your friend,” Konrad says.

“I don’t think you do.”

“But I do. You are a rare emerald, Alexandra. I would like to help you. And I would like you to help me.”

“I don’t want to help you. I don’t need your help.”

“Don’t you?” Konrad sits down on the edge of my bed and touches my face. “You are bleeding. You are bruised. Mariusz did this to you.”

I struggle to sit up on heavy limbs. “It was an accident.”

“Mariusz hurt you.”

The morphia will not let me lie.

“And he hurts you in other ways too. I remember his little speech the first night you came here. I have noticed how he spends all his time with his friends and not his bride. I have heard the cruel things he says to you. He does not want you here. He resents you. He hurts you.” Konrad traces the line of my stitches. Blood blooms on his fingertip. “And the public believe he is in love with you. What would they think if they knew the truth?”

Hurt swells dully alongside my panic. Nothing he is saying is not true.

Konrad’s voice is soft as a heartbeat. “What would the public say if it got out that he is the one who scarred your beautiful face?”

“It won’t get out. He won’t let it.”

“I could tell them.”

“No.”

“No?” Konrad’s eyes are still cast in shadow. “You have the chance to hurt him back.”

“I don’t want to. Don’t tell them. Please.”

We are silent for such a long time that sleep begins to pulse temptingly at my eyelids again. My arms shake with the effort of keeping me propped up in bed. I want Mariusz to come back. He said he would not be long.

“Only friends keep each other’s secrets,” Konrad says. “I can only keep this secret if we are friends. Are we friends, Alexandra?”

My mouth is dry. We are not friends, but I cannot say so.

“Are we friends?”

I have to say it. I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “We are friends.”

“How can I believe you?” Konrad shakes his head. “I need some proof, some token of friendship. A kiss. A kiss of friendship.”

Panic billows against the veil of morphia. “No.”

“Then we are not friends after all. And I cannot keep your secret.”

“Wait.”

He waits.

I lick my dry lips with my parchment tongue. Celina bought Mariusz’s freedom with a kiss. The capture was not real, but the kiss was. Now, the capture is real, but the kiss does not have to be.

I push myself closer to him with trembling arms and press my dry lips against his cheek. The scent of his perfume, lavender and honey, clouds over me. I pull back before he can conquer his surprise and put his arms around me the way the actor put his arms around Celina.

But he isn’t surprised. He sits on the bed next to me for another minute, looking at the stub of his candle the way Mariusz looked at the wicker box. Then he gets to his feet, takes up the candle, and goes to the door.

My trembling arms collapse and I fall back on the pillows. “You won’t tell?”

He blows out his candle. “It is our secret.”

__

2025-02-02: I have never in my life been on any painkiller stronger than ibuprofen, so my portrayal of morphine is based almost entirely on the opium scenes in The Quiet American (a very good book, but unsettling).

37. Fever Dream

The sound of cutlery scraping against china frustrates me into wakefulness. I stare at the ceiling, my stomach churning. Perhaps if I do not move, it will stop churning and I can fall asleep again.

But in the next room, the teapot clinks against the tray and the suddenness of the sound makes my stomach flip. I drag myself from the twisted sheets and manage to get to my bathroom before I retch into the toilet. Nothing comes out but a dribble of clear bile, streaked with fresh blood from my mouth. My stomach churns again.

Mariusz comes into the room behind me. “You’re awake.”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“Do you want something to drink?”

I run my tongue around the dusty, acid backsides of my teeth. “Please.”

He leaves again. I wait over the toilet, but my stomach neither revolts nor settles. I sit down with my back against the rim of the bathtub and put my head in my arms. That makes my face throb, so I crawl to my feet and look in the mirror to see why. My vision is blurred. A dark gash runs from my right cheekbone down to my jaw and my right eye is swollen and purple-pink. I think that explains my vision.

When Mariusz comes back into the room, he turns pale. He hands me a cup of tea and looks wincingly at me.

“Does it hurt?”

“Uh.” I sip my tea carefully. It stings my lips, but it wets my mouth and settles my stomach. “Quite a bit.”

It even hurts to speak. And I don’t want to look at it. I turn my back to the mirror and try to remember — exactly — how it happened. My memories of last night run clear up to the fireworks, with Valery, in the terrace garden. I know something bad happened because I feel ashamed. Mariusz was there. I recall throwing up. My shame crystallises. He gave me his handkerchief.

“What happened last night?” I ask.

“You got very drunk.” Mariusz keeps his gaze upon my hands now, like he cannot bear to look at my face. “I think it was the absinthe, though I don’t know how.”

I remember the cup Valery gave me on the terrace. It was significantly bigger than the thimbles we had in the ballroom. “Valery gave me more, afterwards. We watched the fireworks together and drank.”

“Valery.” There is an edge to Mariusz’s voice. “I see.”

“I don’t think he meant to get me drunk.”

“I think he did.”

I cannot find the energy to argue. I can’t even be sure Mariusz isn’t right. It’s the sort of thing Valery would do. I sip slowly at my tea, my wound throbbing with every swallow. More memories come back to me. Mariusz, touching my chin and swearing. A procession of never-ending stairs like those that led to my tower.

“We were on the roof, weren’t we?”

“Yes. How much do you remember?”

“Fragments. It’s coming back to me.” I trace the line of my stitches. “It was the edge of the door.”

“The steel edge of the lock piece. It was covered with blood. I went up there before breakfast to find out exactly what happened.” Mariusz dares lift his gaze to my face again. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I was trying to protect you.”

Then it’s not the ugliness of my wound that keeps him from looking at me. It’s his guilt.

“I wasn’t going to jump.”

“I was worried you would fall. You were right on the edge. You were swaying. I was terrified.”

Our conversation echos a memory. “You wanted to protect me. King Edmund asked you to.”

“Yes. He did.”

I finish my tea. There is something wrong here, some hidden truth I have trodden over without exposing. I can see it in Mariusz’s eyes.

“Do you feel better now?” he asks.

I don’t fall for the distraction. “A bit.”

I don’t think I’m going to be sick again, but my mouth is still dry. It must be the morphia. I remember that now too. The morphia must have worn off, because my wound hurts. And my pride, once more. How strange it is that the drug would numb not just my body but my heart.

The panic I could not feel last night comes flooding back. It was Konrad I was running from on the roof. Konrad on the stairs.

Konrad in my room.

Was that real? Did that really happen?

“Sasha? What’s wrong?”

I shuffle past Mariusz and out into my bedroom. In bright morning sunshine, it looks peaceful and safe. How did he even get in? There is always a guard at the end of the hallway when we have guests.

I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.

“Sasha?”

“I need a drink.”

I go to our sitting room, where the breakfast table sits by the window. I pour myself another cup of tea and drink, heedless of the burn in my throat and the sting on my lips. A letter sits face down on Mariusz’s toast plate, spotted with grease. Ink bleeds through the paper in the grease spots.

Mariusz follows me to the table and resumes his seat. He is halfway through a breakfast pastry. He takes a bite and tosses it carelessly on top of his letter.

A little too carelessly.

“When did my uncle ask you to protect me?” I ask.

“To keep you safe,” Mariusz corrects. “I would try to do so anyway, of course. I don’t want you harmed.”

“Uh-huh. And when did he ask you?”

Mariusz looks guilty.

“You’re writing letters to him, aren’t you? You’re telling him things about me. And he’s telling you things. You’ve been writing to him all along.”

“Not all along. Only about six or seven weeks, really. Only since the night you told me to find allies beyond my drunken friends. Well, I did.”

“You cannot trust him.”

“Why not?” The edge comes back to Mariusz’s voice, only this time it’s directed at me. “Exactly why not, Sasha? You know him best. Tell me why I should not trust him.”

“He lies. Everything he does is for his own profit. Everything he says is to manipulate you. He would sacrifice you in a heartbeat if it suited him.”

“Would he? Would the man who saved your life, who created the bill that prevented your execution and forced it through his unwilling parliament, who found a place for you to live away from the pain and shamefulness of your past, would that man sacrifice me in a heartbeat? If I can trust nothing else about him, I can trust that he cares for you. And as long as you live here, he has reason to care for my country and my people too.”

“You have no idea how wrong you are. I don’t want you tell him things about me.”

“Mostly I just ask questions, really. Why won’t she let down her guard? Where did the scars on her wrists come from? Is there a way to tell when she is lying? What was she like as a child? Was she always this determined not show weakness? What can I do to make her happy?” Mariusz shakes his head. “But I will have to tell him about last night. He deserves to hear from my perspective what happened, not from whatever second-hand gossip comes his way. I would encourage you to tell him as well, but I don’t suppose you will.”

Uncle Edmund will know everything I tell Mariusz.

“Don’t look so horrified,” Mariusz says. “I’ve made a fool of myself over drink before, and I would wager that in his youth King Edmund has too. I would keep it secret if it were only that. But I have to explain how you came to be injured. I have to assure him that you’re not as badly hurt as it looks. That you’re safe.”

But I am not safe. Not if King Edmund knows all my secrets. Not if Konrad comes in my room.

Was he really there last night? I struggle to remember what we talked about. I recall the sight of a low-burning candle, the scent of lavender and honey. Did I really kiss him? It doesn’t seem real. Perhaps, under the influence of morphia and absinthe, I dreamed it.

I can’t tell Mariusz. Real or imagined, he will report it back to King Edmund. I can’t having my uncle knowing.

“I’m sorry,” Mariusz says quietly. “I know you don’t like it, but I think I really do trust him.”

“You do what you think you must.” I turn away so he cannot read my thoughts in my eyes. “But let me warn you, like absinthe, he has a way of coming at you from behind.”

__

2025-02-09: No, Alex, no! This is not the time to keep secrets!

38. The Captain of the City Guard

It takes several days for the swelling to go down on my face and its colour to return to normal. The cut will scar, I think, but I have been preserved from infection and the many stitches keep the dark line of healing flesh neat and narrow. My beauty is not ruined. Sometimes, I am almost able to convince myself that it will give me a dangerous appeal.

While I am hiding in my apartments, waiting for my face to be presentable, I try to sift through my memories of the night of the party. I am certain that Konrad is dangerous. The varied, shadowy impressions of the last few months have crystallised into conviction on that front. What I cannot be certain of is how much of my memories are real and how much are influenced by absinthe or morphia. When I see him at dinners and teas he is as perfectly distant with me as he is with everyone else, sitting with his book and reading with perfect concentration. I learn from Irena that he is working on a new poem, an epic on the history of Selica. She tells me, with both pride and sorrow, it has him quite distracted from all else. I am happy enough if it has distracted him from me.

The surgeon returns two weeks after the accident to remove my stitches. I refuse the doctor’s offer of morphia for the stitch-cutting. I don’t trust the way it dulls my senses. It doesn’t hurt much anyway. The surgeon’s thick, square fingers are surprisingly gentle as he cuts the knots and tugs the threads through.

Mariusz watches the process anxiously. I think it must look more painful than it feels.

When the surgeon is about to cut the last stitch, someone knocks gently at my bedroom door. My heart races with the impossible conviction that it is Konrad. The surgeon pauses in his work. The knock comes again.

“Aren’t you going to tell them to come in?” Mariusz says. “Or go away?”

“Come in?” I say.

The door opens. I am relieved to see the uncertain face of the Duke’s Chamberlain and, behind him, a tall, bearded, uniformed man who is a stranger to me. But of course it wouldn’t be Konrad. He would not be such a fool as to come to my room when he might be seen. Perhaps he would not be such a fool at all.

“I beg pardon for the interruption, your highness,” the chamberlain says in French. He then speaks to Mariusz in rapid Selician.

Mariusz frowns. “Wait one moment. Wait in there.” He points out the door to the sitting room then turns back to me and speaks in Rothalian. “I want to see this finished first.”

“Then let’s finish.”

The surgeon discreetly waits until the door is shut on the two men before resuming his cutting of the last stitch. He pulls it free and places it into a ceramic bowl.

“All finished, your highness,” he says in Selician.

“Thank you.”

The surgeon bows and gathers up his implements. Mariusz comes closer and touches my chin. He looks closely at my wounded cheek.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my fault as much as yours. And it doesn’t really hurt anymore anyway.”

“I’m still sorry.”

He is entirely sincere. I remember, with some confusion, his humiliating speech the first night I came here. How could he hurt me so guiltlessly then? But perhaps, to Mariusz, wounds of the body hurt more than wounds of the heart.

He moves away again and opens the door for the surgeon to leave. His chamberlain and the bearded man are sitting at the breakfast table in the sitting room beyond. Mariusz hesitates.

“Do you mind if I take this meeting in here?”

He normally meets with political advisors in a study near the throne room. I wonder who the bearded man is.

“Not at all. Should I order tea for you?”

“Thank you. That would be nice.”

Mariusz goes into the sitting room and sits with the bearded man. The chamberlain bows and leaves. I ring for the maid and order tea as Mariusz and the bearded man begin talking in rapid Selician. They make no attempt to conceal what they are talking of from me, and I catch the name Salamon several times. It sounds vaguely familiar, though I cannot recall who he is.

I go back towards my room, to give them privacy, but Mariusz says my name.

“Stay. Have tea.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I’d like it.” Mariusz gestures at the bearded man. “This is Captain Sadovnik of the City Guard.”

Sadovnik bows his head. “It is grand pleasure to meet your highness.”

His Rothalian is thickly accented and clumsy, but that only makes it more charming. I sit with them and wonder what business Mariusz has with him. By the look on Mariusz’s face, he is upset by what Sadovnik is telling him. He tries to argue, but Sadovnik keeps shaking his head and calmly explaining.

The tea comes with cake and both Mariusz and Sadovnik are distracted into silence.

“What’s happening?” I ask Mariusz. “Has someone you know committed a crime?”

“No.” He speaks through a mouthful of cake. “Not someone I like. Do you remember the night we went to parliament? The petition I had to veto?”

At last I can place the name Salamon. He was the young, sloppily dressed man who was holding the floor in parliament.

“He wanted to dissolve parliament?”

“That’s the one. Well, your uncle advised me to have him watched. Sadovnik has been watching him for me. Yesterday, city guards searched Salamon’s coach when he returned from his farm in the country. They found vast quantities of republican pamphlets. It is not illegal to possess such pamphlets, but the amount he had suggested he was in possession of a printing press. It is illegal to run a printing press without guild membership, and Salamon is not a member of the printers’ guild. So the state guard visited Salamon’s farm and looked for a printing press.”

Mariusz pauses to drink more tea.

“They found one and arrested him?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “They arrested him, but they did not find a printing press.”

“What did they find?”

Mariusz chews on his bottom lip.

“What was it?” I repeat.

“A private still.” Mariusz sounds annoyed. “He is arrested on suspicion of producing and selling liquor without a license.” Mariusz swears. “Half the country has a private still. I had a private still until my mother found it. It’s almost worse than if he wasn’t doing anything illegal at all.”

Sadovnik looks up from his third piece of cake. “He has a… a book-maker. We find not, but he has. I swear by God. And that is big crime.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Mariusz says. “But we didn’t find it — and we can’t charge him for something we didn’t find.”

Sadovnik looks disappointed.

“It’s not your fault,” Mariusz says, and adds more in Selician, which I assume must be reassuring Sadovnik. “I just don’t know if I want to charge him for the still,” he says to me in Rothalian. “Technically, it’s a crime against public order and violation of royal decree — two hundred years ago, one of my distant ancestors developed a religious disgust with the debauchery in court and forbade the production of spirits and fortified wines without royal warrant. We’ve all been happily ignoring that law for at least the last hundred years. I don’t think anyone has ever been arrested over a still before.”

“Yes, someone has.” Sadovnik frowns, thinking hard. “Tat-ses?”

“Taxes.” Mariusz sighs. “But Salamon wasn’t selling his spirits, was he? He was simply drinking it.”

Sadovnik shrugs. The distinction does not seem to matter to him. I wonder if it is the simple-minded reflex of a policeman to punish a crime or if he has a personal reason to wish punishment upon Salamon. Despite his rough language, he doesn’t seem simple-minded. His dark brown eyes possess an enquiring sharpness.

The biscuits are almost finished. Sadovnik brushes crumbs from his beard and resumes his conversation with Mariusz. I sit back and let them speak, pouring more tea when needed. I wonder why Mariusz wanted me to be a part of this. Surely it is secret, this meeting with Sadovnik, and Sadovnik’s mission to keep an eye on Salamon? It cannot be a part of Sadovnik’s ordinary duties. It might even be in opposition to them. I watch Sadovnik carefully. He uses the polite form when he speaks to Mariusz, but he is not afraid to interrupt or argue. They must be friends, I think. They must trust each other. But Sadovnik is some years older, approaching forty, by the lines on his face. I try to recall if I have seen him at court dinners. Does a captain of the City Guard rate an invitation? Or is an invitation to a private tea in the sitting room a higher privilege?

At last, they finish their conversation and Sadovnik rises to take his leave. At the door, he presses my hand and says it was a pleasure to meet me at last. I think he actually means it. When the door is shut, I turn to Mariusz.

“How did you two become friends? I’ve never seen him around before.”

Mariusz laughs. “He arrested me once. That’s how we met.”

“You were arrested?”

“Oh, yes. I was nineteen. I had been at a supper at the university with Adam. We were staggering home, somewhat the worse for wear, in the early hours of the morning. Somehow, as we were crossing Triumph Square, I took it into my head to climb the statue of General Henryk Kovar on his horse. Once I got up it, I couldn’t figure out how to get down. Adam called out for help, and Captain Sadovnik — only he was Lieutenant Sadovnik then — came striding into the square, rapier shining, helmet glistening. Adam ran away and left me. Sadovnik rescued me from the statue then arrested me for disturbing the peace.”

“It’s a wonder he didn’t recognize you as the prince.”

“Oh, he did. And he arrested me anyway. Sadovnik always does exactly what he thinks is right, regardless of the consequences.” The smile on Mariusz’s face fades. “That’s why he arrested Salamon for the still. He knows he committed a greater crime, but he cannot prove it. But I don’t like it. It makes it so obvious that we’re persecuting Salamon. And if he looks like a victim, he gains more sympathy for his republican cause.”

“On the other hand, if he’s in prison, he cannot further it.”

“There will be others to take over the reins.” Mariusz rubs his hair. “I just don’t know what to do. I told Sadovnik to keep him in prison while I decide. They can keep him from one Sunday to the next without charge.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s not. The whole thing isn’t fair. Having him watched isn’t fair. Searching his home isn’t fair. Arresting him isn’t fair. But why should I be fair? Apart from your uncle I’m the most powerful man in the duchy.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That’s why, I suppose, I have to be fair. But I’m not sure I’m going to be.”

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2025-02-16: Happy Valentines Day!!! Remember this little plot thread from forever ago?

39. Target Practice

Towards the end of January, the weather becomes suddenly, unexpectedly fine, cold and clear, with snow still crisp on the ground and blue skies above. Mariusz distracts himself from the problem of Salamon in the jail cell with outdoor amusements: horse-riding with Valery, sledding with Dominik, and skating on the ornamental lake with Henryka and Zofia. I try skating too, though I cannot get my balance the way Zofia and Henryka do. I hobble around the edge of the lake, graceless and self-conscious, listening for the creaking of the ice beneath me though Mariusz assures me it is safe. It isn’t long before I give up and sit on the edge of the lake to watch them instead. Zofia is the most graceful, swift and confident. Henryka is more hesitant but manages to glide around in smooth circles with her pimpled brow creased in concentration. Mariusz is the bravest. He tries to jump, to skate backwards, to glide on one foot. I think he will break an ankle, but every time he falls, he gets up laughing at himself. The seat of his pants is muddy and saturated by the time he tires of the activity and comes to join me at the side of the lake.

“What should we do next?” he asks. “What would you do in Rothalia?”

“In my tower? In winter?”

“No. As a child, with your family.”

“Sometimes, I would make snowmen with my cousins. I don’t think I want to do that today.”

“Nor would I. What else would you do?”

I cast my mind back uneasily, teasing the tender threads of memory. My mother spent the winters inside by the fire, complaining about the cold. I never sat too close to the fire. I preferred to be chilled than close to her. Sometimes Father would take me with him to the country. I liked the long coach ride, tucked up with a rug around me and drinking hot tea from a flask. I always fell asleep to the thumping of the wheels before we arrived at our destination. Father would carry me inside, wherever we were. Usually a friend’s hunting lodge. I remember the greasy feel of a bear-skin hearthrug beneath my hands and the blaze of the fire upon my cheeks. No mother there to keep us away from the warmth.

“My father used to go hunting. He would take me with him. I never hunted, but I liked going along.”

“Hah!” Mariusz looks pleased. “Papa gave me a set of pistols some years ago. We shall take them out and test them.”

“I thought your mother doesn’t approve.”

“Frequently.” Mariusz gets to his feet. “If I don’t give her things to disapprove of, she won’t know what to do with herself. Wait here. I will fetch my pistols and we will see if we can make them work.”

It is a rather conspicuous kindness, on his part, to suggest we shoot together. As he runs towards the palace, I trace the smooth skin of the healing scar on my cheek. It is only guilt and obligation that makes him kind towards me. There is no real affection beneath it. Somehow, it is both relief and hurt all at once to know that.

I watch the girls skate while he is gone. The crunching of gravel alerts me that someone is coming around the corner of the path around the lake, but it is not Mariusz. I turn to see Irena, walking slowly in the chill air, her shoulders hunched, her hands buried in a thick fur muff. Her expression lightens into a smile when she sees me and she sits down beside me.

“You don’t get cold, do you?” she says. “You’re not wearing a cloak.”

“I’ve been skating. It warmed me.”

“I would never dare.”

“I hardly did. And I wasn’t very good.”

I cannot talk to Irena as easily as I used to and we fall into a brief silence. Konrad shadows our conversation so darkly that I twist my head to see if he is watching us from the shelter of the fir trees.

“Are you waiting for Prince Mariusz?” Irena asks.

“Yes. He went to get his pistols. We will shoot together.”

Colour flutters in Irena’s chilled cheeks. “I don’t know if I would dare shoot either. It sounds rather unpleasant, actually.”

I see the opportunity for probing gently where I dare not ask directly. “What if Prince Konrad was with you? Do you think you could tolerate it then?”

She looks wistfully into the distance. “Now I understand. I think I could skate, too, if Konrad was with me. I want to join anything he is doing but…” The fluttering colour in her cheeks sets darkly and she fails to finish her sentence.

She picks up a stick and begins to trace circles in the dusting of snow at the edge of the pond. Despite the chill in the air, the colour does not fade from her cheeks. I wonder how she would have finished her sentence. But he is always so busy? But he doesn’t want me with him? Konrad has never spoken well of Irena in my presence, but we have rarely had reason to speak of her at all. She admires Konrad, clearly enough, but what does he feel for her? Does she doubt his feelings?

“I sometimes think,” I say cautiously, “that Prince Konrad is busier even than Mariusz, who is the duke. It must be difficult to be married to such a busy man. It must be hard to find time to spend with him.”

Relief breaks over Irena’s features. “Yes. He does not spend as much time on amusements as Prince Mariusz does. He has a more serious nature.”

Do poetry and reading not count as amusements? But I cannot take back the out I have given Irena without offending her, so I swallow my pique.

“I think perhaps it is easier to get to know a man with a less serious nature,” I say. “It must take a long time to really understand a person when they are very serious and quiet, the way Prince Konrad is. You have not been married long, have you? Do you think you know him well yet?”

“I think my heart knew him before I even met him.” The colour is fluttering in Irena’s cheeks again, but this time it is not from embarrassment. “We have been married just over two years. It was a late November wedding. I hoped for snow on our wedding day. I wanted to put it off another three weeks, to make sure of it, but Konrad was so eager to get married he wouldn’t hear of it.” A smile flickers at the corners of her mouth. “He said he would die if he had to wait another three weeks to make me his wife.”

I can imagine Konrad saying it, but I can also imagine the sly look in his eyes as he did so.

“How long did you know him before you married?”

“Six weeks and three days. He came to court in early October, just as the leaves were at their most beautiful. He wrote a poem about it. It was the writing of that poem that kept him from noticing me for eleven whole days. I was introduced to him four times in those eleven days, but it wasn’t until our fifth meeting that he really noticed me. Then, you know, he made every excuse to spend every day with me. I never had a man pay me so much attention before in my life. And he didn’t have to try so hard, really. From the first time I saw him, arriving at the palace front door in the middle of a rainstorm with little Florian in his arms, I thought he was just the most wonderful man on earth. I still do.”

“You were at the palace when he arrived?”

Irena looks surprised. “Oh yes. I lived here, didn’t you know? My father was King Adam’s First Advisor. I grew up in the country, with my mother and younger sister, but I came to live here with Papa when I was sixteen.”

Yet somehow Irena feels so much an outsider within the palace. I wonder what sets her apart. Perhaps it is only that she is timid, not overfond of drinking or being the centre of attention.

“You’ve been here a long time then,” I say. “You must know everyone very well.”

“Perhaps. I think I can be observant. But then, sometimes people can be so surprising.”

“Yes. They can.”

We fall into another brief silence, watching the girls skating on the pond. The gravel crunches again, and this time it is Mariusz, but he is not alone. Barany and Celina are with him. Mariusz carries an ornate wooden box, which I suppose holds the pistols. Barany carries a wooden trestle under one arm and a painted target under the other. I get up.

“Excuse me,” I say to Irena. “Unless you want to join us, of course.”

She shakes her head. “I am frightened of firearms.”

It’s a relief to leave her behind, even if it does mean joining Celina’s company. Celina shoots me a superior look as I join them.

“I thought this sounded like a fascinating entertainment,” she says. “I think I will bet ten silver coins that Barany is the better shot of the two of them.”

“Of the two of them? I will shoot too. I’m the one who suggested the idea after all.”

And I’m not pleased that Barany and Celina are joining us, even if I do like Barany.

Mariusz looks apologetic. “They saw me in the hall and were interested. Here, let’s go onto the south lawn, beyond the bank of trees. We can set the target up in front of the old granary. It will catch any stray bullets for us.”

The south lawn is a sheet of untrodden white snow, glistening under the bright, cold sun. Barany mars it, tramping through to set up the trestle and target in front of the old granary wall. As he approaches, a cautious pigeon flies off from its nest on a crumbling granary windowsill.

Celina remarks something in Selician. I think I hear the word renovation. Mariusz shakes his head.

“It’s not going to fall down,” he says in Rothalian. “I think we store old furniture in it.”

Barany comes skipping back across the snow towards us, leaving streaks of dark winter grass beneath his steps. Mariusz puts his wooden box down on the snow, crouches by it, and flips it open. The two pistols nestled head-to-toe on the red velvet inside are more ornamental than practical, I think. Shining brass curlicues decorate their sloping ebony butts and the barrels are engraved with clover leaves. But the lead bullets, which appear when Mariusz flips open a compartment in the velvet, are blunt and ugly enough. He counts them with his finger.

“Seven. I thought I had more. But we can each have a turn, at least.”

He takes the powder flask and one of the pistols out from their velvet and stands up again to pour a measure the powder down the barrel. His movements are unsure. I wonder how often he has fired the pistol before. The powder leaves a black smudge on his forefinger. He crouches to reach for a bullet, pauses, then opens another compartment in the velvet. This one contains small wads of creamy paper. He rests a wad of paper on the barrel mouth then shoves a bullet in and rams it home with a rod from the pistol case. Next comes the percussion cap, which he fits neatly onto its mooring. His movements are a little surer now, but he has none of the ease with which my father and his friends used to wield their rifles.

“You don’t hunt often, do you?” I say.

“Never,” Mariusz says with a shudder.

“He would rather someone else kill his meat for him,” Celina says. “And he would rather it be delivered defurred and defeathered, with the eyes and claws removed. Poor Mariuszek, he suffers a fatal kindheartedness.”

Her tone is mocking. Mariusz flushes. Barany looks worried, but smiles reassuringly at me.

“Who wants to go first?” Mariusz says. “Lady Celina?”

“Oh no. I need you to show me how.”

“Very well.” Mariusz faces the granary, raises the gun, and points it vaguely in the direction of the bullseye. I step back and cover my ears. “You stand, look at what you want to shoot, draw down the hammer, and pull the trigger. It is quite simple, really.”

He pulls the trigger with a loud bang. Pigeons rise screaming from the granary roof and flutter off towards the trees. Hot smoke rises from the gun barrel in the chill air. I squint at the target. I cannot see where his shot landed.

Barany points to a crumbling spot in the granary wall. “There,” he says politely. “Good shot, almost.”

Mariusz clicks his tongue and replies in Selician. “It’s harder than it looks,” he repeats to me in Rothalian. “Now that you know, would you like a try, Lady Celina?”

“Oh yes,” she says. “I can hardly do worse than you.”

But when she tries, like Mariusz, she hits the granary wall behind, sending a chunk of mortar flying. The gun doesn’t shoot quite straight, I think. It runs high and a little to the left. I let Barany have a turn next, to test my theory. He manages to clip the target on its upper left edge. I take the gun from him before Mariusz can reload it.

“Let me try,” I say. “The powder first, yes?”

“Yes. The flask will measure the amount you need when you tip it against your finger.”

There is something in the act of loading the gun that reminds me, somehow, of making tea. And the smell of powder, smoky and bittersweet, is the same smell my father used to carry on him after he went hunting. It lingered in his hair and on his hands. As I load the gun, I imagine him explaining to me, in the gentle voice he used when my mother wasn’t around, each step of the process. I wish I hadn’t been too young to hunt with him. Unlike Mariusz, I have no loathing of hunting.

“Alright, now you look at where you’re shooting,” Mariusz begins.

“I know. I’ve been watching you.” I point the gun at the target, twisting my body a little and shifting my weight onto my back leg, the way my father used to. “Shush. Let me focus.”

I look down the barrel. Lower, and a little to the right. Hammer down. Lower still. The barrel flies up when you shoot. Slow breaths, no rush, because unlike a deer or a pheasant, a target can’t run away.

I shoot. The bang makes my head fizz and the tang of smoke clouds me.

“Damn,” Barany says admiringly.

I squint through the clearing smoke. The target has a new mark in it, in the third ring out, a little to the right of the bullseye. Still too high, and a little bit too far right.

If it were a deer, and I had been aiming for its heart, I would have caught its lungs. If it were Konrad…

I shake the thought out of my head. “Can I try again? I think I can get closer.”

Celina looks annoyed, but Mariusz seems somehow pleased. “Of course. In fact, if you like, I will buy more bullets and you can practice whenever you wish. You seem to have a talent for this.”

“I would like that.” I trace my gloved finger over the brass embossing on the butt of the pistol. “It’s a satisfying sort of amusement, somehow.”

I like being good at something, and besides, it’s a useful sort of something to be good at.

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2025-02-23: I have never in my life shot a gun, let alone an 1850s percussion pistol. If I got anything wrong, please let me know.

40. A Deal

I am well acquainted with the routine of Thursday night dinner by now. I dress prettily, enjoy the food, and socialize to the limited, polite extent that my language permits me. When we are all finished eating, I rise and lead the women to the great drawing room. Sometimes, Mariusz and the men join me immediately. Sometimes, they stay in the dining room for a half-hour or so. In the drawing room, I make sure everyone has a cup of tea before finding a civil French-speaker or patient Selician-speaker to engage in a more intimate form of polite conversation. I enquire after children I have not met, country estates I have not visited, plays I have not seen, and concerts I have not heard. Whenever I am asked a question in return, I find a way to give an answer that compliments whomever or whatever the subject of the question was. I don’t want to appear critical. After a diplomatic interval, I retreat back to the teapot to pour second cups of tea, then I sit with Mariusz or his mother regardless of how little I can contribute to whatever conversation they are having until the guests leave, usually between eleven and midnight. Then I go to bed. Mariusz stays a little longer to drink with his friends, but I have given up staying to drink with them. For one thing, conversation between us all is very difficult when Barany and I do not speak the same language. For another, it is never very long, now, before I hear the sound of Mariusz’s bedroom door opening and closing and the soft creaking of his bed as he gets in it.

Tonight, the usual routine is disturbed. Mariusz and the men stay for over an hour in the dining room after we have left it. It is almost eleven when they finally appear in the drawing room, and I have to send for a new pot of tea for them. Then, as I am giving around cups of tea and asking for preferences on lemon or cream, I overhear and understand enough of what they are saying to understand that their conversation in the dining room has not finished, they have merely transplanted it to the drawing room.

A local noble launches a fluent, persuasive monologue at Mariusz, but Mariusz shakes his head and tries to drink his tea.

The man on Mariusz’s other side, whom I know vaguely to be a politician, takes up the thread, arguing vehemently against what the noble said. I catch the name Salamon. Mariusz sighs over his tea cup.

Behind them, Konrad listens for a moment before retreating to a sofa to open his book. Now that he is out of earshot, I dare interrupt the men.

“If you were going to talk politics, you might have remained in the dining room,” I tell Mariusz.

“I came here to escape it,” he answers glumly.

He still has not decided what to do with Salamon, and by midnight this Sunday, Salamon will have to be either released or charged. It has become quite the talk of the town. While the men were in the dining room, we women had discussed Salamon’s looks. The older women condemned the length of his hair, but one of the younger guests remarked rather wistfully that he was quite handsome, really, and it was shame. I don’t know if that ‘it’ referred to his hair or his imprisonment, and I did not ask.

The politician takes advantage of my interruption to ask me what I think of Salamon’s arrest, in heavily accented French.

“I really don’t know,” I say. “How is your tea? Would you like more cream?”

He refuses cream, and I go back to Duchess Maria, who is now talking in rapid Selician with two old ladies about what I think must be servant problems. It isn’t long, however, before the men’s conversation infects the room. Now the women move on from Salamon’s looks and consider what should be done with him. Even the young woman who thinks he is handsome does not seem very sympathetic. Mariusz circles the room trying to avoid conversation. He lingers suspiciously near windows and doors, but makes no attempt to slip through one. Besides, he is given no opportunity. When the politician is not hounding him about Salamon, the nobleman is, and when both of them are hounding each other, the priest is making an earnest plea for Salamon’s mercy or the young woman is breathily asking Mariusz questions about the colour of Salamon’s eyes.

It is a relief when first the old ladies stand up to leave and take their escort, the nobleman, with them. That gives me an excuse to offer the priest our carriage home, and when he is gone, the general exodus of our guests begins. When Marius and I have said goodbye to them all, we return to the drawing room to find that only Valery, Barany, and Celina remain.

I cover my mouth as I yawn. “I’m going to bed too,” I tell Mariusz. “Goodnight.”

“Lady Celina will join you,” Mariusz says. “Count Valery has procured some Turkish cigarettes. We will go out into the garden to smoke them. I won’t be long.”

Celina looks annoyed, but she is too proud to push herself in where she is not wanted. She curtsies a goodnight to the men and we leave together through the palace entrance hall. Here, Celina takes the stairs to the north wing of the palace. Since the night of Mariusz’s nameday party, it has become my habit to take the south staircase rather than the centre staircase, so I stay on the ground floor, feeling my way through the state rooms in the dark. In the passageway near the southern stairs, I see a light glowing through an open door, and my heart skips a beat. I move softly closer. Someone is in the small prayer room, little more than a closet really, tucked away below the stairs. I peer through the open door, but it is only Irena, praying on her knees before the candlelit altar. Her head is bowed and she has not heard me.

I hold my skirts so they do not rustle and move quietly past the doorway to the staircase, which is lit up faintly from the glow of the prayer room. It is a narrow, turning staircase, and I am familiar now with its creaking steps and know well how to avoid them.

The light does not reach the first landing, and I pass into shadow. I allow myself to breathe again and look back at Irena, still praying with her head bowed before the altar. What does she pray for? For whom?

A heavy hand grips my arm and I bite back my gasp. The scent of lavender and honey clouds around me. With it comes the memory of my lips, dry and cracked, pressing against a softly oiled cheek. Acid drips through my veins.

“Your wife is in the prayer room,” I say in a voice I hope too low to carry.

“I know.” Konrad’s voice is as soft as the shadows we stand in. “I am waiting for her.”

“Let go of me.”

“In a moment. There is something we must discuss.”

“I have nothing to discuss with you.”

Konrad clicks his tongue softly against his teeth. “So you kiss me, and then refuse to look at me or speak to me? What am I to think, your highness? How am I to feel?”

“I— You—” I look back at the prayer room, but Irena has not moved. I don’t want her to hear or see us, but if we move up the stairs, out of sight and hearing, I will be entirely alone with Konrad. “I really kissed you?”

“I suppose you could not contain your feelings.” His grip loosens and his fingers crawl lightly up my arm. “I want you to know I haven’t told anyone. Not even my wife.” His fingers creep over my shoulder and hook lightly into the curls at the back of my neck. “I don’t know what to do about it. I’m confused, Alexandra. Why did you do it?”

I struggle to recall exactly — he made me, I know that much, but I cannot remember what he said to make me do it. “You wanted me to.”

“Did I? Is that what you think of my feelings? Or is that what you wish to think?” His fingers twist and untwist through my hair. “You are married to Mariusz. Does he know your feelings? Is it right that I have not told him what happened?”

“It was only a kiss on the cheek.” I can recall nothing more than the pressure of my lips on his cheek — surely it was nothing more.

“Only? Then I should tell him. Or you should. It clearly is of no significance.”

And Mariusz will tell Uncle Edmund. “Don’t.” I speak too loudly in my panic, and dart another look at the prayer room, but Irena still has her head bowed over her clasped hands. “Please don’t,” I repeat in a dull whisper.

“Well…” Konrad considers it, his finger twirling through my hair. “Since you ask so nicely, I suppose I will keep your secret. In fact, I will trade you one of my own for it.” He leans closer, his breath dancing warmly across my ear. “I never loved Irena.”

I shut my eyes so I cannot see her, still praying by the light of the candles. “Why marry her?”

“She is useful. But never the answer to my heart’s desire.” Konrad’s lips brush my earlobe as he talks. “I always preferred dark eyes and dark hair.” He kisses my cheek, slowly and silently, the scent of honey and lavender suffocating me. “There. I owed you that. Now we are even.”

I freeze where I stand, unable to push him away or even open my eyes, but his finger slowly uncurls from my hair and his hand falls to his side. Only his breathing, still arcing across my cheek, connects us. I step back, the cold wall meeting my hands and his breath falling away.

“By the way…” Konrad’s voice is still soft as shadow, but he moves and the floor beneath him creaks. “Salamon. Mariusz must not let him off. This republican cause is far too dangerous. It will ruin all of us if he does not crush it now.”

I open my eyes. Konrad has moved closer towards the lower flight of stairs. He is now silhouetted against the light from the door, blocking my view of Irena.

“I’m not to get involved in politics.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m warning you. If Salamon succeeds, we will have la Terreur on our hands here. You would have to flee Selica. We would probably all be killed. I don’t think Mariusz really understands. He has never left the country. He has never seen war.” Konrad’s voice is quietly urgent. “Promise me you will try your best to persuade him to charge Salamon and strike fear into the hearts of those who follow him.”

I want to tell him no, but I know if I do he will stay here longer to persuade me, and soon Irena must hear him and look up — if she has not already. “I promise. I will try my best.”

“Your best must, I think, be perfect.”

Do I imagine the threat in his tone? But he turns around and goes down the stairs. Irena is now standing, still with her back to me, looking at a painting of the Virgin and her child. Before she can turn, before I can see her face, I creep up the stairs into the dark.

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2025-03-02: Konrad digs the trap deeper around Alex’s feet…but why does he care so much what happens to Salamon?

41. Moral Considerations

In my room, I call my maids to undress me and am as particular as I can be about the brushing of my hair and tying of my ribbons and stoking of my fire and rubbing of cold cream on my face and hands. I want to keep them here until Mariusz returns. I am afraid that if they go Konrad will come. As long as I am not alone, I am safe.

But eventually there is nothing more I can ask of them and they hide their displeased yawns behind their hands. I send them away.

My room feels dangerous. I open the door to Mariusz’s room and go through. It is colder and darker in here. I stoke the thin fire until it burns brightly in the grate and light the candlestick by his bed. The servants must have already tidied up after his usual mess, but he orders his desk not to be touched and it is overflowing with papers and empty tea cups. I dare not disturb the madness of his method, but one of the teacups is half-full of cold tea, so I take it through to his bathroom and pour it away before putting it carefully back on the pile of letters it weighs down.

There is no other excuse for being in here, but my heart is still beating too fast for me to return to my own room. My bare toes are growing chill. I climb onto Mariusz’s bed and bury my toes beneath the folded counterpane at the foot. The pillows smell like him — of man. Not of honey and lavender, only vaguely of the clean scent of his shaving soap, but deeply of the earthy, living scent of his body. I stretch myself out on the bed and bury my face in the pillows. Konrad cannot touch me here. I’m safe. Warm, and safe, and sleepy…

The door opens, jolting me from my doze.

“What are you doing here?” Mariusz’s voice is soft and tired. “Are you ill?”

I roll over and blink at him. “Sorry. No. I’m well. I just…”

I don’t know how to explain it, but Mariusz doesn’t look for explanations. He kicks off his shoes, yawning, and shrugs himself out of his coat. His cheeks are pale with cold, but the tip of his nose is red. He lets his coat slip with a dull thump to the floor and glances over at his desk.

“You touched it.”

“I poured out a cup of cold tea.”

“I knew something was different.”

But he’s grumbling just for the sake of grumbling. He’s not really annoyed with me. He’s too tired to be annoyed. He goes into his dressing room and I listen for the soft thump of his clothes on the floor. He never hangs them up. His coat lies crushed on the carpet like a sleeping dog. I get out of bed and pick it up to fold it over the back of his chair. He comes back out, wrapped in a dressing gown, and tilts his head at me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

The lie makes me feel guilty. I rub my cheek where Konrad kissed it. If it were just Mariusz, I think I could tell him. He doesn’t like Konrad. He would take my side. And he is careless with his kisses. They all are here, I think. He would not feel so terribly betrayed to know that I kissed Konrad — only on the cheek, and not, I think, because of my feelings for him. But it is not just Mariusz. It is King Edmund too.

Besides, perhaps a man who is careless of his kisses would not understand why I feel so unhappy that Konrad kissed me. Perhaps he would dismiss the insult.

Mariusz comes closer to me and pulls my hand from my cheek. “Why are you in my bedroom, Sasha?”

I drag my hand away from his, my heart racing. “Do you mind?”

He shakes his head. The motion releases the scent of sweet, earthy smoke. Valery’s Turkish cigarettes. I don’t quite like it.

But it is better than lavender and honey.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say quickly. “I kept thinking about Salamon.”

Mariusz sets his jaw. “Go on then. Tell me what to do. Everyone else is. You might as well join them.” Now he really does sound annoyed with me, but at least he has made it easy for me to do what Konrad asked.

“Charge him. Try him. It’s too dangerous to set him free.”

“I’ll think about it.” Mariusz’s tone of voice shows he intends to do anything but. “Was that all?”

“You can’t avoid the question forever. You have to decide by Sunday.”

“I am aware. And I expect your uncle’s reply to my letter tomorrow. I will decide after I receive it.”

“You will just follow his advice? Without thinking about it?”

“No. I will consider his advice and then decide. I will no more take his opinion as my own than I would yours. Though his, I think, would come with the advantage of reasoning.”

“I have reasoned things through. If Salamon is free, he is free to stir up republican fervour. How many signatures did he find for his petition? How many of those people would take up arms and fight against us at his direction? If you set him free, he might very well do that.”

“Or it might soften him towards me,” Mariusz says. “Salamon’s hatred for royalty is perhaps as much personal as it is philosophical. My father raised taxes. He conscripted an additional five thousand troops into the army. He arrested forty-three priests and two rabbis for their preaching about the war on the Crimean Peninsula. He made many enemies. I have inherited some of them, but they need not be my enemies forever. If I am harsh to Salamon now, he will be. An iron fist might encourage those who prefer the pen to take up the sword.” Mariusz sighs. “See? I am arguing with you now, repeating tired old arguments that I have had a thousand times already this evening. I have taken the one side as often as the other, and I am tired of all sides. I don’t want to think about Salamon. I don’t want to hear the name.”

But I can’t let it go. I can see from the way Mariusz talks about his father that he would rather let Salamon go free — or perhaps it is just that fatal kindheartedness Celina complained about. Even in his most savage moods, Mariusz is only capable of hurting people with words.

Konrad uses words, yes, but he doesn’t stop at them.

Which is why it is wrong to persecute Salamon for his still. It is violence on a legal pretext. I do not know what the prisons are like in Selica, but I doubt they are as comfortable and clean as my tower. Probably, for such a trivial crime, he will be put in a cell with dozens of other petty criminals in varying stages of disease and moral decay. They will not treat him kindly, because he is not one of their own. He will be cold and hungry and frightened, if he has any sense.

But I’m frightened too. And if I get Mariusz to put Salamon away, then Konrad might leave me alone.

“Please,” I say, speaking slowly through the weight of my guilt. “They cut off Marie Antoinette’s head.”

Mariusz laughs tiredly. “You aren’t Marie Antoinette. And Selica is not revolutionary France. Anyway, I don’t believe you are afraid of the guillotine. Go to bed, Sasha. When King Edmund’s letter arrives tomorrow, I’ll make up my mind.”

I cannot persuade him. He recognizes my guilt and in it sees the shadow of my deception. But I did try. Perhaps, for Konrad, that will be enough. Perhaps I should be relieved I did not succeed.

“I can tell you what Edmund will advise,” I say quietly. “He will tell you that it is better to give a man just enough rope to hang himself than wear a callous on your palm by hanging him yourself.”

“And you disagree?”

“Well, it’s not better for the hanged man, is it?”

“I see.” Something approaching sympathy appears in Mariusz’s eyes. “Now I think I understand why you’re here. But don’t worry. I promise I won’t follow your uncle’s advice blindly. Not about Salamon, not about anything.”

__

2025-03-10: Sorry for the delay! Had to take my cat to the animal hospital yesterday. Poor baby sprained her leg and needed pain meds.

42. Unbelieved

The next morning after breakfast, I go for a long, meandering walk through the palace. I want to tell Konrad I have done as he asked before he can try to find me. I traipse through the salon, the gallery, the library, the drawing rooms and dining rooms and find them empty of all but servants. I go outside, pass through the terrace garden, make a turn of the lake, and go beyond it to the farmlet next to the chapel. No one is there but the goat Georgiana, who leers viciously at me from her pen. I backtrack past the lake and into the northern side of the palace grounds, into the stretch of artificial wilderness through which endless footpaths circle, diverting here and there over tiny bridges or around artful clumps of rocks before ultimately arriving at a pagoda in the very centre of the wilderness.

Through the briar-covered trellis of the pagoda, I can see the silhouette of a figure sitting within.

“Hello?” I say, hovering near the doorway, ready to flee to less isolated ground.

The figure moves. “What are you doing here?”

It is Irena. Her voice is oddly textured, its tone sharp, its timbre dull.

I move into the doorway. “Oh. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Now you do.” It is too dim in here, with the soft winter light filtering through the briars to clearly make out the expression on her face, but her words breathe hostility.

She knows.

She heard Konrad’s conversation with me last night.

Perhaps she saw him kiss me.

I am too frozen to speak. She takes advantage of my silence by standing and passing between me and the edge of the doorway as thinly as a wraith.

“Irena. Wait.”

“For what?” She turns back to me, and under the pale winter sunlight I can see her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “What have you to say to me? There is nothing I want to hear. You know what you have done.”

“What I have done? I have done nothing. I am not the one to blame. I’m not.” Even as I say it, I am doubting myself. I could have cried out on the staircase last night. I could have run. I should have taken the normal way to my apartments. “Irena, please. I didn’t mean for anything to happen. I had no idea he was there.”

She tosses her head and the wet salt tears lands on my lip. “You didn’t mean! I would rather you had. No, you did. I was never the woman men preferred. I never even came second best. Even with Konrad, I always knew that he loved his first wife more than he did me. He doesn’t talk about her much, but I feel it. I always felt it.” Her eyes brim over with tears and they spill down her cheeks. “I was happy being second best to a dead woman. But then you came— you, with your black rumours, your awful rudeness, you, with blood on your hands and— and nothing behind your eyes. Everyone hated you. I felt sorry for you. I actually felt sorry for you.”

She dashes the tears helplessly away from her cheeks and takes shaking breaths. The tears renew themselves and she gives up. I don’t know what to do. I have never known what to do when people cry. And now she’s crying because of me. I want to say I’m sorry, but I dare claim no responsibility of the suffering she has been caused. I watch her, a lump in my own throat forming.

“I hate you,” she says. “I should have hated you from the first, like everyone else, but I had to be nice. I had to be stupid.” She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have made a difference, would it? You would have gone for him anyway. Your kind do. You didn’t seduce him because I was kind to you. No, you sought me out, you pretended to be my friend, because he is my husband and you wanted— you wanted power over him.” The fire is fading from her voice, leaving it hoarse and weary. “You must have thought me such a fool. You must have been laughing at me all the while.”

“Irena. No. That’s not it. That’s not it at all. We never— What do you think happened? What did you hear last night? What did Konrad tell you afterwards?”

“Hear? I heard nothing. Whispers, in your ugly language.” She rubs her chapped, pale lips together in an uncertain grimace. “But I saw your kiss. I saw it. I saw more than I need.”

We were speaking Rothalian. Of course she could not understand us. In my terror of her overhearing, I never realized it.

“He kissed me,” I say faintly. “Did you not see that?”

“What? You would blame him? You must have known. You must have seen. You begged him to teach you Selician — you don’t even speak it now, but you begged him. All those hours in the library— I was stupid. He was stupid.” Fresh tears well in her eyes and fall down her cheeks. “You seduced him. He didn’t fall in love with you. You seduced him. You tempted him. He told me.”

“What did he tell you?” Lies, it was all lies, I am sure.

“Why do you care?” She shoots me a vicious look. “So you can gloat, all over again?” Jealousy bleeds into her viciousness. “What did he tell you? What did he whisper to you on the stairs?”

I cannot tell her. She believes that she has lost his love. She believes he has lost his way. That is heartbreak of one kind. It would break her entirely to know he never loved her at all.

Besides, she would not believe me. The hatred in her eyes tells me that.

“He asked me to do something for him,” I say. “He wanted a favour.”

She turns her head away. “You disgust me.”

“It wasn’t that kind of favour. Please, Irena, I never wanted him to kiss me. He kissed me. I never asked for it. I never wanted it. It was all him. He took that kiss. He stole it. You saw that. Please. Think.”

“Think! Think? When I feel—” Her chest rises rapidly in and out. “I could kill you. You heartless— You—” She falls into breathless sobbing, letting out harsh syllables in Selician which I cannot translate but do not need to. “Leave me alone. Just leave.”

Perhaps it would be the best thing to do. Her heart is broken. Grief throbs dully in my own chest. Grief for a friendship lost. Grief for a friend hurt. Grief for not being believed.

The last carries anger with it. How can she be so stupid? She would rather blind herself than see the truth. How could she believe this of me?

I cannot persuade her. I don’t even want to. She knows, but will not see.

“Tell Konrad I did as he asked,” I say to her. “I was coming to find him to say so. You can give him the message. That way, I won’t have to see him. I did as he asked, but it was impossible.”

Anger rises beneath the ruins grief has made of her face. “Why would I do that for you?”

“Because if you don’t, I will have to find him and tell him myself. And you don’t want me to be having private conversations with your husband. Goodbye, Irena.”

I turn and leave. I know she will do as I bid. Her jealousy will not let her do otherwise.

Nor — logic calms me — will she speak of this to anyone. I was the only one she could talk to about something like this, and I think even if it had been another woman Konrad kissed, she would not dare. For all I know, there have been other women and she has blinded herself to them too. Besides, what she wilfully blinds herself too, what she will not speak of to herself, she is too proud to speak of to anyone else.

So we are both safe from public humiliation.

2025-03-16: When I write, I repeat the characters’ dialogue to myself. At the moment, I have a dreadful cold, so I sound exactly like a woman who has been crying. It made writing Irena this scene way easier. Silver linings, right?

43. Affinity with a Stranger

On Saturday, the letter comes from King Edmund advising Mariusz about Salamon. He reads it several times throughout the day but does not speak to me of it and I do not wish to ask him. In the early afternoon, Sadovnik arrives in time to join our lunch table. He and Mariusz continue their conversation long after the tea has gone cold. From the way Sadovnik speaks, I think he is trying to persuade Mariusz to charge Salamon. Given how Mariusz keeps shaking his head, I think Mariusz is more inclined to let him off. When Sadovnik leaves, Mariusz has a fit of restlessness, moving from one sofa to another, pacing the room, standing in deep thought by the window, before returning the throw himself face down on the sofa again. I watch him between reading pages of a book. I don’t think he has quite decided yet. The winter sky is getting dark when Mariusz disappears into his room. He emerges a few minutes later in a coat, carrying his gloves and hat.

“Are you going to see the judge?” I ask.

“No. I still haven’t decided. I’m going to mass in the city.”

“In the cathedral? You want to see the bishop about Salamon?”

“No. I am going to Saint Anthony’s in the factory district. I want to see the people who live there. A lot of Salamon’s support comes from the labouring classes.”

“Then they probably don’t want to see you.”

He stops in the act of putting on his gloves. “Do you think I should bring money?”

“You would have gone without it?” I eye his coat. “In silk-lined cashmere with mink gloves on your hands and silver caps on your boots? Before smelters and tanners and weavers?”

Mariusz scowls at his reflection in the mirror. “That’s the sort of thing my mother would say.”

“And she’s very often right.”

He clicks his tongue and goes into his bedroom. When he comes back a moment later, he’s in a plain black overcoat with a faded grey collar and carrying a pair of plain black boots. He drops them on the floor then slumps down onto the sofa to bend over and unlace the pair he is wearing.

“You could come,” he says to his boots.

“Do you want me to?”

He gets one boot off and starts on the next. “I don’t know. People might think it’s romantic. Romance is sympathetic.”

It sounds suspiciously like something King Edmund might say. I wonder exactly what kind of advice Mariusz received today. The letter was very long. It might not all have been about Salamon.

I decide not to ask. “I’ll get my cloak.”

We arrive at the church just after Mass has started and enter as the choir is finishing the first hymn. The pew furthest back is empty but for two middle-aged women, so Mariusz and I sit there, our two King’s Guardsmen standing behind by the wall. Perhaps if it weren’t for the guardsmen we would not be noticed immediately, but they are both well over six feet tall and dressed in royal blue livery. The two middle-aged women whisper to each other, and the whisper wends through the pews to the altar. The priest clears his throat and offers his welcome. Along with Mariusz and the others, I repeat the syllables I have come to memorise, though their precise translation yet escapes me.

The priest begins penitence, and we repeat after him. In the pews in front of us, heads keep surreptitiously turning. One of the middle-aged women in our pew shuffles her way out and leaves the church. After a moment, the other one follows her. During the hymn that follows penitence, another dozen people walk out, their noses in their air, their gazes determinedly averted from Mariusz and I. Mariusz watches them, his grey eyes expressionless. The priest says nothing. He acts as though he never saw the miniature exodus. He utters his prayer and begins his first reading with an undisturbed, solemn concentration. No one dares interrupt him by leaving when he is speaking, but people keep stealing glances at us. Mariusz sits beside me with his hands in his lap and watches them. I’m not sure he hears the service at all.

It is not a long mass tonight, scarcely more than an hour long. When it finishes, Mariusz heads for the door immediately, stopping only to drop some coins in the alms box. I drop a handful of silver coins in as well and hurry after him out onto the church steps. It is well dark by now, and this part of the city has no gas lamps, but the glow of the church candles spills out onto the street through the open doors and plain glazed windows. It spills onto dozens of curious strangers gathered in the street around our carriage with its royal livery. It does not quite reach those lurking in the shadows of the empty market stalls on the other side.

I draw instinctively closer to Mariusz, who has stopped on the church steps. Our guardsmen go down before us, calling for people to clear the way. Most step away, but they cannot go far when there are more behind them blocking the way.

“There must be a hundred people here,” I say.

“More than at mass, I think.” Mariusz watches the crowd. “They’re just curious.”

But it is a hostile curiosity. There are few smiles on the faces before us. The eyes watching us are wary and distrustful. No one shouts at us, but many whisper to those near them.

“Let’s go.” Mariusz takes my arm. “Let’s get in the carriage.”

Before we can move, an old man comes on trembling feet out of the crowd towards us. His clothes are so ragged and his gait so shaky that at first I think he is a vagrant looking for shelter in the church. It is only after I notice the pistol gleaming gold in his hands that I realize he is wearing the leather apron of a craftsman over his tattered woollen vest.

Mariusz freezes where he stands. “What is you want?” he asks in Selician.

Our guardsmen, down the stairs ahead of us, turn back, but the man is between us and them, and they locked their weapons in the carriage before entering the church.

The man levels his trembling pistol at Mariusz. He says nothing. He only looks — desperate and uncertain.

I step in front of Mariusz. “No,” I say in Selician. “You don’t want this.”

The old man looks around at the crowd and shouts something I cannot translate. A few voices cheer from the shadows, but closer to us, people melt away from the light spilling from the church and the gunman standing on its steps.

“What are you doing, Sasha?” Mariusz asks. “Get out of the way.”

“No.” I move forward, down one step, then another. “He won’t shoot.”

I don’t know how I know, but I do. I think I’ve had that some desperate, uncertain look in my eyes before. I recognize it in my heart.

“What’s he saying?” I ask when he shouts again.

“Sasha. Move away. I don’t want you protecting me.”

But it’s not Mariusz I’m protecting.

I take another step down. The barrel of the gun shakes against the buttons of my overcoat. The old man’s eyes - perhaps once brown, but foggy and greyed with cataracts - are wild and surrounded by the whites, but there is something sorrowful in their madness. I search my memory for the words I need. I don’t know them all. I don’t know enough.

“This is dangerous,” I say. “We stop this.”

The old man shakes his head like a dog trying to shake water from its coat. “Move. M-move, girl.”

“No.” I take gentle hold of his wrists and try to speak with touch what I cannot say in his words. “No.”

“I’ll kill you too. I don’t want to, but I’ll kill you too. I will kill him.”

“No. No. It is not—”

A gunshot splits the night air. I think I am shot, and my heartbeat freezes. It will hurt — where does it hurt?

It doesn’t hurt.

I’m not the one hurt.

The old man’s wild expression sags, his body sways, and he crumples joint by joint to the flagstones at my feet.

The ghost of a breath whistles in my throat and my heartbeat returns — all at once, and too fast. The flagstones beneath me tip and roll. Someone closes their arms tightly around me as the guardsmen rush to the fallen man.

He is dead.

“What were you thinking?” Mariusz demands in my ear. It is he who has his arms around me. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“They killed him,” I say. “He’s dead.”

Now, I see the blood blooming darkly through the man’s mud-coloured apron, seeping onto the flagstones, flooding into their cracks, steaming in the chill winter evening air. They shot him before he could shoot me. The pistol still rests in his limp, grimy hand. His half-blind eyes are turned sightlessly to the star-pricked black sky. He looks surprised. My father’s head looked knowing after it fell from the guillotine. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open like he was about to say something clever.

My knees buckle and my vision blots out with intangible snow. Mariusz slows my descent to the flagstones, and I land gently with my head in between his knees and my skirts seeping up the old man’s hot blood.

He speaks in a language I do not understand and arms I do not know carry me away.

__

2025-03-26: Present traumas bring up past traumas for Alex.

44. Stupidity

My thoughts return to me before my vision does. I’m in the coach with Mariusz — I can feel his knee against mine — and we are going home, very fast and bumpy over the cobbles.

I fainted.

I can feel a sticky patch on the bottom of my skirts where the man’s blood is drying. There’s another sticky patch on the back of my neck, but I think it’s sweat.

Slowly, my vision resolves and I am able to move my hot, heavy head forward. “Air?”

“No. The window stays shut.” Mariusz’s voice is flat and cold. “You will be better soon. You are not hurt.”

The curtains are closed too. I try to reach out for them, but Mariusz pulls my hand away.

“Leave it,” he says.

“They know we are in here. Even if they can’t see us, they know whose coach this is.”

“Leave it.”

It is too much effort to argue. I lean back against the corner of the coach and watch Mariusz in the gloam. He sits forward, hands clasped tightly in his lap, bottom lip drawn beneath his teeth.

“I’m charging Salamon,” he says. “I decided.”

“No. Not because of this. No.”

“Why does it matter? It’s what you wanted me to do. Why does it matter why I do it?”

“Because it does. Because a man died. Because even if it’s the right decision — even if it’s the wrong decision…” I fade out, exhausted by the effort of speaking, uncertain of what I’m even trying to say. All I know is that it does matter.

The coach lurches through the streets. I feel weak and faintly nauseous. I want Mariusz to reach out and hold my hand. I know he won’t. The silence between us it too cold. Besides, we don’t do that sort of thing. But I want someone to hold my hand.

I grip my right hand in my left. “What did he shout? I could not understand him.”

“People who have no kingdom deserve to have no king.” Mariusz laughs bitterly. “But I’m not the king. It makes no sense.”

I think, when my head is clearer, I will be able to make sense of it. And I think Mariusz understands it better than he is willing to admit right now.

“Who shot him?” I ask.

“One of the guardsmen, Belvolk.”

“That’s bad, isn’t it? Our guards shooting an old man in front of everyone, in front of a church?

“He was a murderer. He would have killed me. And you.” The heat of anger contorts the flatness of Mariusz’s tone. “What were you thinking? Do you have a death wish?”

“He wasn’t going to shoot. He wasn’t a murderer. He was just… He just wanted… something.”

“To kill me.”

“No. No. I swear, he wasn’t going to shoot. If I had a few more moments with him, if I spoke his language better, I think I could have talked him down.” The image of the man’s blood steaming in the air flashes in front of my eyes and I squeeze them shut. “They didn’t have to kill him.”

“Listen to yourself! Do you think you’re a hero? Do you think you would have saved his life? Mine? Your own? You would have died. All three of us would be dead if Belvolk hadn’t shot him.”

“No. No one would be dead. He didn’t have to shoot him.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“I’m not stupid! The man was harmless. He was never going to shoot. You killed him needlessly. Belvolk, yes, but you too. You were the one who went to that church in the first place. You were the one who—”

“If you hadn’t gone so close, Belvolk wouldn’t have had to shoot him,” Mariusz snaps. “Did you ever think of that?”

Again, the image of blood steaming in the dark night air rises up before my eyes. I squeeze my the palms of my hands against my eyes.

“Don’t talk to me,” I say. “Don’t say another word.”

Until we reach the palace, he doesn’t. Nor do I. We get out of the coach and go up to our apartments in perfect silence. When we get there, dinner is waiting for us on the dining table, covered and warm. A maid is just finishing lighting the candles on the table. The smell of stewed pork makes my stomach roil.

“Take it away,” I tell the maid. “We’re not hungry.”

“I’m hungry,” Mariusz says.

“Then eat. I’m going for a walk.”

I turn around for the door, but Mariusz reaches it first and slams it shut. “No.”

“What? You think that old man’s going to come back and shoot me in the palace gardens? He’s dead.”

“Just stay here.”

“I want to go for a walk.”

“You can’t. We need to stay safe until we know more about what happened tonight. The old man might not have been acting alone.”

“I don’t want to be near you.”

“And I don’t care what you want.”

The maid stares at us, her eyes wide. She mustn’t be able to understand a word we’re saying, but our poisonous tones can leave no doubt that this is an argument. I pull out a dining chair and throw myself into it.

“I cannot bear the sight of food,” I say to her in French. “You will take it all away now. Ignore His Grace. We cannot both have what we want, and as the lady my needs come first.”

The maid looks uneasily at Mariusz who rolls his eyes. “Take it away,” he says.

She stacks the dishes on a tray and takes them out into the hall. It takes her two trips, and as soon as the table is cleared Mariusz shuts the door after her and sits down in front of it, like he’s afraid I might escape.

“You should have eaten something,” he says. “You fainted.”

“I’m not hungry.”

I do feel weak still, but it isn’t a weakness that food or drink will cure. I keep my eyes determinedly fixed upon the lace pattern in the tablecloth, tracing its curlicues and whorls. If I concentrate very hard, it helps to keep the vision of steaming blood away from me.

We sit in silence for some quarter of an hour before there comes a knock at the door. Mariusz gets to his feet and opens it. It’s Dowager Duchess Maria. She pulls him close against her and says something in Selician in his ear. He reassures her in the same. I think he’s lying. I think he’s saying whatever he believes will make her feel less afraid. By the whiteness of her lips, pressed against his cheek, I don’t think it’s working.

At length, she pulls away from him and comes towards me. “You are not hurt?” she says in French.

“No. We were in no real danger.”

“I am glad to hear.” She touches my hand. “What a horrible experience. I am very sorry.”

I look down again at the tablecloth, only this time it’s because I don’t know how to meet her eyes. I did not expect kindness from this quarter, and I do not know how to receive it. My own mother would never say such a thing to me. Never touch my hand in comfort, let alone hold me close and kiss my cheek. No. She would probably complain about the blood my skirts left on the carpets. And even if I knew Duchess Maria to have more heart than my mother, I did not suspect she was capable of such warmth. Not to Mariusz, and certainly not to me.

“Thank you,” I say. “It was horrible, yes.”

My hands start to shake, and I clasp them together. Duchess Maria turns and says something to Mariusz in Selician. I understand enough to know it’s about me. Mariusz replies coldly but goes to the sideboard and pours a short measure of brandy into a cup. He puts it on the table in front of me.

“You had better drink it,” he says in my language. “You’re very pale.”

“I don’t want it.”

“My mother thinks you need it.”

I take delicate sips. It warms the blood beating through my heart. I am able to get my hands to stop shaking.

There is a knock at the open door. It’s Captain Sadovnik, two of his lieutenants behind him.

“Come in,” says Mariusz in Selician. “What do you have for me?”

The conversation that follows is too rapid for me to understand all of it, but the word for gun comes up a lot, as well as hospital, priest, and unfortunate. At first, Mariusz seems relieved, but the more they speak, the deeper the frown between his eyebrows gets. At last, he thanks Sadovnik and bids him goodnight. Duchess Maria leaves too, patting my hand again on her way out. I have finished the brandy now, and it seems to have shaken off the weariness of my faint.

“What did Sadovnik say?” I ask Mariusz.

“He believes the old man was acting alone. The priest knew him quite well. He used to come to the church for alms. He could no longer work and he had no family. His only son was caught up in one of my father’s waves of conscription and died in a skirmish. That explains why he was so angry, I suppose.”

Mariusz sounds defeated. I’m still too angry with him to have any pity though.

“Your conversation was longer than that. Where did he get the pistol?”

“It was army issue. Probably through his son, before he died.” Mariusz hesitates. “It wasn’t loaded.”

I see the steaming blood again and close my eyes. He wanted to die. The only person that old man wanted to kill tonight was himself. And we let him do it. We didn’t stop him.

“I told you he wasn’t going to shoot.”

“Belvolk was just doing his job.”

“I know.” I open my eyes again so I can watch Mariusz’s expression. “I don’t blame Belvolk. He didn’t know the old man. But I knew. I could see it in his eyes. And I want you to know that I’m not stupid. He was never going to shoot. I told you.”

Anger drives away the guilty frown on Mariusz’s face. “Until now, you no more knew that than we did. No one knew that, except the old man. And without knowing that, every time, I, and Belvolk, and every other guardsman, would choose to save your ungrateful life. No matter what it costs. Stupidity, Alexandra, does not mean not knowing; it is thinking you know what you do not.”

__

2025-03-30: I wonder how different this chapter would’ve been if Mariusz had taken Alex’s hand after she fainted instead of just talked to her. Sometimes talking makes thing worse, y’know?

45. Silence at Night

In the end, it is Mariusz who goes for a walk, not me. The brandy makes me fully aware of how weary I am, so I call for my maids to undress me and draw me a bath. I only realize Mariusz has left the suite when I emerge from the bath in my nightgown. I want to go to bed, but I no longer trust sleeping alone. I can block the servant door in my dressing room with an iron doorstop, but I can’t block the one in Mariusz’s dressing room without him knowing I fear an intruder. And I’m scared that if I do block every door and lock every lock, Konrad will find his way in anyway, and then I will be trapped with him.

At midnight, cold forces me into my bed, but I cannot sleep. My body is weary, but my mind won’t stop racing. I think of the old man who died earlier tonight. I think of Irena crying in the pagoda, determined to believe her husband a victim. I think of Salamon in his jail cell, awaiting his fate. I think of Konrad, skulking about the dark halls of the palace, smug at his wife’s heartbreak. I think of Duchess Maria, holding Mariusz so close to her chest, pressing her white lips against his cheek.

In the early hours of the morning, I begin to wonder where Mariusz is. I get up several times and check the clock by the light of the dying fire. One o’clock. Two. Three.

He normally never stays out so late unless he’s been drinking, and he hasn’t been drinking so much lately.

Perhaps he is with Sadovnik, talking about the old man. Or at the judge’s house, telling him to charge Salamon. Or going for a long, fast ride in the chill black night to vent his anger.

It is nearly four o’clock when the doors squeak open and he returns. I listen carefully, making sure it is him, half-afraid it will be Konrad, but the sound of his footsteps crossing the sitting room is familiar, then he speaks softly in Selician to someone and I am certain. I cannot hear what he is saying, nor the exact words of the reply, but I recognise Lady Celina’s flutey feminine pitch.

What is she doing here? She and Mariusz have not been so close of late.

I hear the door between Mariusz’s room and the sitting room open. They say a few more words, too soft for me to translate, even if I could, and then fall silent. I strain my ears for the sound of movement or voices.

Nothing.

What are they doing?

I turn over on my pillow and shut my eyes. Mariusz is here now. I don’t need to know what he is doing.

The silence persists. My closed eyes cannot block out the image of Irena kneeling before the altar. She must have heard something. My footsteps. A whisper. Silence.

I open my eyes and slowly, stealthily draw my legs up and out of bed. My feet make no sound on the thick carpet as I cross to the door between my room and Mariusz’s. It is opened only the thinnest crack, just enough to permit a draught, not enough to see through.

The silence breaks.

“No,” Mariusz whispers in Selician. “No, it is impossible.”

What is impossible? The words he uses are so simple I know I have not misunderstood them, but what does he mean? What happened in that silence?

I push the door softly, and the crack widens to permit my eye. A single candle on the desk throws vague light upon the room. It’s too dark, at first, for me to make out where they are, then I find the pale blur of Mariusz’s coat collar. He’s standing with his back to me in the open doorway between his room and the sitting room, almost fading into the shadows beyond. But Celina is there too. The pale blur of her skirts floods out behind the two thin black shadows of Mariusz’s legs.

I strain my eyes at the patchwork of shadows, determined not to look away from what I fear to see. Her head is hidden by his body. It must be against his chest. I can just see the faint paleness of her hair tucked under the pale blur of Mariusz’s chin. If I look through the corner of my eyes, I can just make out one of his hands clutching at her shoulder, pulling her against him.

They’re not kissing.

Perhaps they were, but not now. They’re just holding each other in silent tableau, his head bowed over hers.

“I’m sorry,” Mariusz says in a voice like falling snow. “I always loved you.”

There can be no real doubt about my understanding of his words. I have practiced saying ‘I love you’ in Selician in the privacy of my room. They were words I wanted to know, just in case I might have cause to use them one day.

“I know,” Celina says. “I love you too.”

I should interrupt them. I should burst through the door and demand to know what they are doing, what they mean by their words. I should break them apart, the way Irena did not dare break apart Konrad and I on the stairs.

I do not.

Their dark shadow breaks apart without a word. Celina’s footsteps cross back through the sitting room and fade into the darkness. Mariusz sighs and shuts the door on her invisible shadow.

I turn away from my spyhole and creep noiselessly back to bed.

__

2025-04-06: Oh, Mariusz, you idiot, what were you thinking?

46. The Other Woman

I don’t sleep that night. Long after Celina’s footsteps have faded away across the sitting room floor, long after Mariusz is in his bed, breathing deeply in sleep, I lie awake and run my mind over the shadowy images I saw.

Perhaps in the dark I missed something. Perhaps his hands were not upon her shoulders but under the collar of her dress. Perhaps his head was not bowed on top of hers but his face turned to her face. Perhaps on other dark, silent nights, I have failed to hear, or failed to see, other dark secrets.

Or perhaps I am wronging them both. Perhaps my imagination saw in those shadows darker secrets than they truly held. Perhaps his hands were not on her shoulders at all. Perhaps her head was not pressed against his chest. Perhaps there was a foot or more of empty darkness between their bodies.

Perhaps ‘love’ does not mean the same in this language as it does in my own.

No. I cannot look away from what I have seen. I will not be like Irena, crying in the rose bower, determined to deny her husband’s villainy and paint him a victim so that she does not have to admit to being one herself. The dark and silence disguised worse injuries than I have evidence of.

Morning approaches, and servants make noises moving about at their duties. A maid comes in to stoke my fire. Another sets the breakfast table in the sitting room beyond, cutlery clinking. The smell of fried sausages wafts in through the door. Mariusz yawns in his room. Soon after, I hear the creak of his mattress and the thump of his feet on the floor. He shuts the door between our rooms with a sharp click on his way to get dressed.

When I hear that click, anger sweeps the weariness from my body. I throw back my bedcovers and fumble my way out of bed. My dressing gown hangs on the back of a chair. I fling it around myself and go through to the sitting room. A maid is just finishing opening the curtains onto the thin morning light.

“You may leave,” I tell her in French. “We do not need your attendance at breakfast this morning.”

The servants never stay to help us at breakfast anyway, but I want to make absolutely certain that no one overhears our conversation this morning. The maid nods and leaves in silence. A few minutes later, Mariusz comes out of his room, wearing nothing under his dressing gown, his face damp, his jaw lightly shadowed with stubble. Was he washing Celina’s kisses off his cheeks just now?

He glances at me from under heavy lids. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something is wrong?”

He seats himself with a shrug. “You look upset.” He uncovers the dish of sausages and spears one on a fork. “I suppose we did not adequately finish our argument yesterday. I don’t want to continue it over breakfast though, if that’s why you’re standing over me so ominously. Like a black cloud.”

I step back. “Last night’s argument is finished. I considered you to have lost it when we found out the man’s gun had no bullets.”

Mariusz drops his fork on his plate. “For God’s sake, Sasha—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Let us not have this out again. We both need time to think by ourselves. I will eat breakfast in my room.”

“No. No, don’t. I want to talk to you. Don’t run away.”

Mariusz pauses in the act of standing. “I don’t want to talk about last night. I’ve talked about it enough.”

“With Celina?”

Mariusz meets my eyes then slowly sits down again. He leaves his sausage abandoned on his plate and makes no attempt to drink his tea. “With Celina. Yes. You must have heard her say goodbye last night. She listened to me. I needed someone to listen. For obvious reasons, it could not be you.”

“Yet it could have been anyone else.”

“She was there.”

There is a stubborn, sly look in Mariusz’s eye. He’s not going to admit it. He wants to know what I know before he will admit anything at all, and what he does admit will be nothing more than what I can prove. I know how liars operate. And I can prove nothing, really.

Mariusz stretches out his arms for the teapot. “Why don’t you sit down and have some tea?”

“You cannot placate me with tea. I heard you last night. I did not hear you say goodbye. I heard you say you loved her. I heard her say it in return. I heard it after a long silence, in which I could not hear anything at all. What was happening in that silence, Mariusz? Why was she in your bedroom?”

Mariusz puts the teapot down. “Sasha.” His tone is very gentle. “You are quite mistaken in what you heard. I said no such thing. Nor did Celina.”

“I’m sorry. I have always loved you,” I say in Selician. “I know. I love you too.”

Colour flushes over his pale cheeks. “No. You misheard us.”

“Don’t lie to me. Of all the insults you could add to this injury, don’t make it a lie I cannot fail to see through. How pathetic do you think I would have to be to believe it? What kind of foolish woman would want to believe her husband’s lies?”

The colour diffuses slowly across his face. He looks away. “You want the truth? I loved Celina long before I ever heard your name. I still do. It was the worst heartbreak of my life, learning that I had no choice but to marry you. Look at you, jealous of her. She’s not the other woman, you are. You came second. You broke her heart.”

“Don’t blame this on me. I had as much choice in this marriage as you did, but I’ve never looked for escape elsewhere. And you must have always known, since you were a boy, that marriage would not be much choice for you. For people of our rank, it never is. We have only the freedom to make choices within marriage. To be faithful—” my voice cracks “—or not.”

“I’ve been faithful enough,” Mariusz says. “You have my body. Don’t ask for my heart.”

I want to believe him. It would comfort my wounded dignity to believe what he says. He still won’t look at me though, and I don’t want to believe an easy lie over a hard truth.

“What happened last night?” I ask. “What happened in that long silence, Mariusz? I saw you holding her afterwards, but what happened before? What did she do? Was it just kissing or something more? What about the other times? What about the nights you didn’t come back? Was she with you then also? What were you doing?”

“I told you,” Mariusz says. “I have been faithful.”

“Did you kiss her last night? Did she kiss you? I don’t believe it was nothing in that silence.”

“I cannot make you believe what you do not wish to, so there is no point answering those questions.” Mariusz stands up. “I’m going to speak to the judge about Salamon.”

“Mariusz.” I take his arm as he tries to walk away. “Please, just tell me.”

He shakes me off. “I have.”

I watch him go to his bedroom door. It wasn’t more than kissing. Not while they were in the suite. I would have heard that. But something happened. Something ‘impossible’. As long as Celina is around, it might happen again.

“I want her gone from the palace,” I say. “I can’t have her here. You have to send her away. If you want a woman, you have me.”

Mariusz laughs bitterly. “I tried that, didn’t I? You didn’t want it. Nor did I. I was just trying to do my duty to the crown. I know my duty, Sasha.” He turns back to meet my eyes. “Within the confines of duty, I shall have my private heartbreak, and you may have yours, but Celina has suffered enough. She stays.”

__

2025-04-09: Surprise midweek update! Another thing Alex can blame King Edmund for: breaking Mariusz’s heart, and probably Celina’s too. But of course, Alex is only thinking about her own.

47. A Royal Decree

Mariusz shaves and gets dressed and leaves for the courthouse. I remain behind. The servants come and clear away our untouched breakfast. I pace the empty room in my dressing gown until my maids come to help me dress. Does it matter if my hair curls and shines? Perhaps Mariusz does not care for dark hair. Perhaps he only likes blonde. And I am sure he does not notice how small my waist is in its tightly cinched corset. I strain my ribs for nothing. But I primp and parade before the mirror, discard half-a-dozen dresses before deciding upon one, ornament my throat and wrists with glinting jewels, and powder my face as thickly as I dare.

It’s not for Mariusz. I cannot charm his eye. But I have weapons other than charm.

I have power.

I send one of the maids with a message to the Duke’s Chamberlain and another to fetch Countess Celina to my sitting room. She is not well dressed when she arrives. She must have just woken up and thrown on whatever she could. She looks very pale in her russet gown and her fair hair is coiled up behind her head in braids I think she slept in.

“What do you want with me?” she says in Rothalian as she enters.

“I think you know.”

She sits down without being invited. “I have no idea.”

“You kissed my husband last night.”

She looks at me for a long moment, then a broad, cruel smile spreads across her face. “Did I? And what did he have to say about it?”

“He confessed to me that he once loved you. That he still had feelings for you.”

The cruel smile softens. Somehow, that softness is more aggravating than cruelty.

“Of course, I can’t have that,” I say. “It puts me in a very vulnerable position here. It threatens the crown. It threatens Mariusz too. It would be a dreadful scandal if the public found out about it. It would shake confidence in his marriage to me, and so confidence in the duchy’s place within the kingdom, and perhaps even confidence in Mariusz’s ability to lead the duchy. People would doubt his honesty, his fidelity, his integrity.”

“You make it seem very dramatic.” Celina yawns. “It is very simple, the public must not find out. However, it may be too late. Before King Edmund says Mariusz must marry you, everyone knew that Mariusz and I were…” A delicate frown appears between her brows as she tries to puzzle out the unfamiliar language. “…in romance.”

Why did no one tell me? My uncle might have warned me. He would have known. Duchess Maria might have said something. Even Henryka or Zofia might have. Surely not everyone was united in hiding this from me. No. Celina is deliberately trying to hurt me. Perhaps some people knew she and Mariusz were having a romantic affair, but no one thought it was serious. No one would expect a prince to be foolish enough to fall seriously in love with a woman of no political importance.

“If it too late, we must repair the damage. And of course, we must prevent further damage. You must leave the palace.”

Celina laughs. “I will not leave. I have a position here. I am Mistress of Ceremonies.”

“I know. I have found a better position for you elsewhere.”

For the first time, Celina looks uncertain.

“You are aware, perhaps, that Mariusz has presented me with a hunting lodge in the mountains. I have determined that my lodge requires a caretaker, someone to manage servants while I am absent, someone to arrange the lodge’s redecoration according to a woman’s comfort, someone to establish positive relationships with the surrounding villages. You are perfectly qualified for such a position.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I will not do it.”

“I wasn’t offering you a choice. I was giving you a command. I have already sent a message to the Royal Chamberlain to prepare a coach, a wagon, and servants for your removal to the lodge. You may have four maids to help you pack and three men to help you carry the heavy things. I believe you will be ready before…” I look at the clock. “…midday. Twelve o’clock.”

“I will not do it!” She gets to her feet. “It is not your… you cannot…” But she does not have the language to say what she needs.

“Don’t leave the room.” I go to the bell and ring for a maid. “I do not give you permission to leave, Countess Celina.”

She cannot disobey a direct command, so she shifts her weight from one foot to another while we wait for the maid. When she comes, I tell her to go to Dowager Duchess Maria’s rooms and see if Prime Minister Tarnuv is there. He often visits Duchess Maria after Sunday mass, and I think this morning, after what happened last night, she will want his advice.

“What do you want with him?” Celina demands. “He does not much speak your language.”

“He speaks enough.”

We wait in complete silence for the maid to return. All the while, Celina bites her lip and shifts her weight from one foot to another. She keeps looking to the door and windows. I think she is hoping that Mariusz will come back. I wonder how long it will take him to arrange with the judge to charge Salamon. There will be paperwork, surely, and probably the judge will invite Mariusz for tea, but I cannot imagine it will take more than an hour to get it done, and he has been gone most of that already.

Then again, it is Mariusz. He will find some excuse to be distracted and return home late because he wants to avoid me. He will not come back. Not before I have done what I must.

The door opens and Celina turns to it hopefully, but it is only the maid again with Tarnuv behind her. She ushers him into the room then disappears, closing the door behind her.

“Good morning, your highness,” Tarnuv says with his usual ostentatious formality and bad accent. “Good morning, Countess Celina. How do you do?”

I have no time for such formalities today. “Lord Tarnuv, I called you here as witness. Listen carefully, please.” I face Celina. Her bottom lip is now dead white under her two front teeth. “Lady Celina, it is my royal decree as Alexandra, Princess of Rothalia and Duchess of Selica, that you assume the post of Stewardess of Belasarna lodge. Your position as Mistress of Ceremonies is henceforth terminated. You will remove yourself to Belasarna Lodge immediately to take up the duties of your new post. Lord Tarnuv, do you bear witness?”

Lord Tarnuv blinks as he tries to follow my speech, but I think he is more confused by my meaning than my language. “I bear witness,” he says. “Are you certain of this decree?”

“More than certain. Let it be publicly announced that this is Countess Celina’s new position.”

“I will do so.” Lord Tarnuv bows. “Good day, my ladies.”

He leaves. I think perhaps he is running away. Celina sinks against the back of an armchair, her face so pale it looks almost grey, but I have no pity for her.

“And let us privately understand, Lady Celina, that you are from this day forbidden from coming within the palace walls. It is my home. I will not have you in it.”

She looks up at me. “Mariusz will not let you do this.”

“I have done it. He might have prevented me if he could, but he will not undo it.”

She makes a strange sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You are stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You do not know him at all.” She throws back her head to look me in the eyes. Her own are glittering with angry tears. “He loved me. I am maybe not the only woman, and maybe he will not love me for always, but he loved me. He saved me when Count Vovesni died. He will save me of you.”

“If he tries, I will have King Edmund exile you from the duchy altogether.”

That is a bluff. I would never willingly involve my uncle in a matter of such personal humiliation. Celina, however, seems to believe me. Two tears escape from her eyes and roll down her ash-pale cheeks

“You cannot do this,” she says, but the spirit has left her voice. “He already was far from me. He already, maybe, does not love me. Last night… last night was the first time for many… for much…” She dashes the tears from her face. “And it only was a kiss. And he told me no.”

“It was unforgivable. And it is why I am sending you away.”

“You cannot do this,” she repeats. “You cannot.”

“I am the duchess. I can do whatever I want.”

She sniffs back her tears. “No, you cannot. You cannot make him love.” She pushes herself to her feet and walks unsteadily towards the door. “That is my happiness. He may not forever love me. He may already not care. But he will never love a bitch like you.” She cackles. “Never. He will never love you.”

__

2025-04-13: Hm. Some people had sympathy for Celina last chapter. What do you think? Was Alex right to do this?

48. Damn the Crown

Celina is gone with five minutes to spare until midday. I stand on the front steps and watch her coach and the wagon behind it roll away. She was weeping as she got into the carriage, and her maid had to support her. I feel sorry for the maid, having to go to live in a distant mountain village, knowing no one, perhaps leaving loved ones behind. I have no sympathy for Celina. I am only disgusted by her tears.

Dowager Duchess Maria stands with me until the wagon disappears beyond the first gate and the dust settles behind it. I imagine Lord Tarnuv told her what happened in the sitting room. I am sure she is clever enough to guess at the parts he did not witness.

“Why did you not tell me they were lovers?” I ask.

“I never believed it to be more than a youthful dalliance, and as far as I know, it ended long ago. I did not think it right to bring it up.” She sighs. “Perhaps I have wronged you. I am sorry.”

I look at her. How old is she? She has to be someway past forty, and the hard lines etched on her brow do little to disguise the years. What does she know of youthful dalliance? She married King Adam when she was just sixteen. Was there some illicit love affair at fifteen? But that could not compare to an affair between a man and woman of twenty-three, and I cannot see Duchess Maria indulging in an affaire de coeur outside her marriage. She is too well-disciplined.

But she is a handsome woman, even with youth a long way behind her. She has fine bones, which look all the more delicate for the sparseness of the flesh over them, and her eyes are prettily shaped within soft brown lashes. I think her relationship with Tarnuv must be more than friendship. Perhaps her experience with dalliance is more recent. All the same, hers is likely the only apology I will receive for this insult.

“Mariusz is going to be very angry with me,” I say. “Can you talk to him for me?”

She looks at me through narrowed eyes for a long moment then shakes her head. “You must sort your disagreements yourselves. Mariusz is usually quite forgiving, after you allow him some time for bad temper.”

“It is not his forgiveness I worry about. It is mine. How can I forgive him when he keeps a love affair secret from me? She was in his room, Madame. She came into his room.”

Duchess Maria looks at where the dust from the coach is now settled to a thin haze above the ground. “And what did he do when she did?”

“I don’t know exactly. I cannot trust what they tell me.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“He said nothing happened. She said they kissed.”

Duchess Maria sighs softly. “I see. Mariusz often tries to keep secrets from me, but he rarely succeeds. I think, my dear, that I would know if he was maintaining a secret love affair. Whatever happened between the two of them, it may only have been… an unfortunate mistake.”

“I will not tolerate infidelity,” I say, “even if only a mistake. Or a dalliance.”

“I am not asking you to. I do ask that before you decide you cannot forgive, you know precisely what it is you are being asked to forgive.” She turns to go back into the palace. “It may require some faith in his truthfulness.”

I cannot tell if she is angry with me or not. She seems less sympathetic than she had been at first, when she knew less. Perhaps she is offended I think her son a liar. But he is a liar. I know it. He lied to everyone about us consummating the marriage. He lied to me about writing to King Edmund. He lied to me about Celina. He lies by omission, by deed, by misdirection. Who knows what else he is hiding from me.

I go back to my apartments to wait for him to return. I cannot focus on any amusements, on reading or playing with my clothes or solitaire or even having a bath. I could go for a fast walk around the lake, but I don’t want to miss Mariusz if he comes home early. The longer we delay this argument, the worse it will be.

He is not back at dinner time. I eat my meal alone. Perhaps he will not be back now until past midnight. He is probably out drinking with his friends in some townhouse to which I am never invited or some bar I could not enter without causing scandal.

I am halfway through my dessert of a baked pear with cream when the dining room doors slam open. Mariusz stops in the doorway. He’s wearing the same clothes as this morning, but his necktie is loosened and his jacket is rumpled. He has been drinking, but I don’t think he is drunk.

“Is it true?” he demands. “Did you really issue a royal decree for Celina to be exiled to Belasarna?”

“It is not an exile. She has a new position there. She is my stewardess.”

“My God.” Mariusz shuts the doors behind him and sinks into a chair. “I told you, no. I told you, she stays.”

“And I told you I can’t have her here. You didn’t listen, so I did what I had to.”

“You didn’t have to do anything. I know my duty, Sasha. I know what lines not to cross.”

“You crossed a line last night when you had her in your room. When you kissed her. And I saw you holding her. You’ve never held me like that. I don’t ask that you hold me like that. I ask that you hold no one else like that. I can’t have her here, Mariusz. I can’t have the woman you love under my roof.”

He kicks the table leg, making the cutlery clatter. “You survived the past four months with her here. Nothing changed last night.” He kicks the table leg again, less violently this time. “Nothing changed. She must come back. We didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. Renege your order. I’ll figure something out.”

“No.”

“She has nothing. She has no money, she has no family. She has no one but friends and they are all here. It is exile in all but name.”

“She has a roof over her head, an occupation, an income, and her friends, excepting you, may follow her if they wish. I think Valery would, if she would have him.”

“My God, you’re a bitch sometimes.”

I flinch. It’s the second time he has called me that word. I would rather he kick the table. I would rather he kick me. “What do you expect, Mariusz? She rubbed your affair in my face. Apparently everyone knows that you used to be lovers. Your mother knew. Everyone knew but me. And you don’t care enough to be discreet. You bring her to your room. You keep her here in the palace and give her money to arrange your parties, drunken orgies, most of them. And when I ask you to send her away, you flatly refuse. What was I supposed to do? Shut my eyes and ears? Turn my cheek? If you won’t help me with the problems you cause me, if you deny they even are problems, then, yes, I will solve them myself. That doesn’t make me a bitch. It makes you a—”

But I can’t say the word. It is one that my mother used to call my father, and once it is said, I will never be able to unsay it.

Mariusz isn’t listening anyway. He gets up from his chair and barges through the apartment to his dressing room. I follow him. Our argument isn’t over.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he kicks off his shoes and strips his trousers.

“Getting dressed. I’m going to say goodbye to her.” He grabs a pair of riding breeches from a drawer and pulls them on. “Damn you, Sasha. You went behind my back. You might have waited. You might have told me.”

“You would have stopped me. And I did tell you. You just didn’t listen.”

He curses again under his breath and trades his silk overcoat for a sturdier woollen greatcoat. “We could have worked something out.”

“You refused to even think of it.”

“You didn’t give me much chance!” He belts his coat and rummages through a drawer for a pair of fleece-lined riding gloves. “And you might at least have given us the chance to say goodbye.” He jams the gloves in his pocket and faces me. The glitter in his eyes looks like tears. “That was cruel.”

“Don’t go after her. Leave it be. It cannot be undone now, and if you go after her, in the middle of the night, on horseback, there will be rumours about you having an affair.”

“And did it never occur to you that sending her away might make people wonder what reason you had to do so?” Mariusz pulls on a pair of riding boots. “I’m going after her. I’m going to say goodbye.”

“You won’t. Not if you know what is good for the crown.”

Mariusz shoves past me on his way out the door. “Damn the crown.”

__

2025-04-20: I know things look very bad for Alex and Mariusz right now, but I also have to point out that having an argument with your partner while they’re getting dressed is a certain kind of intimacy.

49. The Go-Between

When I wake the next morning, the door between my room and Mariusz’s is firmly shut. I open it gently. He is sleeping on the bed, alone, still dressed in the shirt he went out in last night. I didn’t hear him come back. Somehow, I wasn’t sure he would.

I shut the door quietly so I don’t wake him. After I finish breakfast and get dressed, I check the door again. He is still asleep, though he’s moved, and violently enough to cast a pillow off the bed. As I watch he turns over with a sharp breath and kicks at the blankets. Perhaps he is having a bad dream.

It isn’t until past noon that he emerges from his room. He is dressed in riding clothes and boots and does not even glance at me as he passes through the sitting room where I have been waiting, pretending to work at embroidery. This is not what I had expected. I knew he would want to leave the apartment, but he would be hungry, he would want tea first I thought. I had even considered ordering some for him, but I did not wish to look apologetic. I do not want to bend first.

All the same, as he reaches the door, I say, “Don’t you want tea?”

He turns to look at me for the first time. There are dark shadows under his eyes. Without saying a word, he turns away and goes through the door.

Is he going to Celina again? Did she even end up going to Belasarna Lodge yesterday? Did he order her coach and wagon to divert somewhere else when he met her last night?

I throw aside my embroidery and catch Mariusz up in the dining room. “Where are you going?”

He continues to the doors as though he is deaf. I run after him and grab his arm.

“Are you going to her?” I demand. “Tell me, are you going to her?”

He looks down at my hands on his arm. “I cannot. You made sure of that.”

He pulls away from me and brushes his sleeve like it touched something dirty. Then he opens the door and leaves.

Would he lie to me?

Yes. He would. But did he?

I spend the next half-hour moving from one window to another, watching to see whom Mariusz is riding with and in what direction, but our sitting room looks over the south terrace lawns to one side and the front of the palace to the other. If he were going to visit Celina, he could quite easily go directly from the stables around the lake and out through the road near the church which opens onto farmland and where he would be unlikely to be seen. Even if I did see him ride away, and even if he was not alone, I could not trust him not to be visiting her. Barany would cover for him out of loyalty. Valery would cover for him out of spite.

Someone knocks at the dining room door. I divert my pacing between the windows into the dining room. “What is it?” I ask in French.

The chamberlain opens the door but does not enter. “Lady Irena Ledelek kindly requests an interview with your highness.”

Irena. Has she come to gloat? I stare at the chamberlain, too confused to answer.

“Is it permitted?” he asks.

“Y-yes. Let her in. And, um, please arrange for tea.” I doubt Irena will drink it, but if I invite her in and do not send for tea the servants will notice the strangeness of my lack of hospitality. Besides, I am in need of a stimulant myself.

The chamberlain bows and opens the door wider for Irena to enter then leaves and shuts it behind him. Normally, if Henryka or Zofia or Dowager Duchess Maria visits me, I invite them into the sitting room, which is more comfortable, but it seems too intimate to invite Irena in there. Instead, I gesture to the dining table.

“Please, have a seat.”

She sits down. Today, there are no tears in her eyes. Her movements are sharp, deliberate, and confined. She has come with a mission.

“I won’t stay long enough for tea,” she says. “Konrad wanted me to come. He has a message for you.”

My unease becomes sharp panic. I lower myself onto a chair. “I seek no messages from him.”

But why am I trying to prove myself to Irena still? She will not let herself be persuaded. The left corner of her lip twitches in contempt.

“He wants you to know that he is pleased to hear that Salamon will be charged. He thanks you for your influence on Prince Mariusz in this regard.”

“I had no influence on Mariusz. He made his own decision. I had no influence on this matter. No responsibility for it. I could not.”

“Is that what you want me to tell him?”

“I don’t want you to tell him anything all. We are having a conversation, you and I, not Konrad. I speak to you.” Though I know full well she will repeat what I say to her to Konrad. “I have nothing I wish to say to Konrad, and nothing I wish to hear from him.”

The corner of her lip twitches again. I suppose there is nothing she wishes to hear from me, nothing she wishes to say to me. She comes only to give me her husband’s message and she comes, I think, because she is afraid that if she does not he will come himself.

I’m afraid of that too.

But Irena has not yet finished what Konrad tasked her with. She stretches her hands out on the table in front of her and runs her fingers over the silky curls of the burr walnut finish. It is a pretty table, the kind of table she would like, I think, for its extravagant prettiness. Rather than admiring its prettiness now, though, I suspect she is hating it because it is mine.

“Lady Celina has left the palace,” Irena says distantly.

Is this what Konrad wanted her to say? No. This is of her own accord. She is curious — spitefully curious. Did she know the depth of Celina’s affair with Mariusz? She always protested that Celina was not flirting with Mariusz. When we were friends, was she trying to protect me? Or is she too friendless here to be privy to such gossip?

I cannot ask her how much she knows without admitting there has been an affair. “I plan to occupy the lodge in the summer. Lady Celina is preparing it for me. She has excellent taste in such matters.”

“Then you will be gone in the summer.” She speaks too quickly, and a hint of colour appears on her cheeks.

I don’t want Irena to tell Konrad that. I don’t want him to know my plans, even the ones that are lies. “Perhaps. My plans are not certain yet, but I would like the lodge available to me.”

“I see.” The hint of colour on her cheeks fades. She resumes tracing the curls in the burr walnut, refusing to look me in the eyes. “Do you ever attend Dowager Duchess Maria’s tea parties?”

This is not spiteful curiosity — nor idle. She sounds reluctant. Konrad wanted her to ask this.

“No.” I offer her as little opening as I can.

“Konrad attends every week. Every Tuesday. He said he saw you there once.”

“Once, yes. Not since. Do you go, Lady Irena?”

“No.” She flushes. “I have never been.”

“If you are curious, perhaps you should. I do not believe the dowager duchess would begrudge you an invitation.”

Irena puts her hands back in her lap. “No. She would not.” But we must be getting away from what Konrad told her to say. She grits her teeth, and two square corners appear in the roundness of her jaw. “Konrad mentioned that it would be nice if you attended the dowager duchess’s tea parties more often. He thinks it would liven the company to have you there.”

Irena can hardly be afraid that Konrad would seduce me in a salon full of middle-aged ladies. No. She is angry. It is Konrad who does not invite her to the tea parties, not the duchess. He probably keeps her in their apartments, looking after Florian. And why does he want me there? Probably because it would raise no eyebrows if we talked together there. He cannot so easily talk to me at Thursday night dinners — Mariusz is watching — and I do not wander the palace alone these days — I keep Henryka or Zofia with me. I am inaccessible, except in my apartments. It seems he does not dare come here again.

A load lifts from my heart.

“There are other things I would rather do with my Tuesday afternoons,” I say politely. “I like Duchess Maria, but her friends are strangers to me.”

Irena lets out the sigh held behind those gritted teeth. “Not tomorrow?” she says. “Konrad wanted to know if you would go tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow or any other Tuesday.”

There comes a knock at the door and a maid enters carrying a tea tray. She sets it down on the table and passes out cups and saucers.

“Perhaps instead you will take tea with me today?” I say. “It is already here. You might as well stay.”

Even as I say it, I regret it. Our mutual relief has not made us friends again. Thankfully, Irena shakes her head and stands up.

“I must leave,” she says. “Florian needs me.”

It is a convenient excuse. I murmur my best wishes for the health of the boy so that the maid may see Irena and I are on good terms, and pour myself a cup of tea.

Mariusz does not return until dinner that night, and when he does, he loads a plate and pours himself a glass of wine and takes it through to his bedroom without saying a word to me or even so much as glancing in my direction. I eat my roast duck with potato dumplings in gravy and pretend I do not notice the snub. Even after he has left the room, I keep up the act, pouring myself more wine and making a show of contemplating between the white cabbage salad and the vinegared beetroot, as though someone is watching me to see how much I care.

Tuesday is no better. I get not a word from him between sunrise and sundown though he remains in our apartments all day. I remind myself I am as angry as he is — angrier, perhaps — and offer no word of my own, not even a good morning. We are so speechless that neither of us spares the words to dismiss the servant at dinner. For some half-hour, the maid stands by the wall staring pointedly into the air above our heads as no sound disturbs the silence but the clinking of our cutlery on the plates. I think she hardly dares to breathe.

It is not until Thursday night dinner that our silence breaks, and only as we are making our way downstairs to greet our guests.

“We have the head of the publishers’ guild and his wife,” Mariusz says. “Judge Romanik and his two daughters. Henryka, so that she can entertain the two daughters, and my cousin Leopold, to pair with Henryka. Lord Tarnuv. Contessa Serafina — she’s not a real countess, she’s an opera singer — and her alleged sister. Sir Bartosz Grabovski and his mother because Sir Bartosz begged his mother to ask my mother to introduce him to the Contessa.”

It’s something, I suppose, that Mariusz hasn’t forgotten to do his duty by explaining to me who our guests are before we get down to dinner. Normally, though, he has more to say. He would probably explain who the alleged sister really is, or offer me some amusing childhood anecdote of his cousin Leopold.

“Have I met Leopold before?” I ask with feigned carelessness.

But he will give me no more than his duty. “Yes,” he says shortly. “You have.”

In the smaller drawing room, he introduces me to the guests he previously named and their collected hangers-on. And of course, Konrad and Irena are here too. Sometimes they aren’t, but tonight is Barany and Valery who are absent.

I wish Barany was here, though language still prevents us from engaging in what you could call conversation. Henryka is happily occupied with the judge’s daughters and her cousin, who are her own age or a little younger. I can see I will have no one to talk to tonight, not beyond polite inquiries of health and weather, that is.

At least while we are eating, I can occupy myself with the food and carry on a stilted, shallow discussion with Judge Romanik on my left and Sir Bartosz’s mother on my right. I have been seated next to Judge Romanik so that I might charm him, I think. He is the judge who signed the charges against Salamon for Mariusz. I use my limited store of Selician as best I can, complimenting his daughters’ manners and thanking him for his suggestions of which dishes to try. Sir Bartosz’s mother is less friendly, but it is more difficult to find something to compliment in her son, who spends most of dinner ogling the Contessa and dribbling soup down his chin.

When dinner is over and we move back to the drawing room for tea, I have more trouble. Henryka, the girls, and Leopold go over to a corner to play cards. Dowager Duchess Maria, the publishers’ guild master’s wife and Sir Bartosz’s mother have tea and discuss somebody’s grandchildren. I could sit in with them, but I dislike Sir Bartosz’s mother and I don’t know whose grandchildren they are discussing. I try to sit with the Contessa’s alleged sister, for she is alone with her cup of tea on a sofa while the Contessa wanders the room looking at the portraits on the walls. The alleged sister, I discover, speaks only Italian, and she seems perfectly content with her cup of tea and solitude.

I look around the room. Konrad has joined the Contessa and is talking to her about the portraits on the wall. Sir Bartosz follows after them, nodding along with their conversation but offering none of his own. Irena is watching the card game and pretending to smile. I cannot go there.

Mariusz is involved in discussion with Judge Romanik, the publishers’ guild master, and Lord Tarnuv. He meets my gaze from across the room. Even at this distance, the expression in his eyes is chilling. The alleged sister smiles wryly at me.

“Un battibecco?” she says.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say in Selician.

She makes two fists of her hands and knocks them together.

“Ah. Yes.”

Is is that obvious that he hates me right now? How long is he going to keep this up? Perhaps I should apologize for sending Celina away. But I’m not the one who did wrong. Mariusz is. Mariusz and Celina. Do I have to pretend to be the villain to get him to speak to me again?

The alleged sister touches my hand and says something in Italian.

“Thank you,” I say.

But we’ve gone as far as we can with gesture. The alleged sister returns peaceably to her tea. I sit in silence with her and try not to glance too often at the clock.

We are not alone for long, however. Soon, Irena leaves the card game and comes to join us. The alleged sister smiles at her. Irena grimaces nervously back.

“She only speaks Italian,” I say.

“Does she?”

“Not a word of French or Selician at least. Nor Rothalian. I tried that too.” It would have been nice to speak to someone in my own language — ever since Mariusz has stopped talking to me, I have had no opportunity to use it.

Irena looks wary. “Well, I have a message for you.”

I don’t need to ask who it is from. “I want no messages.”

“You must hear it. It is very short.” Irena glances at the alleged sister, who is watching us with an uncomprehending smile. “My message is to ask if you would come to the library tomorrow morning, around eleven. That’s all.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I will not.” There isn’t a chance I would go somewhere so isolated with Konrad.

“Then where?” Irena says. “Where will you be tomorrow at eleven?”

I open my mouth to say in my apartments then close it again. There’s a chance if I say that, Konrad will try to come and find me there. He hasn’t been back to my rooms since that night. I thought he did not dare. If I deny him completely, he might gain the courage to try.

An idea occurs to me.

“I’ll be by the old granary,” I say. “Tomorrow at eleven.”

__

2025-04-27: It’s worse that they’re not talking than it would be if they were fighting, but don’t worry, this won’t last forever.

50. A Murder

Mariusz still isn’t talking to me the next morning. I had hoped he would be the one to break the silence, but I can see it will have to be me. All the same, I won’t break it with an apology.

After breakfast, I get dressed in walking clothes and choose a pair of leather riding gloves. Then I go to Mariusz’s room. He’s writing a letter at his desk, but he looks up when I come in.

“Can I have your pistols?” I say.

“What?”

“You said I could use your pistols to go target shooting. I would like to go target shooting this morning. Can I have your pistols?”

Mariusz stares at me. For a moment, I think he’s going to change his mind, but then he gets up and goes into his dressing room and when he comes out again he has the pistol box under one arm.

“I bought more powder and bullets,” he says. “They’re in there.”

“Thank you. Where are the targets kept?”

“In the stables. You might want to ask a footman to carry them for you. They’re heavy.”

It makes it easier that he doesn’t offer to carry them himself and come with me, but it stings too.

“Thank you for the pistols.” I take the box from him. “I’ll probably be out all morning.”

“Alright.” Mariusz follows me to the door. “Mother and I had an argument about this.”

“An argument?”

“Yes.” His gaze lingers on the scar on my cheek. “Be careful. They are weapons, remember.”

“I’m aware.” It’s the point of bringing them. “Don’t worry. If I shoot anyone, it will be you.”

He’s still too angry to even pretend to smile.

Besides, I’m not quite sure I was joking.

On my way outside, I send a footman for the target. It snowed a little overnight, and the lawns are thinly frosted in white. I leave a trail of dark green footprints behind me on my way to the granary. The footman adds to them when he comes to set up the target. He hovers for a moment afterwards to watch me load the pistol. I’m not quite sure if he thinks I might need his help or if he’s merely curious, but when I make my first shot and take a chip out of the granary wall with it, he leaves in rather a hurry.

Last time, I did better than this. Perhaps it’s because my hands are shaking a little with nerves at the thought of Konrad arriving. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t have the chance to watch others try it before me this time. I reload the gun and line up my second shot. This time, I remember to put my weight on my back leg and breathe slowly until the heft of the pistol settles in my hands. I shoot.

I get the target this time, the fourth ring, but almost dead centre. Not bad, but I know I can do better.

I shoot six more times, getting closer to the centre of the target with each shot, until Konrad’s tall dark figure blots the edge of the white expanse of lawn. As he crosses towards me, I reload the pistol. He stops some twelve feet away, smiling rather uncertainly. I hold the pistol down by my side and keep my thumb on the hammer.

“It is a strange hobby for a woman,” he says.

“I like it. It’s satisfying.”

“Demonstrate it to me then.”

He wants me to spend the bullet in my pistol. I shake my head. “I do this for my amusement, not yours.”

“My apologies, your highness. I did not mean to intrude.”

“You did, or else you would not have had your wife arrange this meeting.”

Konrad looks around, as though fearing someone will overhear us, but there is no one in sight across the whole lawn, and even if there is some spy hiding in the shadow of the trees, they would not be able to hear us from so far away.

“I did wish to have a private conversation with you.” He sounds cautious, but I am sure if he were really so, he would not sound cautious at all. “Countess Celina Vovesna’s departure from the palace… was there a particular reason for it?”

“Surely your wife told you the reason?”

“She told me the reason that you told her. I am not quite sure I believe it. It was all so sudden. And then there is a rumour that Prince Mariusz rode through the night after her.”

“I am not quite sure I believe that rumour.”

Konrad gives me a pitying look. “Perhaps it is best to tell people that, yes.”

Pity is more infuriating than spite. My hand tightens on the pistol. Konrad takes half a step backwards. For several heartbeats, we stand in silence.

“You don’t need to hide it from me,” he murmurs eventually. “I know about the two of them. I have known all along. I even asked myself if I should speak of it to you, but I did not wish to be the one to cause you pain and I hoped that perhaps it would all… fade away. When Lady Celina departed the palace so suddenly, I knew you had discovered their affair. I came to offer you my condolences.”

“I wish for no condolences from you. You can have no sympathy for me. You do not love your wife and never did.”

Konrad lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “So I am unjust. I cannot sympathise with a woman who lays herself down at my feet and begs me to walk my dirty boots over her. Nor can I bring myself to feel guilty for the footprints on her back. But you never laid yourself down for any man. You don’t deserve to be kicked.”

He disgusts me, but the scent of honey and lavender floats towards me through the snow-crisp air and I bite my tongue. As far as I know, Mariusz did no more than kiss Celina that night, and for that I sent her away. I still don’t think I was wrong to do so, but when I did it, I was not thinking of Konrad. I have kissed him, and he has kissed me. Mariusz would hate me twice over if he found out.

“Of course, that’s probably why Prince Mariusz fell in love with Lady Celina,” Konrad muses. “She was flat for Count Vovesni. She had his boots all over her back. He was a real brute. She needed rescuing. Mariusz likes being needed. You would have done better with Mariusz if you had cried more. He doesn’t know how to admire a woman, really. He just knows how to feel sorry for them, and he confuses that with love. There was a lot to feel sorry for, with Celina.”

“Stop it,” I say. “I don’t want to hear it.”

But his words set light to my imagination regardless. I can see how it went, Celina, younger and more vulnerable, not even as old as me when she married Count Vovesni. Mariusz, watching her from a distance, stirred by pity to caring, and caring to affection, made all the stronger for being forbidden. Celina, on her side, cosseting hope to her like a flame, steeling herself against her husband’s cruelty with her secret feelings. Unspoken feelings on both sides, and unspoken understanding with it.

“Was she unfaithful to her husband?” I ask. “Were they lovers when Vovesni was alive?” I shake my head. “No. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. It is all in the past.”

“Vovesni was already dying when I came to the palace,” Konrad says. “He died a night or two after I arrived. I could not tell you if Celina was already Mariusz’s lover before then, but if she was not, she did not wait long for the body to be cold before she came to his bed.”

It’s almost less romantic if they were lovers when Vovesni was alive. Perhaps that’s why I don’t think they were. Or perhaps it’s because I can’t quite see Mariusz being comfortable with the guilt of sleeping with another man’s wife.

“When was that?” I’m almost talking to myself. “Two years ago?”

“Nearer two-and-a-half,” Konrad murmurs. “Though until this week, I thought they ended it when you came to the palace.”

Even if they ended it when I arrived, it would still be more than two years they were lovers. Longer than a dalliance by any description. How did they hide such feelings from me? Unless Konrad is lying. Yes. Like with Irena, he is twisting my feelings through twisted words. There might be truth lying beneath them, but he only came here today to hurt me, to make me feel betrayed by Mariusz. I must hide my hurt from him.

“Dowager Duchess Maria told me that it was no more than a dalliance and that it was over a long time ago.” I watch Konrad’s face carefully for his reaction. “Mariusz confessed he had loved her in a time before he met me. Could I expect him not to use his heart until me?” I shake my head. “I think I did expect that, naively. That was my own fault. I should have known better. I was shocked, greatly shocked, to learn of their love affair.”

I am able to say the phrase without flinching. Konrad’s eyes narrow slightly and a smile presses at the corner of his lips. He does not believe my bravado.

“At least I have the consolation of knowing the woman he loved was not loved only by him. Her husband, you seem to suggest, did not love her, but she admitted to me—” I quench the sting of guilt at the lie “—a number of indiscretions. It hurts me to know that Mariusz was such a… fool.”

“What indiscretions?” Konrad speaks too quickly. “Valery?”

In Valery’s wildest dreams perhaps. I shrug. “I will not name names.” But the quickness of Konrad’s speech gives me an idea. “Except yours.”

“I never did.”

“She said you wanted to.”

It is better to go on the attack than on the defence. The faint smile at Konrad’s lips stiffens.

“When you first came to the palace, you tried for her and she rejected you. Mariusz isn’t the only man in the palace who confuses pity for love.”

It was a shot in the dark, blindly following instinct, but I see it hit home. Konrad licks his lips and looks around as though fearing an observer. Then he laughs.

“Certainly, I pitied her, but I never confused it for love,” Konrad says. “I wasn’t the only one. There were men lined up to rescue Lady Celina from her husband. I can name at least a dozen. Her beauty and her tragedy were very compelling. But she chose Mariusz. She chose the one man who could never marry her. And I think… I really do think it was true love.”

“You said he confused pity for love. Can that be true?”

“On her side, I mean. I believe she truly loved him, even if she did have other… friends.”

I think I have twisted Konrad into a corner, because there is an uncomfortable frown between his brows and his dry lips are downturned.

“If Lady Celina truly loved Mariusz, she truly loved others too,” I say.

“Perhaps, perhaps.” Konrad forces his lips into a greasy smile. “If you can call that true love. I think true love is… for one person only. But that’s just me.”

His gaze caresses my figure from top to toe. I tighten my grip on the butt of my pistol and raise it slightly. Konrad hastily takes a step back. His eyes return to mine.

“I came here to console you as a friend,” he says. “I think I have failed in my task. I can see I have brought up painful feelings. Let me offer you a different token of friendship — a warning: You may send Prince Mariusz’s lovers away to the ends of the earth, but that will not make him love you. I don’t even really believe he is capable of love — not beyond the body, anyway, not the way you deserve. As I said, he does not know how to admire a woman. Only how to pity them.”

“You know nothing of love,” I say. “The way you treat your wife proves that.”

Konrad shrugs and turns away. “She’s not the one I love.”

His words are spoken at a distance and carried away by the breeze. I cannot quite be sure I did not imagine them.

I watch as he crosses back across the lawn and into the shadow of the trees. My fingers are trembling on my pistol. What did he come here for? To torment me? To revel in my pain?

Fury steadies the trembling of my fingers. I turn back to the target and raise my pistol. If only it were Konrad. Celina. Mariusz.

But it’s only a target, with a dopey pigeon pecking at the snow beneath it.

I lower my pistol to aim at the pigeon. For several long heartbeats, I trace its path with the barrel of my gun.

It’s not Konrad. It’s not Celina. It’s not Mariusz.

But I’ll miss anyway. I haven’t been able to hit the centre of the target yet.

I squint, and tell myself that it’s Konrad. The way it struts about, pecking, isn’t really that different to the way he struts about at dinner parties, pretending he’s too clever to enjoy anyone’s conversation.

He wanted to hurt me. He came here this morning just to hurt me.

I pull the trigger.

The bird disappears in a puff of feathers which float gently down onto the snow. At first, I think I missed and it flew away, but then I see that the snow where the feathers land is streaked with red. I come closer and stare down at the remains of the bird. There’s not much. The head is gone, and some of the body too. It lies on its back with its wings splayed out in the snow. Blood leaks from the hole where its head was and stains the snow scarlet.

Nausea rises sharply in my throat. I turn away, but the sight of the puff of feathers settling down over the scarlet snow lingers in my mind.

What was I thinking?

It was just a bird.

__

2025-05-04: Today marks my ten year anniversary of joining Wattpad!!! I had no idea when I started that I would still be here ten years later (with 7 finished stories to boot!).

51. The Wrong Doer

I don’t touch the pistols again. I pack them up and bring them quietly back to Mariusz in his room and tell him that, for now, I have bored of them. I can’t do away with them altogether. If Konrad tries to meet with me again, I might need them, but I don’t quite trust myself with them anymore.

At least having to borrow and return the guns seems to have broken the silence between Mariusz and me. At dinner that night, he asks me stiffly if I would like to try the cheese dumplings, and after the meal I respond in kind by asking if he would like me to send for tea. That night, after I undress for bed, I open the door between his room and mine just a crack and I don’t hear the click of it shutting until the next morning when he wakes to take his bath.

We haven’t really thawed though. I think he is still as angry with me as he was the evening he came back to find Celina banished. I think I am even angrier with him than I was before. My conversation with Konrad has left me hungry for the truth and there is no one I can ask for it except Mariusz and I know I will not believe what he tells me because I know he has lied. I don’t know quite the depth or direction of his lies, but I know them. Sometimes I try to tease out the exact words they used from my memory and mine them for hints to the truth. He said he had been faithful, but she said they had kissed. He said he still loves her, but she said he might already not care.

It is a futile endeavour. I hope and doubt and despair by turns, and in the end, I know exactly what I knew before: Mariusz lies, and he had a love affair of uncertain consequence with Celina.

On Sunday morning, I attend mass with Zofia and Henryka at the little church in the far corner of the palace grounds. It isn’t unusual for Mariusz to skip it, or me, for that matter, but I am surprised not to see Dowager Duchess Maria in the front pew as always before. I whisper to Henryka, but she knows nothing and is as surprised as I am.

I think the duchess must be unwell, but when we get back to the palace after church, Duchess Maria’s secretary is waiting for us. The duchess, she says, requests my presence in her rooms.

Perhaps, I think guiltily, they have discovered the carcass of the pigeon which I buried under the snowy roots of an elm. The snow has melted now. A gardener might have found it.

When I arrive in her sitting room, I see no gardener, only Lord Tarnuv, Duchess Maria, and Mariusz, sitting down to tea at a table strewn with newspapers. One of the papers is illustrated with Mariusz’s face in profile, drawn in fine ink, and made to look particularly noble, with his hawklike nose lengthened and his underbite tilted determinedly up. By comparison, the real Mariusz is currently hunched over his knees with his stubborn jaw unshaved and cupped in his hand like it will drop off if he doesn’t hold it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Lord Tarnuv pushes a pile of papers closer to me. “Can you read these?”

I can read a few words in the headlines: love, heart, women, prince. More useful are the pictures: one newspaper has a foggy print of the daguerreotype of Mariusz and me on our wedding day, another is illustrated with a cartoon of a dark-haired woman, who I think must be me, pushing a weeping blonde woman down the palace steps. I pick that paper up and turn the page. The story continues overleaf where there’s another cartoon, this time of Mariusz (his hawklike features are easy to caricature) racing through a storm on a screaming horse to a coach silhouetted in the far distance. It wasn’t storming that night. I don’t think it even rained or snowed.

I drop the paper back on the table. “Gutter press.” I speak in Rothalian, because I don’t know the phrase in French. “What do they say?”

But I know already, even if I cannot read all the words. I don’t need Mariusz to lift his head from his hand and mutter, “They are saying that I was carrying on an affair with Celina, that you found out and exiled her from the palace.”

Mariusz’s chin falls back into his hand. I lower myself into a chair and stare at the duchess and Tarnuv. Duchess Maria’s neat brow is unknitted, but the corners of her mouth are tense. Tarnuv is faintly pink in the cheeks. I think he feels embarrassed.

“Is this really a matter for the prime minister?” I ask. “Does parliament need to intervene in a… a… domestic quarrel?”

He shakes his head. “I apologize if I intrude,” he says with perfect formality in his garbled accent. “Your domestic quarrel has political importance. These papers suggest a…” He frowns as he thinks of the word. “…break? Shake? In the marriage.”

“Rupture,” Mariusz says distantly. “They suggest a rupture in the marriage.”

“Yes,” Tarnuv says. “A rutsher. The security of your marriage is the security of this country. Your marriage seals the alliance between our countries. If Mariusz leaves you—”

“I won’t,” Mariusz says into his hand.

“If he leaves you,” Tarnuv repeats, “then King Edmund has full right to pass the ruling power to your firstborn and cut our royal family from power. As you have no child, he might choose to rule through you, or through his son’s firstborn, or through his son. Any choice would be a disaster, and any choice would be a puppet for King Edmund.”

“But Mariusz won’t leave me,” I say. “When so much rests upon it, he cannot leave.”

“It is a danger, all the same. The newspapers, my parliament, the public, they are all aware of the danger. If he leaves — or if you do — this country is lost.” Tarnuv has the well-guarded eyes of a politician, but grief slips into them now. “We are already less than we used to be.”

“I won’t leave him. Our marriage is safe.”

“The newspapers suggest otherwise. You, sending Lady Celina away, suggests otherwise. It made things worse, your highness. There have always been rumours of Lady Celina being too close to the prince, but you have confirmed the rumours and shown people that you will not… will not turn the cheek to insults of that kind. It makes people think your marriage is not safe.”

I look to Dowager Duchess Maria. Our conversation so far has been in Rothalian, so she cannot have understood it, but she must have known what Tarnuv was going to say to me.

“You were sympathetic,” I say in French. “When I sent her away, you were kind. You even apologized. Mariusz never apologized, but you did. Now… now you think otherwise? Now you think this is my fault?”

Duchess Maria looks pityingly at me. “I am sorry,” she says. “I am sorry your feelings are hurt. I am sorry I did not speak to you about Lady Celina much earlier. I truly thought there was nothing to speak of. I am not still not sure, even…” But her gaze slides to Mariusz and she lets that thought remain unfinished. She returns her gaze to me. “You acted rashly, my dear. I could not see the consequences at the time, but Lord Tarnuv is right. It would have been better if you had not sent Lady Celina away.”

I’m too confused to speak. Have I really done wrong here? Mariusz is the one who betrayed me. Why is it worse for me to confront his betrayal than it is for him to betray me?

“Well what do you want from me?” I say. “I’m not letting her come back here. I’m not.”

“No one is asking you to,” Duchess Maria says.

“It would only make things worse,” Tarnuv adds in French as badly accented as his Selician. “It would cause more scandal. People would think Mariusz really loved her and had called her back. No. We must— you two must show the public that you are committed to each other, that you are in love.”

I look at Mariusz, and he looks at me. We both know we’re not in love, and we both know the other knows it.

“How are we going to do that?” I ask.

“We have an old tradition in this city,” Lord Tarnuv says. “On Valentine’s Day, the bishop marries dozens of couples at once in a public ceremony in the cathedral. It was once a charity for very poor young couples and those living in sin. Now, it has become romantic. Couples choose to be married on Valentine’s Day because they believe it brings good fortune. Complete strangers come to watch and enjoy the ceremony. Your Highness and Prince Mariusz will attend the wedding. You will give the couples presents. You will behave romantically. You will convince people that you are happy.”

I look again at the pile of newspapers. “I think it will take more than that.”

“That is the beginning of it,” Duchess Maria says. “You and Mariusz must be seen more often in public together. You have been hidden away in the palace too much. When people know you better, they will like you more.”

Then people don’t like me. I can see it in the newspaper caricature of me, with my nose too pointed and my brow too high. No doubt the words accompanying the picture reveal more dislike. But it is not like I chose to hide myself away in the palace. I could hardly just walk out into the street. I have to wait to be invited, to be introduced to people, who seem to be predisposed to disliking me regardless.

“You look uncertain,” Duchess Maria says. “Do you disagree with our plan?”

“No, no.” Is her tone disapproving? “It is a good idea.” She blames me for sending Celina away. Does she blame me for being dislikable too? I don’t know how to be likeable. But perhaps that is my fault. I never tried to be. “I’m just…” It would be easier to be likeable, I think, if people were kinder to me. Then I might like them too. “I’m just thinking.”

She keeps her gaze upon me for a moment then looks at Mariusz. “Then this is what we will do, yes? You will try?”

“Yes. We will do it.” He pushes himself up from his chair, putting the full weight of his body on the arms like an old man, and shuffles to the door. “Of course I will try. I don’t know if it will work, but if it doesn’t…”

He pushes open the door and leaves. After a few heartbeats’ silence, I follow him. I don’t think I can stand to stay alone in the room with Tarnuv and Duchess Maria. With Mariusz at least I can pick a fight.

“It’s not my fault,” I say to his back in the hallway. “It’s not my fault they don’t like me. It’s not my fault you have a lover. Your mother thinks it’s my fault, but it’s not.”

Only I’m not picking a fight. My voice quavers and an unfamiliar hotness pricks at my eyes. There’s no fight in me. Only doubt.

Mariusz turns to look at me. There’s no fight in him either. His shoulders are hunched and his gaze stares somewhere past me into the far distance. “Let’s just do as my mother and Tarnuv suggest,” he says. “Let’s attend this wedding. Let’s pretend to be in love. The papers won’t be able to make a scandal of that.”

__

2025-05-18: Sorry I missed an update last week - you might be able to tell, this chapter didn’t come easy.

52. Valentine’s Day

We bring a basket of hothouse roses to the cathedral on Valentine’s Day, one long-stemmed scarlet rose for each of the twenty-four couples being wed today. They make Mariusz sneeze, and by the time our coach stops at the cathedral the tip of his nose is pink.

“You’ll have to give them to the brides,” he says. “I can’t do it. I’ll sneeze all over them.”

“I can do that. Is it better before the ceremony or after?”

“After. The altar boys will bring out mulled wine after the ceremony and people will linger in the cathedral to drink to the brides’ health. Usually, someone attempts a waltz on the organ and people start dancing, but we don’t need to dance. We can just watch and pretend to enjoy ourselves.”

The footman opens the carriage door, and Mariusz gets out first so that he can give me his hand to help me down. I look around as I hop out, but no one seems to be watching us. There’s a crowd of people on the cathedral steps, but they’re more interested in the forty-eight men and women crowded under the elm trees at the edge of the courtyard. They must be the brides and grooms. I stare at them on our way in to the cathedral. Some are holding hands and looking nervous. Here or there a bride has her head bowed against a groom’s shoulder, not touching, but sheltering all the same. One couple can’t stop laughing as the bride, hopping on one foot, bats away her groom’s kisses with her slipper. Just as we enter the cathedral, she lets him catch her at last and he kisses her on the mouth.

Inside the cathedral, there is less excitement. We take our place in the front pew and I put the basket of roses next to me. The cathedral is half-full already, but more people trail in while we wait. There’s a buzz of conversation in the air and the occasional burst of laughter. It’s not like our wedding day. That was quiet. Solemn.

“People are happy here,” I say, almost to myself.

“Who’s happy?” Mariusz asks.

“Everyone, I suppose. Those two old ladies over there, sharing biscuits. That young girl sitting with her mother and smoothing down the skirts of her dress so admiringly. The couple outside, making a game out of a kiss. It’s very different from our wedding.”

“Our wedding was happy,” Mariusz says. “Selicians like weddings. We like any excuse to celebrate and drink and dance, but especially weddings. You probably didn’t notice, but as you came down the aisle many were smiling and some were even crying.”

“Were they really?” I’m not sure I even managed to look at the crowd. I was too conscious of being watched to be able to watch. “I thought everyone hated me.”

“Your reputation did you no favours, but you are a princess. And pretty. People were excited to see me marry you, even if they didn’t think it was a good idea.”

It shines a new light on my wedding day, but I’m not sure if Mariusz’s recollection is anymore reliable than mine. We were both nervous — his hands, I remember, were shaking.

“But I’m sure people weren’t happy then like they are today. The noise in the cathedral is entirely different. There’s laughter. Excited whispers.”

Mariusz twists in the pew to look behind us. “Hm.” He twists back. “People won’t behave the same way at a royal wedding as they would at something like this, but they were happy at our wedding. In fact, I think those same two old women were also sharing biscuits at our wedding.”

I don’t remember the women at all. I’m not sure Mariusz does either. I think he’s just talking to make it look like we’re being friendly to each other. There’s a few people among the pews now who are looking at us or even pointing and whispering to their neighbours. And I suppose it is conversation — the first we’ve really had for a week or more — even if it’s little more than polite.

“We should be smiling,” I say.

“What?”

“There’s people watching us. We should be smiling, pretending we’re happy together.”

Instead, Mariusz sneezes.

I push the basket of roses a little further away. “Bless you.”

“Thank you.” He wipes his nose with his handkerchief and shoves it back in his pocket. “I can’t smile after I’ve just sneezed. I would look manic.”

But I think he just doesn’t have many smiles in him at all today. Since the meeting in his mother’s room, he’s been unusually quiet and solemn. I thought at first it was simply a continuation of our silence, but Dominik and Zofia dined with us two night ago, and even they could barely get a word out of him.

“Are you unwell?” I ask.

“It’s just the roses. Their scent makes me sneeze.”

That’s not what I meant, but I don’t wish to clarify myself. When I was a very young child, before I grew out of crying, I would blame my tears on stomach aches or other invisible ailments. It was safer to be sent to bed with ginger tea than to admit to my mother that I was sad or afraid. She always knew the truth, I think, but she was as glad for the deception as I was. If Mariusz is sad now, I would rather pretend not to know about it.

The bishop takes his place at the altar and the organ begins the wedding march. It’s a distraction from our conversation and any thoughts of Mariusz’s feelings. Everyone in the cathedral stands and we turn to watch the first of the couples walking in.

“Hold my hand,” Mariusz whispers. “It’s better than smiling.”

I give him my hand, though I don’t think anyone is watching. All eyes are on the couples walking down the aisle. I wonder if they’re feeling as nervous as I was when I walked it — only I came alone, not with a lover by my side. I think that must make it easier. Several of the brides lean heavily upon their grooms. One looks like she is almost ready to faint. She’s not the one who was swatting away her groom with a slipper. That woman comes a few pairs later, her lively eyes darting around the cathedral and her lips curved on the verge of laughter. Her groom is not so handsome as he looked from a distance, but his eyes are fixed adoringly upon her and I don’t think he sees the rest of the cathedral at all.

My heart aches with envy. No one has ever looked at me like that. Not ever. And Mariusz certainly never will.

The couples arrange themselves in a half-circle in front of the altar, holding hands and kneeling. We wait for the last of the couples to join the half-circle and the last strains of the march to fade away before sitting. A brief chorus of whispers echoes around the room as we do. The bishop waits for it to die out before commencing the service.

I understand a little more of the service than I did on my own wedding day, but I still find it easier to follow along by watching the body language of the couples being married. Every time the bishop says the word love, their posture changes and their gazes intensify. When it comes to the vows, some look afraid and others determined as they repeat the words. When the bishop speaks about parting in death, the kissed bride lifts her chin in the air like that will never happen, not to her, not to him, not to them, and her kissing groom momentarily shuts his eyes.

The couples rise to their feet and kiss. Some kiss tentatively or shyly, conscious of the eyes upon them. Others kiss with gleeful abandon. We all stand with them and clap. From the back of the cathedral, some people cheer or whistle. They did that when Mariusz kissed me at our wedding too. Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps people were happy to see me marry him that day.

What have we done wrong since? Celina. It was all Celina.

I bite my lip to quell a spasm of humiliation. Thankfully, no one is looking at me. They are looking at the married couples and listening to the organ music, rising out above the sound of clapping.

“Come, let’s give the roses,” Mariusz says. “Before they have the chance to get lost in the crowd.”

I hook the basket of roses over my elbow and follow Mariusz over to the couples. Our attendance was made public in advance, so no one seems overly surprised when greet them and offer our congratulations. A few of the grooms look amused at my accent, but the brides take my roses with smiling gratitude. Mariusz engages a few of the couples in further, polite conversation. He asks one young man in military dress where he will be stationed and where his bride will live. The answer, it seems, is that they will live together, that the bride will follow her young man to his station. An older couple, in their fifties, he presses for advice. They’ve each been married before. The woman’s advice is heartfelt but beyond my abilities to translate. The man appears to make some kind of joke, but Mariusz does not smile and the woman looks hurt. Mariusz says something else, something quiet and conciliatory, and we move on.

We have one more rose in our basket now. It is for the couple who were kissing outside. They’re already surrounded by family members, talking loudly over the strains of the organ, but as we approach they turn with smiles.

I hold out the rose to the bride. “Congratulations,” I say in Selician. “We hope all the best for your future health and happiness.”

“Thank you,” she says in French. “You speak French, yes? I want to say it is a great honour to have you at our wedding. I will press the rose. I will keep it forever.”

“It was my honour to be your guest,” I say. “We have no tradition like this in my country. It is wonderfully romantic.”

“Isn’t it?” She casts a doting smile at her husband. “He made me wait six months for this day. I didn’t want to be romantic. I wanted to be married quickly. But he made me wait six months and it was perfect.”

Her husband offers muttered apologies in Selician, but she stops him by taking his hand.

“No, it was perfect,” she says again. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

I don’t think I’ve ever envied a woman more. Her husband adores her, and she adores him, and their wedding day was perfect. It’s a bittersweet wrench at my heart to speak with her, but all the same, I want to. I want to enjoy the warmth her joy reflects on me.

“I noticed you particularly during the ceremony,” I say. “I’ve never seen a man look at a woman with so much love as the way your husband looks at you. You’re very lucky.”

“I know.” She twists her arm around her husband’s. “I must be the luckiest woman in the world. I wouldn’t trade him for a prince.”

On those words, her gaze goes to Mariusz. Doubt appears in their depths.

“Definitely not,” she says under her breath in Selician.

Definitely not for Prince Mariusz.

Beside me, Mariusz laughs awkwardly. “Well, I’m the only prince around, and I won’t be traded.” He hooks his arm around mine. “I have found my place.”

His head ducks suddenly close to mine and I flinch. His lips brush my hair — perhaps he meant to kiss my cheek — and as suddenly he backs away again with another awkward laugh.

“But I forgot — she is shy, and won’t let me kiss her in public. Blame her Teutonic upbringing. She is not yet acclimated to Slavic warmth.”

My cheeks burn. I might have known he would kiss me. I should have expected it. They do that here, and we are pretending to be in love. But he startled me. And now the smiling bride is flushed with embarrassment and her husband is staring at his shoes. Behind them, an older man laughs under his breath and one middle-aged woman mouths a single word to another.

“You can kiss me,” I say very quietly in Rothalian, taking a bet that no one here speaks it. “Perhaps out on the steps as we leave. We should kiss. We should show them we’re in love.”

He meets my eyes. His gaze is filled not with adoration, but guilt. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried. You don’t want me to.”

He turns back to the couple and offers them loud congratulations in Selician once again. With another few quick words, he excuses us from their company, and we are free to wander the cathedral and grounds, hand in hand, pretending to be in love for anyone who cares to watch us.

But I don’t think anyone believes it.

__

2025-05-25: I actually think kissing would solve Mariusz and Alex’s communication problems, tbh, which is probably why I’m not letting them do it. Not yet, anyway.

53. An Apology

The day after Valentine’s Day, both Mariusz and I get a letter from King Edmund. It comes just as we are about to go down to Thursday night dinner, off the evening train from Rothalia. When I see who it is from, I rip it into four pieces and throw them into the fire. Whatever King Edmund has to say to me, I do not wish to hear.

Mariusz watches the pieces curl and blacken. “It might have been important.”

“You received a letter too. Anything truly important, you will tell me. Anything else, I would rather not know.”

Mariusz rolls his eyes and rips open his letter.

“If you read it now, we’ll be late for dinner,” I say.

“It’s our dinner.”

His letter is longer than mine. It runs two sheets. His eyes flick over the lines of slanting script. A frown grows between them. He flips the first page to read the other side. Scarlet suffuses his pale cheeks. He snaps open the second sheet. The scarlet reaches the tip of his nose. Anger glints in his eyes.

He folds the letter roughly and shoves it in his pocket.

“Was there anything important?”

“Not for you,” he says gruffly. “Let’s go. We’re late.”

It is a busy dinner tonight, with a larger number of guests than usual, including some wives and daughters around my own age. Some of them are even easy to talk to, and I almost enjoy myself at my end of the table. I notice, though, that Mariusz at his end is aggressively silent. He meets the gentle inquiries of the elderly woman next to him with little more than scowls and saws savagely at his roast beef.

After dinner, when everyone is settled with tea, Mariusz stakes out a corner for himself standing forbiddingly at the fireplace with one foot on the grate. He doesn’t touch his tea at all. I sit with the young ladies and join in their conversation, casting glances at the fireplace every now and then to see if Mariusz has left it or if anyone has dared intrude upon his glowering solitude. Only his mother does, once, towards the beginning of the hour, but whatever she says to him has no effect and garners little more than a word of response from him.

Only when our guests are leaving does Mariusz remember his duty to them. He comes reluctantly to stand by my side as our guests come to utter their goodbyes and thank us for the night. Here, at least, he is brusquely gracious, trotting out gruff thanks for company and dour wishes for a good night. I think he is glad to see people leaving.

Back in our rooms, afterwards, Mariusz retreats to his desk and rereads the letter by the light of a candle. He crosses and uncrosses his legs as he reads, and at several points stands up seemingly just to pace the room before sitting down again. I keep the door between our rooms open and watch him as I take the pins from my hair and untwist my braids. It certainly seems to be important, but perhaps Mariusz would have been better off, like me, throwing the letter in the fire.

When he’s done reading the letter though, he folds it again and puts it back in his pocket. He stares blankly at the wall above his desk for several long minutes, then abruptly gets up and goes into his dressing room. He’s only in there a few minutes, and when he comes out he has a greatcoat and riding boots on over his dress clothes.

“Where are you going? Dressed like that?” I come to the door between our rooms. “You’ll ruin your silk trousers if you ride in them.”

“I’m only going for a walk.”

“Was there anything important in the letter?”

“No.” It’s little more than a grunt. “Nothing for you.”

He leaves without saying anymore. There’s nothing for me to do but call the maids so I can undress properly and go to bed.

Some hours later, I’m wakened abruptly by a loud thump and swearing. I sit upright in bed, my heart pounding, but I recognise the second, repeated, swear word, and the man who says it.

“Mariusz? What are you doing?”

There’s a few more soft thump thumps from the sitting room beyond, then my door opens and I see Mariusz, standing on one foot.

“Sasha.” His voice is fat with alcohol. “You’re awake.” He speaks Selician.

“You woke me up.”

He ignores that and hops on one foot to my bed, then almost falls down onto it, face first. I suppose the loud thump earlier was Mariusz walking into something.

“You’ve been drinking.” I can’t help the disapproval from showing in my voice. “A lot.”

“Yesh.” He pushes himself up to sit, wobbling, on the edge of the bed. The scent of spirits wafts queasily from him. By the dull glow from the dying fire in my fireplace, I can see twigs in his mussed hair and a shadow on his face which is either mud or a bruise forming.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Where have you been?”

“I want to talk to you.” He’s still speaking Selician, though I’m speaking Rothalian. Perhaps he’s so drunk he doesn’t know which language is which. “I have shomething to shay.”

“You’re drunk. Go to bed. Say it in the morning.”

“Now.” He sounds quite determined. “Sasha, listen.”

And I do listen, but I cannot catch all of the slurred Selician he gives me. It has the flavour of a prepared speech, though. He recites, rather than speaks. For all that, he is earnest. Some words or phrases he repeats several times, giving me the chance to search my mind for their translation. Freedom comes into it a few times, and love, too, though I can’t tell what kind of love or whom for.

At length, he stops. “Enough?” he says.

“You’re speaking Selician,” I say in Rothalian. “I don’t really understand you.”

“I’m not…” He stops. “I am.” He switches to Rothalian. “Did you really not understand?”

I shake my head. “Sorry.”

“You’ve been four months. You’re taking lessons. You couldn’t understand?”

“I’m not taking lessons anymore. I…” I’m at a loss to explain why I quit. “I need a better teacher than Prince Konrad. I told you.”

“You did.” He sounds upset. “You must learn, Sasha. I will find you one.”

He pushes himself off the bed and stumbles towards the door between our rooms. Perhaps he intends to try to find one right now. At the door, though, he stops, like he has just remembered something important.

“I was telling you how sorry I am,” he says in Rothalian. “There were more words than that, but, mostly, it was sorry.”

__

2025-06-01: I wonder what Mariusz said that Alex couldn’t quite understand…

54. End to a Friendship

Mariusz doesn’t emerge from his bedroom until well into the afternoon the next day. When he does, he is washed and shaved but dressed seemingly only in a blanket he has wrapped around himself. He eases himself down onto the rug in front of the fire without daring to look at me from more than the corner of his eyes.

“Do you want tea? Something to eat?” I ask. I think it’s best to be gentle with him. I think he meant his apology last night, even if I didn’t understand most of it.

“Thank you.” His voice is raspy and weary. “Tea. Toast with lard and sour pickles.”

I order enough for both of us, since I have not yet had lunch. We sit in silence until the maid arrives with the tray, Mariusz staring into the fire and me reading a French novel. When the tray arrives, I pour him tea and make up a plate of toast for him and settle it on the rug. I haven’t seen him ill with drink in quite some time and it makes me uneasy. He thanks me with a grunt and gingerly takes a sip of tea.

“Were you with Barany last night?” I ask.

“And Valery.” Mariusz winces and touches his cheek, which is marred by a deep purple bruise and a scrape. “I think we climbed a tree.”

“I think you fell out of one.”

“I don’t remember.” He winces again. “Probably.”

Mariusz starts on his toast, and I start on mine. It’s not bad, really. The lard is flavoured with herbs and the pickles cut through the fat. All the same, I have to drink another cup of tea once I’m finished to clear the greasy feeling from my mouth.

After four slices of toast and three cups of tea, Mariusz shuffles back to his room and closes the door. He comes out again some twenty minutes later, dressed in a coat and gloves. His face, where it is not bruised, is faintly green.

“I’m going out.” He speaks in little more than a grunt still. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

He scowls. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look it, but perhaps the suffering of the morning after will dissuade him against repeating the pleasures of the night before. He leaves, limping slightly. I trace the scar on my cheek and tell myself not to be angry with him. I’ve made the same mistake, after all. But my unease persists, and it is a long time before I can concentrate on my novel again.

Mariusz returns some two hours later, just as I am finishing up the last pages of my novel. With him is a tall young man dressed in a shabby coat not quite long enough for his legs or arms.

“Can we interrupt you?” Mariusz says.

“Give me five minutes, unless it’s urgent.”

It mustn’t be urgent, because Mariusz takes the young man back into the dining room and carries on a low conversation with him. I finish the last few pages of the book and allow myself another minute to reflect with some dissatisfaction upon the ending, then I go through to the dining room where the men are now sitting down. As I enter, the young man stands up and bows deeply.

“This is Emil Dobos,” Mariusz says. “He studies philology at the university. He will be your new language teacher. I think four mornings a week for two or three hours should be adequate, but it is for you to decide the schedule.”

“We can begin this afternoon if your highness would prefer,” Emil says in softly accented Rothalian. “But I suggest tomorrow morning is better. I have had no time to prepare.”

I’m too surprised to reply immediately. “No, no. Um. Tomorrow morning is very good. Perhaps from ten o’clock.”

Emil bows again, not so deep this time. “Very good. With your leave, I will depart now. We have little time until the morrow, and I have much to prepare.”

He waits expectantly for several moments before I realize he truly is asking for my leave. “Certainly, you may go. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Master Dobos.”

Emil bows again, twice this time, once to me and once to Mariusz, and leaves the room. I stare at Mariusz.

“That was your business?”

“Yes.” He shrugs off his overcoat and lays it on the table, then put his gloves on top of it. “And now I’m going back to bed.”

I pick up his coat and gloves and follow him to his bedroom. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his coat, tugs his necktie loose and flings himself down on the bed with a groan.

I put his overcoat and gloves down on a chair. “Well. Thank you.”

“I should have done it when you first came here.” Mariusz speaks without opening his eyes. “I meant everything I said last night.”

“I don’t know what you said.”

“I know.” His eyes open to slits. “I apologized for mistreating you. I even tried to explain why I mistreated you, but I don’t think the explanation matters. Perhaps even the apology doesn’t. You are a stranger in my country, and I should have been kind to you.”

“It does matter.”

His eyes open more, until I can just see the grey of his irises shadowed to black by his lashes. “And I made you a promise,” he says. “You probably missed that bit.”

My heart beats faster. “What did you promise?”

He is quiet. I dread that in his promise there was a confession which now he dares not repeat.

“Mariusz? What did you promise?”

“Myself.” His voice is soft. “I am yours. Everything I can give. If I cannot give it to you, no woman will have it.”

My heartbeat slows. “Oh.” I think about his words some more, and my heart races again. “That’s… I… It’s all I need. It’s… more than I need.”

“It’s what you deserve.” His eyes fall shut again. “I won’t forget it.”

He’s still not sleeping, but I need to think about what his words really meant somewhere where he can’t see me and I can’t see him. I leave the room and shut the door quietly. His words echo in my head. I pace the floors of our apartment, but they do not give me enough room to move as fast as the nervous energy within me demands. I need fresh air. Space to walk, perhaps run.

I go to the duchess’s apartments to find Henryka and Zofia. They are playing a game with Dominik, but when I ask if they wish to walk, they all want to come with me. We go out into the palace gardens and make two brisk circuits of the lake. Dominik is always falling behind to look for fishes or hunt for interesting rocks, and Henryka falls back with him. Zofia keeps pace with me.

“You’re walking fast,” she says in French. “Are you on a diet?”

“No!” I reflect upon the toast with lard I ate for lunch. “Should I be?”

“You’re not fat.” Her tone is so flat it is clear it is not a compliment. Zofia does not give compliments. “What is it then? Your cheeks are flushed. Are you angry? You don’t look angry.”

“I’m not angry.” I’m relieved, certainly, but also confused, and perhaps — just a little — hopeful. Hope is an unfamiliar feeling for me, and I don’t quite know what to do with it. “I think I might be happy, actually.”

Not quite, but something close, and that’s an unfamiliar feeling for me too. Fortunately, Zofia has no interest in discussing happiness. She scowls and falls into silent brooding. It suits me well. I trace and retrace the outline of Mariusz’s promise like a prayer.

As we begin our third turn around the lake, Konrad and Florian intercept us, coming out from a copse of trees. Konrad calls something in Selician to Zofia. She shakes her head. He repeats the question to Henryka and Dominik, coming up from behind. It’s something about a dog. Dominik gets excited when he hears it. He takes Henryka’s hand and dashes off into the trees. Florian follows them. Zofia, looking annoyed, follows Florian.

“We have lost our dog,” Konrad explains in Rothalian. “It slipped away when Florian and I were walking it. Little black curly thing. Have you seen it?”

“No.” I can hear the children shouting from within the trees. They are out of sight, which means they cannot see us either. “Excuse me. I will finish my walk now.”

I turn around to return to the palace, but Konrad keeps pace with me. “Stay,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have no wish to talk to you.”

He grips my wrist. “You forgot your pistols today.”

The strength of his grip as much as his words proves to me that this meeting is no coincidence. “I don’t take them walking with me, unlike imaginary dogs.”

“The dog is real. He is in the bushes somewhere. I let him run off when I saw you from the other side of the lake. It’s so hard to catch a moment with you these days.”

“It might be easier if you did not hold on so tight.” I wrench my wrist from his grasp. “What do you want? Get to the point.”

“A favour from an old friend. A little item of gossip is making the rounds. Mariusz spent several hours in Lord Tarnuv’s private chambers in Parliament last week. Rumour has it he was declaring a regent, a task that he’s been putting off for nearly a year now. Inquiring minds wish to know — whom is the man he has chosen for the task?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could find out. You could simply ask him. You, of all people, have the right to know.”

“I won’t ask him. And if he does tell me, I certainly won’t tell you.” Mariusz’s promise echoes in my mind. If he is mine, then I must be his too. “You can have no good reason for wishing to know. You can do nothing good with the knowledge. No.” I think of my father and feel suddenly sick. “You mean him harm.”

“Now, now. Don’t look so doomstruck. It’s not exactly a secret. The next time he hits his head coming off his horse, we’ll all find out.”

“If it’s not a secret, then you don’t need me to tell you.”

“But I’d like you to. Just as a favour, for friendship’s sake.”

“I will do you no favours. Never again.”

The children shout from within the trees and undergrowth rustles as they come crashing back to the path. Zofia holds a wriggling muddy black dog in her arms. Its paws leave grey streaks on her dress.

“Never?” Konrad repeats softly.

“Never.”

“Then our friendship is at an end.” He sighs heavily. “Good things rarely last.”

__

2025-06-08: Confession: I have never actually eaten toast with lard. I suppose it’s not that different to buttered toast really but… I can’t. I just can’t.

55. Rumours and Secrets

Emil Dobos keeps me too busy to worry about Konrad. Every weekday morning at ten o’clock, he comes to my apartments and drills me in Selician for two hours or more. When he leaves, he leaves me with exercises to do — conjugations to memorise, passages to translate, grammatical constructions to apply to sets of nouns and verbs. Unlike Konrad, he never tells me about himself or asks me about myself. By the end of the first week, all I know about him is that he is originally from Hungary, speaks at least five languages, and prefers not to have sugar in his tea.

When I do have time to think, I wonder if I should tell Mariusz that Konrad asked about his regent. But then I would have to tell Mariusz more, that Konrad kissed me, and that I kissed him, and that I’m afraid of Konrad in a way I’ve never been afraid of anyone before. When I see him around the palace, my blood seems to freeze in my veins. I don’t want to tell Mariusz that. I don’t want anyone to know.

Besides, Mariusz doesn’t trust Konrad to begin with. And Konrad could easily excuse his question as mere curiosity. It isn’t — necessarily — part of a plot. I might be letting my fear of him cloud my judgement.

In the end, I keep quiet about it. Konrad doesn’t bother me about it again. Indeed, he doesn’t even speak to me, he barely looks in my direction. He seems to have taken his last words to heart. I can’t say I’m displeased.

To practice my growing language skills, I begin to attend Dowager Duchess Maria’s tea parties on Tuesdays. I enquire shyly after her friends’ health, offer them cups of tea or slices of cake, and try to follow along with their conversations. It is mostly gossip, not political matters at all. The dress a widow wore to her husband’s funeral causes much speculation for reasons I cannot quite follow. The gossip about a noble family practically selling their oldest daughter in marriage intrigues me more and is simpler to understand. She is deficient in some manner, though I am not sure exactly how. A malicious rumour-monger suggests that she is a half-wit. Kinder women protest that she is only deaf and dumb. One assertive woman has heard her speak, but she believes that the young lady wears a wig to hide her red hair. The first woman wonders wickedly if the young lady might in fact be bald.

Mariusz, when I ask him about it, rolls his eyes. “A herd of cats,” he says. “My mother thinks her tea parties help keep her informed. She used to tell my father things she picked up from them. I think it amused him, but it doesn’t amuse me. And she’s never told me anything useful.”

“She might, one day. They’re all married to important people. They move in important circles.”

“Before you came, everyone was gossiping about you. They said horrible things. And it was all lies and invented nonsense. None of them knew anything true at all.”

So I never do find out exactly what was deficient about the young lady, but I go back to the Duchess’s tea party the Tuesday after that, and the Tuesday after that. Konrad, perhaps because we are no longer friends, is not in attendance either time. Dominik is, though. He comes for the cakes. I sit next to him on a long conversation settee and try to pretend I am not listening in on the low-voiced gossip going on between the three women on the other side of the settee behind me, though I can only understand the odd phrase.

“…A dreadful sin…” The malicious one says. “…What can you expect? She lies with dogs…”

“…Pity…” A kinder woman speaks. “…alone in the world… …dreadful husband…”

A chorus of hushed adjectives follows. I cannot translate them all, but the husband, whoever he is, must be a very bad fellow indeed. The malicious woman spins a tale surrounding him. I cannot follow it at all, but from the tutting and murmurs of the women listening to her I gather they are all shocked by what he has done. I wonder cynically if she is inventing the tale as Mariusz said.

“Thank God he is dead,” the assertive woman says. “Such men… in hell.”

The other women all agree.

“But she was stupid,” the malicious woman says. “I think she is stupid. She must be stupid to… heart… legs…”

I think for a moment that I have mistranslated, but another woman repeats the word legs and I understand, with heat in my cheeks, what they are talking about. Dominik, next to me, continues to eat his cake with innocent, placid indifference. I cast a glance over my shoulder at the women, none whom can be under forty. It doesn’t seem right for women with grey hair to speak of falling in love this way. It seems even more wrong when I realize love has very little to do with this scandal.

“The unlucky baby,” the kind woman says. “…that mother! And no father!”

“There always is a father,” the assertive woman says. “Even if we don’t know who.”

“Even if she doesn’t,” the malicious woman adds, laughing at her own joke.

I understand now the scope of the exact scandal the women are discussing and why they are all so intent upon it. I even feel some pity for the woman who ruined herself, though like the malicious woman, I can’t help but think she should have known better.

The kind woman speaks, softly and musingly. “The reason… the princess… to Belasarna?”

The hair on the back of my neck stiffens.

“It could be,” the malicious woman says. “…very angry… Countess Celina Vovesna with child—”

“It is not true!”

I speak so suddenly and loudly that Dominik, next to me, drops a forkful of cake onto his lap. The women on the other side of the settee look startled. Duchess Maria shoots me an enquiring glance from the other side of the room. She gracefully quits her conversation with two friends and makes her way over towards me, though she speaks only to Dominik to tell him he has had enough cake.

“It is not true,” I repeat more quietly without turning my head to look at the gossips. “Lady Celina is not with child.” The syllables are hard to pronounce in Selician. “That is a lie.”

Duchess Maria raises her brows slightly. “Is that what you are saying, Madame Bavarska?” She sits down on the corner seat of the settee so that she is facing away from both me and the women I have been eavesdropping on. “How shocking.”

She speaks French, so that I understand her clearly.

“It is not true,” I say again in French. “They are making up stories.”

“You misunderstand us,” Madame Bavarska says. “Of course, it is not Prince Mariusz’s child. We would never say that. We do not believe the rumours that say that.”

“There are such rumours?” My heart skips several beats. “No. It is all false. She is not pregnant. How can people say such lies?”

“I do apologise, your highness,” Madame Bavarska says. “I repeat only what I have heard.”

“And what you have heard is wrong.”

Duchess Maria reaches over to pat my hand. “It is very sweet that you are so indignant on behalf of your friend.” There is a note of warning in her quiet tone. “One must be careful what one repeats, Madame Bavaraska. If not true, you are doing untold injury to Lady Celina.”

Madame Bavarska is swift to repeat her apologies in French and Selician. I am too angry to give them more than the most ungracious acknowledgment, but Duchess Maria murmurs tactful expressions before suggesting that I try a particular type of cake she thinks I will like. I get up with her and go over to the cake table, all too willing to leave the gossiping old busybodies behind me.

“Mariusz was right,” I mutter to Duchess Maria. “They invent nonsense. Why do you have them here?”

“Even invented nonsense can be dangerous,” Duchess Maria says quietly. “Though I would caution you, Princess Alexandra, to so hastily reject as false the ideas you find to be unpleasant. It is precisely when we find an idea unpleasant that we must be cautious — in case it is true.”

“I embarrassed you.”

“No. Not at all.” Duchess Maria takes a slice of cream cake and puts it on a plate for me. “If anyone is embarrassed, it is Madame Bavarska — but I am afraid it is beyond her character to be embarrassed.” She sighs. “Though she is useful.”

“She is poisonous.”

“Very. Now, do enjoy that cake. Tea alone cannot sustain a young woman.”

She crosses the room to return to her previous conversation. I sit down in a corner far from Madame Bavarska and eat my cake without tasting it.

I don’t bring up what I heard at the tea party with Mariusz. He already warned me the gossip was nonsense, so he would not want to hear it even if it were not hurtful. Two days later, however, as I am dressing for Thursday dinner, Duchess Maria knocks at my dressing room door and summons me into the sitting room where Mariusz is already waiting in an unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat, holding a paper open in his lap.

“It’s not true,” he says in Selician as I come in. “Sasha, come look at this.”

I peer over his shoulder. Celina’s name, paired with Mariusz’s, appears in the headline of an article. A few words jump out at me — with child, widow, friendship.

“This again?” I look at Duchess Maria. “Then the papers are repeating this nonsense now, too?”

“Unfortunately,” she says in French. “And unfortunately it is not entirely nonsense. It was such an unpleasant idea that I thought it best to send a servant to Belasarna to be absolutely certain about it. Lady Celina admitted the truth of her condition to my servant, but she refused to name the father.”

“She’s really… with child?” I stare at Duchess Maria. “Impossible.”

Mariusz drops the paper to the floor. “No,” he says. “She… she cannot be.”

“But why not?” Duchess Maria says gently. “She is a woman of child-bearing age. What is to prevent her bearing a child if she engages in the activities that cause it?”

“I just don’t believe it,” I say. “She must be lying.”

“She might lie to preserve her reputation,” Duchess Maria says, “but surely not to ruin it.”

The logic of that statement makes it seem no less impossible. I think of the last time I saw Celina six weeks ago, leaning heavily on her maid’s arm, crying, her face ashen. Did she know then that she was with child? How long was she keeping it secret? If I did not send her away from the palace, what would she have done when her condition became obvious? It must be obvious now if there are rumours about it.

“She would not name the father?” Mariusz says haltingly.

“She refused to. And you, my dear, are cast under suspicion by her silence.”

“I know.” His voice is hoarse. “Why won’t she name him? Does she wish to spite me?”

“Have you done anything to deserve it?” Duchess Maria’s gaze flicks to me. “But I can imagine many reasons a woman may wish to keep her child’s father a secret.”

I cannot, unless he was married and she was trying to protect him.

“My God,” I say. “The scandal. The… the shame. On us, as much as her.”

“It is very unfortunate for us too, of course,” Duchess Maria says. “As long as Lady Celina refuses to speak, there will be rumours that it is Mariusz’s child. Those rumours will make people will distrust the security of your marriage and our alliance with Rothalia. And what can we do to prove them false?” She shakes her head. “Nothing. We can only suffer the rumours until they pass.”

“They will never pass,” I say. “Rumours of these sort never do. A hundred years from now, people will be saying that Mister Vovenski was the secret son…” But I cannot even finish the sentence. I sink into a chair and bury my head in my hands.

“They will pass,” Duchess Maria says. “All rumours pass. Only truth persists.”

Neither Mariusz nor I can give her a reply. Duchess Maria waits for a while then moves to the door.

“I will leave you two to talk this over between yourselves,” she says. “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought it better you find out from me than from one of our dinner guests tonight.”

She leaves the room, and leaves us in abject, frozen silence. I shift my weight and the sound of my skirts rustling is like thunder. Mariusz stares trancelike at the wall, his hands flat on his knees. I wonder what he is seeing — Celina’s body against his? Her face as they said their secret goodbye on the road to Belasarna?

“It was before we were married, wasn’t it?” I say. I don’t think it could have been afterwards, despite what happened the night Celina came to his room — or perhaps even because of that night. She would have told me. Mariusz could not have lied to me so well. He would not want to.

Mariusz turns slowly to me. “What do you— You think…” He looks crushed. “You think it’s mine?”

“I didn’t think she had any other lovers.”

“Nor did I.” His voice is flat. He turns away again and hunches over his knees. He is silent for a very, very long time, but I can tell by the tension in his jaw that he is preparing words difficult to utter. “I don’t want to argue,” he says at last in a thin, tight voice. “I say this once, and you hear this once, and you believe me or you don’t: it is not mine.”

I bite back the reply that comes to my lips: How do you know?

__

2025-06-15: D-d-drama!!! I love how Mariusz and Alex are so shocked by this and Maria is completely unfazed.

56. Sympathy for Scandal

It is the longest and most difficult dinner I have attended so far. Every guest casts knowing, curious looks at Mariusz and me while the conversation eddies politely around only the most impersonal and unimportant of topics — the weather, the meal, and a spiritless discussion of the Emperor of Russia’s recent funeral. All the while, I think of Celina. Is she really with child? Whose child? How far along is she? Who started the rumours? I need to know more. I must have my own servant go to Belasarna and find out more. As soon as we have a private moment, I must ask Duchess Maria what she knows, what she thinks. I cannot ask Mariusz. He has told me he will not speak of it.

After the meal, when we are taking tea in the salon, Mariusz asks his mother to play piano so we can dance. He dances first with me.

“I want to show everyone we like each other,” he says in my ear as we begin a waltz. “And I don’t want to give them the opportunity to talk too much tonight.”

We do not speak for the first dance. I have to concentrate too hard on following his steps and not making a fool out of myself. He keeps his eyes upon mine but his mouth firmly pressed shut. At the end of the dance, I keep hold of his hand and lean my head against his shoulder while I catch my breath, hoping our guests are watching.

“Are you alright?” he says.

“Just fine. Is anyone watching us?”

“A few people.”

“I think I stepped on your toes. Sorry. Perhaps I need a dance master as well as a language teacher.”

He laughs weakly. “No. No, I will teach you to dance myself.” He moves back into a waltz stance, his hand resting on the crook of my waist. “I wouldn’t let any other man have the pleasure of that job.”

Perhaps he is only saying it in the hope that someone overhears and thinks we are being sweet, but even so my heart flickers with strange excitement and heat radiates at my waist where he touches me. It isn’t his child. He said it isn’t his child.

“How do you know it’s not your child?” I whisper. “Mariusz, how?”

The smile dies on his lips. “Please. Let’s not talk about this.”

At the piano, Duchess Maria begins a livelier strain of music.

He takes both my hands in his. “Here, let’s dance. I will teach you a polka.”

The polka is faster and more difficult than the waltz, and I am entirely out of breath by the end of it. Good manners demand that Mariusz give some other lady his attention now, so I sink willingly onto a seat to rest and watch the others dance. While I rest there, Konrad approaches though he does not sit next to me. It is one of the nights where we have asked him and Irena to fill out the seats at the dinner table, though Irena declined on the excuse of a headache. I fix my eyes firmly upon Mariusz, dancing with one of our guests, and try to pretend I have not noticed Konrad.

“Would you care to grace me with a dance?” he says in Rothalian.

“I do not wish,” I say in Selician. “I am tired.”

“It is my loss.” He still speaks Rothalian. “Dare I hope there is a happy reason for your fatigue?”

It takes me a while to realize what he is asking. I feel my cheeks heat in a blush. “No. I— No. No happier reason than a good meal and a fast dance.”

“Oh?” He sounds interested. Too late, I realize I should not have answered that question at all. “You sound very certain of that. You have no doubt. Though it is a doubtful situation, isn’t it, to be a woman? The only certainty a woman ever really has is virginity, with some probability, I suppose, in the four or five months after quickening. The rest of her life is an eternal perhaps.”

It is lucky I was already blushing so that he cannot see how deeply his words embarrass me. Does he suspect Mariusz and I have not consummated our marriage? Does he know I am a virgin?

The crook of my waist still tingles from Mariusz’s touch. If he touched me in other places, when no one was looking, what would happen to me? Would he even touch me when no is looking? He tried once, and I told him no. But one day he will have to try again. We will have to consummate the marriage, have children.

An image of Celina, heavily pregnant, flashes into my mind. What if that is Mariusz’s— but he said it wasn’t.

“Your highness?” Konrad’s voice coaxes me from my unpleasant reverie. “You look very uncertain now.”

“This conversation displeases me.” I fix my eyes upon Mariusz, dancing a waltz with a middle-aged woman. His hand hovers very properly over her shoulder blade. “I wish we were not having it.”

“I do apologize.” Konrad’s voice is soft and sympathetic. “It is the Countess Vovesna who made me wonder. She, I hear, is in a state of great probability. She should have been more careful.” His eyes follow Mariusz waltzing across the room. “I do pity you, your highness.”

“There is no reason to pity me. Mariusz is not the father.”

“But who is?” Konrad’s voice is so soft I can barely hear it above the piano Duchess Maria plays. “That we are even asking this question is reason to pity you. As long as a father is not named, people will believe it is your husband’s.”

“Your pity should be reserved for the fatherless child. Its misfortune has nothing to do with me or my husband.” The waltz comes to an end and I stand. “Now, if you will excuse me. I will dance with a man who does not insult me with baseless pity.”

I find a partnerless male guest and enquire hintingly after his enjoyment of the music until he asks me to dance. After him, I dance with another guest, and after that I dance with Mariusz again. After that dance, our guests start to leave, earlier than usual, for it is not yet midnight. We have given them nothing to gossip about tonight. Perhaps we have bored them.

I am not sorry to see the last of our guests leave. I say goodnight to Duchess Maria and go upstairs with Mariusz. Now that everyone is gone, we do not speak even a word to each other until we reach our rooms. He goes to his bedroom door and pauses there.

“Goodnight, Sasha.”

“Goodnight.”

He opens his door and disappears through it. I hesitate a moment, then go after him.

“Mariusz.”

He’s already tugging off his tie on his way to the dressing room. He stops and turns to me. “What is it?”

“I know you told me you would only say it once, but I need to know more. About her.”

He holds his breath for a moment then lets it out in a soft sigh. “Please, trust me, Sasha. I’m asking you to trust me. To believe me.”

“I trust you more than I trust anyone else. But I need to know more. I need to understand what happened between you and her. Can you really be sure it is not your child?”

His face falls. “It is not mine. Nothing I can say prove it. Not to you. Not, I suppose, to anyone else either. So I don’t wish to speak of it. I cannot make you believe me with more words, can I? The more words we use, the more likely it is we will argue, and I don’t want that.” He comes closer and takes my hand in his. “Please. Can we just… not… speak of it?”

I meet his eyes. I can’t tell if the sadness in them is honest or feigned. My parents used to argue back and forth for days. Long after the original cause of the argument had been forgotten, they would be shouting criticisms at each other across the room before falling into exhausted silence, ended only when one, usually my mother, muttered an accusation at the other under their breath, provoking another tinderbox reaction, and starting the shouting going again.

Maybe Mariusz is right. Maybe words answer nothing and question everything. Even if I told him I believed him, if I told him I trusted him, he might only question it.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, we can.”

__

2025-06-22: A relatively short and uneventful chapter… but it’s just the calm before the storm.

57. Insult and Injury

It isn’t long before the whole city knows that Celina Vovesna is pregnant, and most of the city suspects that Mariusz is the father. Mariusz, for his part, maintains his silence upon the issue, not just to me, but to everyone. Whenever Celina’s name comes up in conversation, he says he is sorry for her and changes the subject. It comes up a lot. The newspapers are full of gossip about her. One publishes a list of men speculated to be the father of her child and details her history with each of them. I secretly try to translate the article when Mariusz isn’t around and discover it is nonsense. Valery appears on it, as does Barany, and even old Lord Tarnuv who is suspected for no stronger reason than being the same age as Count Vovesni and frequently visiting the palace.

Dobos makes me read the papers often in our lessons, though he always chooses more inoffensive articles. Through those, I learn a fair bit about Selician agriculture, climate, and geography. I also begin to understand a little more of politics. There are two main political parties in Selica. The Royalists, led by Tarnuv, who currently form a majority in Parliament and are largely pro-Rothalian, and the Conservatives, led by Vozodni, who seek independence from Rothalia. There is also Salamon, an independent and the lone champion of the republican cause, who is still in jail awaiting trial.

Most of the political news is too complicated for me to really understand, but when Tarnuv comes to visit Mariusz three times in one week, and brings Vozodni with him the third time, I know that something important must be going on at Parliament. Whatever it is, it depresses Mariusz. After each meeting with the ministers, he is restless and, if not quite monosyllabic, excessively brief. At last, one Friday morning at breakfast, he tells me in a flat voice that he has to attend Parliament today and would like me to come with him.

“What is it about?” I ask. “I’ll come of course, but I want to know.”

He shrugs. “A member of the Conservative Party is… we have an expression here which I think does not translate, baiting a bill.”

“Baiting?”

“There is not enough support from either party for it to pass. It failed to even reach a vote. So he baits it, he presents it to me, in the hopes that I will make it a royal edict. Other members of parliament then present their objections. At the end, I give my opinion on the issue, inform parliament if I will be pursuing the idea or if I, too, reject it.”

“I see. And what is this issue, exactly?”

Mariusz hesitates, and in that hesitation, I have the answer.

“It’s about Celina, isn’t it?”

“No. Not… not really. Medev — that’s his name — is just taking advantage of the scandal to publicly insult me.”

I have read the name Medev in the papers, though I could not always understand the gist of the articles he was mentioned in. Some of the adjectives used to describe him, however, I was able to translate. Radical, provocative, conceited.

“How does this bill insult you? What’s in it?”

“It’s an amendment to the rules of succession.” Mariusz looks uncomfortable. “He suggests that the heir to the throne should be determined by blood alone. That is, that an elder bastard son would inherit the throne ahead of his younger legitimate brother.”

“That Celina’s child, if it a son… but how could anyone prove that it is yours? What a… a stupid law. Why would you ever make that a royal edict?”

“He knows I won’t. That’s not the point. He is seeking to make a scandal, to embarrass me. He did the same to my father as well. He is of the radical wing of the Conservative Party. They all believe that Prince Julian, my uncle, should never have abdicated. But only Medev stoops to stupid tricks like this.” Mariusz sighs heavily. “I did think… I was tempted to take the bait. Call his bluff. Make it law. I would like to see the look on his face if I did.”

There’s something about that sentence that makes my belly flutter. I occupy myself with spreading jam on my bread so that I don’t have to meet Mariusz’s eyes.

“But the consequences are too many,” he continues quietly after a moment. “So I will go, and I will reject his proposition, and when I do I would very much like you by my side.”

“Then I will be there.” I manage to lift my eyes from my bread and jam. “After all, it is not just you he is insulting.”

We arrive at Parliament in time for the afternoon session at two. Word must have spread that we were coming, or that Mariusz was to be publicly insulted, because the square in front of Parliament is unusually full of people and when we reach the chamber I see that the shutters of the gallery overlooking it have been opened and men jostle each other for a place at the windows.

As before, everyone stands when we enter the room and stays standing until we sit down on the humble wooden bench at the tail end of the chamber. The prolocutor, in his golden robes, remains standing and recites a long phrase of which I can only distinguish the words ‘Lord Medev’.

A man stands from one of the highest rows of tiered seats and makes his way down the stairs to the red marble circle in the centre of the room. This, I suppose, is Medev. He is older than I assumed, perhaps fifty, his dark hair, worn long, streaked with grey, and an unpleasant, impish grin stretching out the lines of his cheeks.

He lays a scroll of paper upon a long curved table to the side of the marble circle and begins to speak. Some of it, I can understand, for he alternates between long, flourishing sentences and blunt, simple language for effect. He repeats the phrase ‘royal blood is royal blood’ several times. Another one he likes to repeat is ‘of our country, for our country’. He also speaks at length of love and God and innocence, before ending with the phrase, ‘every child is born without sin.’ Some men seated on the far side of the chamber occasionally clap, but not many. Those in the gallery above stay quiet apart from their jostling for space at the windows.

His speech is not more than ten minutes, and when he is done, he bows to all sides of the rooms.

The prolocutor now invites questions from the other politicians. Several men among the rows of seats stand, among them, Tarnuv and Vozodni. The prolocutor calls upon Tarnuv first.

“Twenty-seven years ago,” he begins, but his phrasing quickly becomes too complicated for me to follow. Out of the rush of syllables, however, I recognize a name: Konrad Emil Julian Ledelek, and my heart gives an unpleasant leap.

“What’s he saying?” I whisper to Mariusz. “What was that about Konrad?”

“He’s pointing out that the bill opens up the possibility for Konrad — or others — to make a claim to the throne. He’s tracing back other moments in history where similar situations happened — an annulment half-a-century ago, a morganatic marriage a century before that between the king and a lutist. He says the bill opens up many potential claims to the throne, and so the danger of its destruction.”

Down on the floor, Medev laughs ostentatiously. “It is very simple,” he says, and explains, as far as can discern from what the words I can translate and the context Mariusz has given me, that the bill will not be retroactively applied.

Tarnuv is not satisfied. He argues back, but to that argument Medev only shrugs and says it is not a problem.

Looking displeased, Tarnuv sits down.

The prolocutor calls for Vozodni next. He talks about God and blood and truth. I frown as I try to pick out the individual words from his rather rapid speech.

“He’s asking how we know the truth about royal blood,” Mariusz says quietly to me as Vozodni speaks. “He underlines the danger in making assumptions about a child’s parentage. He also says that our laws of inheritance and title have been founded on God sanctioned marriage and the children which come from it, and this bill threatens that foundation.”

“How do we know?” Vozodni finishes simply. “How do we really know a child is of royal blood?”

But Medev has an answer for that too. “How do we know?” He repeats mockingly. “If Princess Alexandra has a child, how do we know it is of Selician royal blood?”

Mariusz half-stands beside me then pulls himself back. He looks at me, his jaw tense.

“No need to translate that one,” I say.

“He’s a stupid little man,” Mariusz mutters.

“He means to insult us. Besides, his argument leaves another point open against him — if we do not know who is of royal blood, if we are determined to be skeptical about it, then we have to have some reason to preference one person over another. That reason is royal marriage.”

While we were speaking, Medev finished his rebuttal, and Vozodni started another argument against it. Mariusz’s tense jaw relaxes into what is almost a smile.

“That is what Vozodni is saying,” he says. “More or less, anyway.”

After Vozodni, a minister I don’t recognize stands and asks about future heirs to the throne. Mariusz translates for me in a whisper. He queries the complications that might come about if a future prince is wanton and has many mistresses. Or what if women try to take advantage of such a law and seduce their way into power? Medev has pithy answers for those too. After him, another conservative member stands and reiterates that a title is a God-given right, and can only be inherited through God-sanctioned marriage. Doesn’t this bill open up the danger that that other members of nobility will find their precedence stolen by illegitimate half-brothers — or worse, imposters?

Medev is as unconcerned about that as he is the notion of an imposter to the throne. He makes a long-winded argument that Mariusz only half-attempts to translate. After that, other ministers stand up and express their objections on the grounds of irreligiousity, improvability of paternity, dangerous precedents set, and damage to rule of law and the foundations of marriage in society. It is mostly, in fact, the members of Medev’s own party who challenge him. I begin to wonder if he isn’t very popular. He has a sly nature, I suppose, a clever but unscrupulous tongue, and he enjoys provoking people. He might even enjoy making himself disliked.

At last, the other politicians run out of objections. The prolocutor asks if anyone has any remarks in support of the bill, and the chamber falls into a dusty silence, broken only by the shuffling of bodies on the gallery above and a few suppressed coughs.

“Well,” Medev says into the silence. “How sad and lonely. I ask you, Prince Mariusz, support me.” And, before Mariusz can stand to speak, he adds, “It would be much simpler if you had married Celina Vovesna, no?”

At least, that is what I think he says. Hushed gasps of shock echo around the room and a few rowdy souls in the gallery above dare to whistle. Next to me, Mariusz stands up, his cheeks burning scarlet with fury. I cannot quite understand exactly what he says — he speaks too fast in his anger for me to follow — but I don’t need to understand it to know that it is a thorough rejection of Medev’s bill and a scathing indictment of his character beside. I hear Celina’s name mentioned too — I think Mariusz is swearing he would never have married her.

Down on the marble circle, Medev only looks gleeful and triumphant. I suppose this is what he wanted, really, the angry reaction. Above in the gallery, men practically lean out the windows to watch.

But Mariusz is too angry to speak at length. He finishes with a contemptuous single word and turns to me and holds out his hand to help me to my feet. We go down the steps from the platform, cross the floor, and then go back up the other steps to the door. He keeps his arm crooked through mine all the way. Even when we are out in the hall, alone but for our guardsmen, he keeps his arm through mine.

“Vile man,” he mutters. “I wish I could have him punished.”

“Has he committed any crime?” I ask.

“He has insulted us.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“But what he said today was not a crime.”

Mariusz stops short just as we come out into the entrance hall. “No.” He drops his arm from mine. “He knows how to twist words. How to imply. The worst of it, Sasha, is that he says what other men in that room don’t dare. Not the bill, of course. That was a legal quagmire. Celina.” He shakes his head. “I swore, in front of them, that it is not my child, but I don’t think they believed me. I swore I would never have married her even if I hadn’t married you. And if I hadn’t married you, none of them would have wanted me to marry her. She’s not… she’s not suitable to be duchess. But because she is with child and you are King Edmund’s woman—”

“I’m not.”

“He chose you for me. Those who don’t trust him will never forget that.” Mariusz looks away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all just a mess. Twenty years from now, I’ll still be trying to persuade people that some young man or lady is not my child. And people still will not believe me.”

“I don’t want to argue,” I say, very, very softly, “but I do want to know, Mariusz. I want to know about you and her.”

He meets my eyes for a long moment then looks away again. “I know. I know, Sasha.”

We are silent for a long moment. It isn’t the time or place to have this discussion, and I don’t think he’s ready to tell me anyway. Two secretaries interrupt our silence, entering the hall and heading for the doors.

“Let’s go home,” Mariusz says.

We follow the secretaries to the door. Mariusz no longer takes my arm in his. On the steps outside, I can see that the crowds from earlier in the day still linger in the square. They peer curiously at our waiting coach, but the guardsmen surrounding it keep them at a distance. When we appear on the steps, some people bow or clap. A young street sweeper cheers. A girl selling flowers throws us a rose. Mariusz stoops to pick it up and presents it to me. I twist it through a buttonhole on my bodice while he turns to tell one of the guards to give the girl a coin.

Something explodes into the stonework behind me and a dull bang echoes from within the crowd. Women scream, and one of the guardsmen shout. Then there’s another dull bang, and I’m flat on my back on the cold stone steps and I don’t know why. I can’t catch my breath. Something heavy — and painful — is on my chest.

I raise my hands to push it off, but there’s nothing there and my hands touch only hot wetness. Blood. I’m bleeding.

Mariusz kneels in the pool of blood flowing from me. He pulls me onto his lap and presses his hands against the heaviness in my chest. His mouth is moving, so he must be speaking, but it’s just babble. I shut my eyes and in the blackness the babble resolves into words and I understand them.

“Your highness, we have to go.”

“Sasha! Sasha, please, Sasha, open your eyes.”

“Prince Mariusz, please, it’s too dangerous.”

“No! I won’t leave her. I won’t leave her. I won’t leave her.”

He probably should go, I think dimly, but I don’t want to tell him to. I want him to stay.

__

2025-07-01: I kind of rushed this chapter, despite everything. It was just so hard to write. I mean, I’ve never been shot, so how do you describe that? And I’ve tried to watch parliament debates, but they just send me to sleep.

58. Truth

Pain wakes me slowly, lingeringly, twisting its barbed fingers through my belly, squeezing my ribs, stroking my trembling veins. I shut my eyes against it, willing myself to sink deeper into unconsciousness. The pain sinks deeper with me, until I am left with no escape but to open my eyes.

I’m in my bedroom. I whimper with the pain.

“Sasha.” Mariusz voice comes from far away. There is a warm, damp pressure somewhere in the vast distance of my body. My hand. He’s kissing it. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Slowly, my body closes the distance upon itself. I am weighted down as though at the bottom of an ocean. I twist my head by conscious effort. Mariusz is hunched beside the bed, the white peaks of his unbound collar digging into his bloodless cheeks. His eyes are red-rimmed. He’s been crying. As I watch, more tears well up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks. He sniffs them back and dashes them away with the heels of his hands.

I want to cry too. Every breath drives the hurt deeper into my bones.

I try to speak, to ask what happened, but my throat only creaks and my lungs spasm into a breathless cough. My vision goes black before I can breathe again and only comes back slowly with each laboured wheeze.

Where’s Mariusz?

My dimmed vision cannot discern more than the shadowy contours of the chair he has vacated, silhouetted against a high fire.

Fire. Shadows. It is night. What happened? I was hurt. How was I hurt?

My thoughts chase dizzying circles in my head. Mariusz’s foggy voice bubbles through them. He’s here. He’s coming closer. There’s someone with him.

It’s the doctor. He bends over me, takes my pulse, probes the throbbing contours of my chest until I whimper, and bids me not to speak.

I shut my eyes as he and Mariusz converse softly in Selician. I listen out for the word ‘death’ or ‘dying’ but all I understand, softly whispered, is the word morphia.

“No.” This time my throat manages more than a creak. “No.”

“Your highness, do not try to speak.”

I open my eyes again and try to focus on the vague tall blur of the doctor. “No… morphia.”

“You’re in pain,” Mariusz says.

I have neither breath nor words to persuade him. I can only beg. “Please.”

There’s a long silence.

“No morphia,” Mariusz says to the doctor.

The doctor and Mariusz have a brief discussion in low voices then the doctor leaves again and Mariusz sits back down by my bed. I let my eyes fall shut again. He didn’t leave me. He said he wouldn’t, and he didn’t.

“Why are you smiling?” Mariusz mutters in Selician. “How can you smile?”

He does not speak to be answered. Perhaps he thinks I am asleep again. He presses a wet cloth against my lips and pulls the bedclothes higher over my chest. Then he takes my hand in his. His touch anchors me to reality. Slowly, the flood of pain through all my body ebbs to a pool of throbbing hurt in my chest and head. I open my eyes again. What happened?

He notices me watching him. “You’re still awake.”

I make a wordless sound.

“You should sleep more.” He strokes my hand. “It’s nearly morning. The birds will be singing soon.”

Now, I notice the shadows beneath Mariusz’s red-rimmed eyes. Has he been up all night?

“You didn’t leave me.”

“What are you saying? No. Don’t speak. You’ll hurt yourself. You were shot.”

Shot. Yes. I remember the shots. And the blood. Some of it, I notice now, is still smeared on Mariusz’s shirt cuffs. My blood, not his. He was holding me, trying to stop my blood from flowing.

“We caught him,” Mariusz says after a while. “We caught the man who shot you. You’re safe. We’re safe.”

“How…” I swallow to wet my throat. “…bad… I hurt?”

“Shush.” He reaches for the wet cloth and presses it against my lips again. “The bullet…” He frowns, trying to find the word. “…broke into many pieces when it hit you. It must have hit the steel of your corset. Your ribs are broken. You have so many little wounds all over. You kept bleeding…” His throat catches. “You wouldn’t stop. I was so scared.”

He can speak no more. He takes long, shuddering breaths, holding my hand in both of his. I curl my fingers weakly around his. After a few minutes, he pulls himself together with a gasp.

“You aren’t dying.” He tightens his grip on my hand. “The doctor says you won’t die. I thought you were. The whole ride here. I carried you, and you wouldn’t stop bleeding and you wouldn’t wake. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sasha. He nearly killed you.”

I cannot follow Mariusz’s dizzying train of thought. It is enough to know I’m not dying. I let my eyes fall shut again as his tears fall hotly on my wrist. He needs a drink, I think mistily. Surely Dowager Duchess Maria would have come and told him to drink something? Yes, at some point, earlier in the night. I even think I vaguely recall her voice. But he didn’t drink, did he? He didn’t drink, and he didn’t sleep.

He didn’t even change his shirt.

I prise my eyes open again. Is that blood I see on his coat? On his vest? There, those dark spots on his collar. Duchess Maria would have told him, but he didn’t listen, did he? Now, I notice some clothes draped over the back of his chair. There’s a tea pot and cup too, on the bedside table. Stone-cold, no doubt.

“Mariusz…” My throat no longer spasms but my voice won’t come out more than a rasp. “Those clothes… behind you…”

“What?” He rubs the tears from his face. “What are you saying? You shouldn’t speak.”

“Then don’t… provoke… me.” I have to pause a long time to catch my breath. “There’s blood… Wash… your hands. Change… your clothes.”

In the dim light coming slowly now through the curtains, I can just make out a cloudy dark stain across his chest. It makes me feel dizzy. I shut my eyes to shut it out.

Mariusz releases his grip on my hand. I don’t like that. My hand feels cold and empty without his. But I hear his footsteps cross my bedroom floor then the rush of water from my bathroom. Splashes follow. When his footsteps return, I open my eyes just a slit. Through the veil of my eyelashes, I see that he is naked but for his drawers. I watch the firelight play across the lean muscles of his back and flank as he pulls on a pair of loose trousers and a shirt and wraps himself in a dressing gown. I hastily shut my eyes as he turns back to me. He slumps back down in the chair without a word. I crawl my hand across the bedclothes towards him though it makes every muscle in my body throb. His hand finds mine again.

“You’re still awake?” he says.

He sounds better now. Quiet, exhausted, but in control of himself.

“Mmm.” I curl my fingers around his palm. “Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“You’re here. You said… you wouldn’t leave me. You stayed.”

He’s silent for so long that I open my eyes again. He’s watching me, his grey eyes so wide and dark they look almost black.

“It’s my fault,” he whispers. “I asked you to come.”

“Don’t be stupid.” I tighten my grip on his hand until my own starts shaking. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is.” Mariusz sniffs back tears. “The man who shot you… he said he did it so I could marry Celina. He thought it was my child. He wanted a Selician heir to the throne. If I hadn’t… if I hadn’t kept her on in the palace, if I hadn’t encouraged her flirtations… If I hadn’t made it so obvious that I was reluctant to marry you… I’m such a fool. And I’m so sorry. I caused this mess. I’m sorry.”

“It’s really not your fault.”

He sniffs again and rubs his face with his free hand. For a long time we sit in silence as the room slowly lightens and birds start to sing outside. A maid comes in and stokes the fire higher, silently replaces the cold tea pot with a steaming one, and adds a plate of bread rolls and jam. She goes into the bathroom and comes out with Mariusz’s bloody clothes piled in her arms.

“Will you let that tea go cold too?” I say when she’s gone again.

“I don’t want it.”

“You need it. Drink. Eat.”

He turns away from me and pours a cup of tea with shaking hands. While it cools, he rips slivers from a bread roll and chews them listlessly. I don’t think I can eat. I would need to sit up and I can’t do that. Even the bare act of speaking makes my head throb.

He gets through half a bread roll then puts it aside. “Are you tired?” he asks. “Will you fall asleep?”

“No.” I don’t want to tell him that it hurts too much to sleep. “Stay.”

“I’m staying.” He nestles his hand around mine again. “I want to tell you about Celina. I want to explain. Do you want to hear it now?”

“Go on then.” I shut my eyes. “I’m listening.”

“I want to tell you all of it. It goes back a long way. I was nineteen when she first came to the palace. It was a proper court then. My father kept nobility around him. Advisors, people he put into positions of power in government. Lord Vovesni was treasurer. He’d been here for years and then, suddenly, he said he was getting married and Celina arrived.” Mariusz pauses. “She wasn’t like she is now. She didn’t know what to do at court. She didn’t know the rules, the traditions, the expectations. She was so unsure of herself, and every time she made a mistake, Vovesni would criticise her in front of everyone. Then she would appear days later in heavy powder to hide the bruises on her flesh. My mother tried to intervene, she even applied to my father, but he needed Vovesni and Celina would never admit he hurt her. She was so desperate to please him. Her family depended upon it. And anyone else would have been pleased. It wasn’t more than a year before she mastered court. She was charming to everyone. She always knew the right word to say. Everyone loved her. And the more others loved her, the more Vovesni hated her.”

“Did you love her then?”

“No. Not then. We weren’t even friends, really. It was too dangerous for her to have friends. She kept everyone at a distance. But from that distance, I admired her.”

“When did you fall in love with her?”

“It comes later. Listen. One summer, she went home to visit her family. While she was there, she begged them to help her leave Vovesni. They refused. They told her if she left him, they would have nothing to do with her. Then they wrote and told Vovesni what she had asked them. He was worse than ever after that. There were times, I think, when he nearly took her life. And then he started getting sick. Even that was a weapon he used against her. But she endured it because she knew that he would die and she would be free. And then he died. Thank god he died. I was twenty-two then, and she was twenty-one. After his funeral, we drank together, she and I. I had hardly even talked to her until that night. And she… she barely said a word to me. She just kept pouring drinks. And we… I was…” A pink flush tints his pale cheeks. “That night, she was my first real… she’s been my only… I think she just needed… to know men weren’t all… evil. But for me… it meant more. That’s… that’s when I fell in love.”

His only what? Was he a virgin before her? Is that why she means so much to him? There’s something faintly sordid about the idea. “It’s not very romantic.”

“It wasn’t. She didn’t love me back. I spent days trying to get her attention. She spent days pretending I didn’t exist. I don’t think she wanted me to be in love with her. I think she was done with men. But my cousin Konrad had arrived in the palace a week or so before and he proposed to her. He barely knew her, she was in mourning, but he proposed. It frightened her enough that she came to me. She begged me to help her. Vovesni left her with nothing, she refused to go back to her family, and she never wanted to marry again. So I asked my father to arrange for a position for her, here at the palace. It gave her independence. And when she knew that she didn’t… need me, she was able to… want me. We became lovers. And friends. We always knew being lovers was never going to last forever. I think she liked it that way. But our friendship… that… that meant more to her.”

He pauses to pour himself a cup of tea and drink it. So Konrad did try for Celina and was rejected. I guessed right that day by the granary. Now, it makes sense to me. The Celina that Mariusz describes is more like Irena than I would have guessed. Alone, uncertain, weak. Did Celina see him for what he is? Was that why she refused him? Or was she simply lucky to be so scared of marrying again?

“It lasted a little over half-a-year,” Mariusz says softly. “Being lovers. We started to drift apart. I wasn’t the only man she wanted. She enjoyed flirting, and probably more, with other men. One night, I watched her flirting with Valery and I realized I wasn’t jealous. I knew, then, that I was no longer in love with her. She was just… fun. So I told her, we should stop, and we did. We were still friends, but we were no longer lovers.”

“But that must have been… two years ago.”

“Not quite. It’s a long, long story, Sasha.” Mariusz takes my hand again. “A few months after that, in November, my brother Adam started getting sick. It all happened very quickly. He just… faded away. The doctor called it white blood disease. When I was grieving him, I… I needed Celina’s friendship. We started making love again. This time, it only lasted weeks. She was faithful to me. I think she felt more for me now that I was the vulnerable one. But I knew… I knew we could never marry. Even before Adam died, I never could have married Celina, but afterwards… I knew I would have to marry whomever politics decided. And your uncle was closing in on his deal with my father. I knew it would probably be one of his daughters. I didn’t like it, but I was determined to make it work. So in February of last year, I told Celina we had to stop. That was the last time I made love to her. If I had got her with child, it would have been born already. It just isn’t possible that the child she carries is mine.”

“Then that’s how you know.”

“We also…” he hesitates. “Ah. I don’t know how much you know, but there are ways to prevent a child. We used them.” He rubs his eyes, which are heavy-lidded and tired. “It hurt her when I ended it that time. She had really started to love me. And then… when my father killed himself in May… I needed her again. Not her body this time. Her friendship. Her heart. I think, because we couldn’t touch each other, we felt more like we were in love. I don’t even know if it was love. Some of it was just… shared pain. So when you first came… I felt like you had kept me from the one I loved. When she flirted with me — and it wasn’t just me, Sasha, she flirts with everyone — I felt like… you deserved it. I was stupid and cruel. That first big fight we had, that night I didn’t come back? I went to my mother. I complained to her about you. And she…” He smiles bitterly. “She was not sympathetic. The morning after, I told Celina we had to stop flirting, we had to be proper, for your sake. We could be friends, but nothing more. And… I think… we weren’t even friends, from that moment. She… she spent time with others. One of them must have been the man who gave her the child. I don’t know who.”

He stops, gets up from his chair, and crosses to the windows to draw back the curtains. It’s full, early daylight outside by now. The skies are pale blue and cloudless.

“That night… when that old man threatened us with the gun… when we fought again… I got drunk with the three of them, Valery, Barany, Celina. Celina stayed with me after the others left. She came to my room. I should have told her to go, but I wanted her sympathy. She kissed me. I didn’t invite it, but I knew… I knew better. I pushed her away, then I held her close. I don’t love her now. I don’t think I even loved her then. But in that moment… it felt like I did. I’m sorry. Then you sent her away and I… I felt so guilty that I blamed you. I broke your trust, and I ruined her safety. Then… when I went after her… halfway down the highway in the middle of nowhere, I… I knew I was chasing after the wrong woman. I turned around. I came back without saying goodbye to her. But I couldn’t face you. I was too angry. With you. With me. With Celina. I’m so sorry. None of this is your fault. It’s mine. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have been shot. God, I’m so sorry, Sasha.”

I watch his silhouette against the bright sky until my eyes grow tired from the glare and I have to shut them. Somehow, I understand his relationship with Celina. I’ve never been in love, I’ve never been needed, and when I have needed someone, they’ve never been there, but somehow, I know. And I know also that had I never married Mariusz, never met him, he would never have loved Celina properly and she never him. They’re not soulmates. They’re just corrupted in a way that answers the corruption in the other.

I didn’t break his heart. I didn’t destroy his chance at happiness. He still has that chance. Which means I do.

“Are you asleep?” he asks gently.

“No.” I reach out blindly for him. “Hold my hand.”

He comes to sit by me and takes my hand again.

“It’s not your fault.” My voice is so thin now it barely rustles. “You didn’t shoot me. You probably saved my life. Thank you.”

He kisses the underside of my wrist. “I’ll do better. I promise, I’ll do better.”

__

2025-07-05: A chapter of many ellipses… lol. We finally get some answers from Mariusz about his perspective of things and his relationship with Celina, and we learn that Alex isn’t the only screwed up person in this story.

59. Fracture

For a week, I cannot get out of bed. Henryka, Zofia, Mariusz and Dowager Duchess Maria sit with me in turns. I cannot bear to be alone for even a few minutes. At night, I lie in terror and silence, listening for the sound of Mariusz breathing through the open door between our rooms. It is easier to sleep during the day when I can wake to the sight of someone sitting by my bed, even if that someone is petulant Zofia, trying to occupy herself with a book.

On the fifth day of bedrest, just as I am well enough to sit up against a pile of pillows for an hour at a time, a letter comes from King Edmund. It is addressed to Mariusz, but he tells me it contains a question to me.

“He wants to know if you would like to go back to Rothalia,” Mariusz says. “He says he made you the offer in your last letter, but he received no reply. He wants to know through me.”

“I’m not going back.”

“He can keep you safe.”

I trace my fingers across the throbbing starburst of wounds on my chest. Safe. But even the name Rothalia brings a different terror rising in my heart. “You can keep me safe here.”

“Three times, you’ve risked your life under my watch.”

“Once. Only once, really. And you saved me.”

The ghosts of bad memories flicker behind Mariusz’s eyes. “Half-an-inch of good fortune saved you,” he says. “I was just there.”

“And you stayed. You didn’t leave me. You saved me.”

Mariusz watches me in silence, but I can tell by the dark look in his eyes that I have not convinced him. He blames himself for my shooting. His guilt is at least half the reason behind his kindness to me, I am sure. Perhaps his guilt makes him want to wish me in Rothalia, where he cannot see me to be reminded of it.

He changes the subject. “There’s something else we should discuss.” His tone is flat. “King Edmund wants the man who shot you sent back to Rothalia to face the guillotine.”

“Is that a request or a command?”

“A request. I want to say yes. Death faces him either way, only here he will be hanged. It would be the first time a man is executed under my rule. I would have to give my royal assent to the judicial ruling. I would be saying, yes, kill this man, and I don’t think I can.”

“Then send him to my uncle. He will have no problem with it.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds bitter. I try to soften it. “Let him have the man.”

“Halas,” Mariusz says. “His name is Halas. He is a farmer. He has a wife and two step-daughters.” The dark look returns to Mariusz’s eyes. “It was easier to want him dead when I didn’t know his name and hadn’t seen his face.”

“Then let my uncle take him. It is better for public opinion anyway. You already imprisoned Salamon, our guards shot that old man. If you have Halas executed here, you once again look harsh.”

“And if I send him away, I make it clear that Rothalian rule of law stands over ours. I look weak.”

“Then you cannot win public opinion. You can only win your own. Would you rather send him away or execute him here?”

Mariusz sighs and folds the letter away into his pocket. “Why is it that both you and my mother would rather be pragmatic than sympathetic?”

I don’t know what to say to that. It feels like an insult.

Mariusz sees my uncertainty. “I don’t mean it that way,” he says. “You’re right. You have a way of cutting things down to the base facts. I get distracted by what I wish could be true. And I wish it had never happened. I wish you’d never been shot. I wish I wasn’t the one making this choice. But you were and I am.”

“Then let me make it for you.” I can’t give him sympathy — I don’t know how — but I can help. “Send him to Rothalia. Let King Edmund and his judiciary prosecute him.”

“Now you’re just trying to give me what I want.”

“Yes.”

Mariusz laughs sadly under his breath. “So be it. I will send him away.” He touches my hand. “And I will keep you here with me.”

The doctor comes by every few days to change my dressings and check the healing of my many wounds. Each time he visits, I send Mariusz from the room, too shy to let him see me naked, though I suspect he saw everything while I was unconscious and the surgeons were pulling bullet fragments out of my flesh. At first, my wounds are red and fleshy, oozing dark blood. Slowly, they gel over. My flesh turns from dark scarlet to black to blue, bruises covering me from navel to neck. On the day the pain is manageable enough for me to get out of bed and sit in a well-padded armchair, Halas is sent to Rothalia by train, guarded by four soldiers, his ankles and wrists chained.

“He looked defiant,” Mariusz says that evening when he comes back from the station where he saw him off. “His face was white, but he kept his chin high. I thought he might crumble, beg me for mercy, but he said nothing at all. He only asked about his wife. She had refused to come and say goodbye to him. He thought we had forbidden it. He didn’t believe she had refused.”

“He wants to think you a villain.”

“He’s not the only one. There were a few people, labourers, mostly, loitering around the train station. One shouted God bless Halas. Another, a student, I think, shouted about Salamon. I had the guards move them on. Sadovnik will add them to his list of people to watch.”

But Sadovnik cannot have been watching them that night. The next morning, as I am eating breakfast off a tray in bed and Mariusz is picking at my leftovers, we are interrupted by Belvolk, our head guardsman. A palace guard whose name I don’t know follows him.

“There is a problem, your highness,” Belvolk begins in Selician.

I can follow the conversation vaguely — something about the palace walls last night, and the junior guardsman found the problem, whatever it is. Mariusz is upset to hear of it and says he wants to see. He takes a final sip from my tea cup and follows Belvolk and the guard out of the room. I am left alone. It is no less terror now, with bright morning sunlight coming through the window, than it is in the dark of night. I push my tray away and slide my legs out of bed. Pain arcs through my upper belly and ribs. I have to sit for some minutes before it subsides enough for me to dare put my weight upon trembling legs and stand.

I make my way to the servants bell step by trembling step. After I ring it, I am too tired to do more than lean against the wall and wait for someone to attend me. I know if I sit down again — the armchair is just in reach — I will not be able to stand up alone.

I want Duchess Maria or Henryka, but I will take even Zofia. The maid who answers my call, however, tells me that all three of them are outside. The mysterious problem that took Mariusz away has demanded them too.

I don’t know what to do. I cannot go back to bed alone. There are too many doors into my room. Too many windows.

“Can I get someone else for your highness?” the maid asks.

There is no one else. Dominik is too young. Barany would be improper. Irena I can no longer trust.

“My maids to dress me,” I decide. By the time they are done, Mariusz will be back or Duchess Maria will be here.

But even unable to lift my arms over my head, it does not take more than a few minutes to dress me in a tea-gown, very gently fastened, with no corset, soft slippers on my feet and a woollen shawl over my shoulders. I can think of no other service to demand from my maids, and so I let them leave.

Perhaps it is only my bedroom that oppresses me. I hobble to the sitting room, but here there are larger windows and just as many doors.

My heart races in my chest. I need people. If I am alone, I surely will die.

I hobble through the dining room and out into the hallway. It is deserted. I follow the passage, leaning against the wall every few feet to catch my breath. Each time I stop, I look behind, sure someone is following me, but the hallway is empty and there is nowhere to hide.

I reach the mezzanine at the top of the entrance hall. The front doors down below are wide open. Henryka’s high-pitched, soft voice floats through them.

Relief sinks over me. I take the stairs one step at a time, leaning on the bannister, the white marble floors of the hall tilting dizzily before my weary vision. When I reach the front steps, I see Henryka standing with her mother, their backs to me. Zofia is away down the drive at the first set of gates, peering around them in her dressing gown. My racing heartbeat slows.

“What happened?” I ask in Selician.

Duchess Maria turns to me. Alarm flashes over her face. “You should not be up. You will do yourself harm.”

She speaks French. I am too weary not to be grateful for the language she chose.

“I had to come. What happened?”

“Someone painted a message on the palace walls in the middle of the night, the very most outside ones.” Henryka points at Zofia. “Mother won’t let her go further. Mariusz went with the guards to see it.”

“What does it say?”

“The guards did not tell us,” Duchess Maria says. “If it is the outer-most walls, I think we need not be too worried. We have not been intruded. Simply insulted, it seems.”

My legs are already shaking from the effort of coming all this way. When I think of strangers lurking at our walls in the dark of night, they buckle gently beneath me. Duchess Maria reaches me in time, her bony arm surprisingly steely about my waist.

“I want to sit down,” I say.

She helps me sink to the threshold. The chill of the marble bites through my insufficient gown.

“I will send for servants to help you back inside,” she says.

“No. No, I want to sit here.”

I cannot face the terror of my empty room. Besides, even as I speak, I see Mariusz coming back through the gates with the two guards. Zofia attaches to his arm on the way. She is still peppering him with questions when they reach us.

“What are you doing out here?” he says to me in Rothalian.

I don’t want to admit why I came. “What did the message say?”

Mariusz shakes his head. “Halas does not shoot alone. Long live the king.”

He says it twice, first in Selician, then in Rothalian, but I understood most of it the first time anyway. My heart stammers wildly. There were others with Halas? Others who want Mariusz dead?

Duchess Maria utters a couple of icy words in Selician. Either I do not know them or I am too shaken to recognize them.

Mariusz shrugs. “It can be cleaned off.”

“Who did it?” Zofia demands.

“We don’t know.” He sounds impatient. “Sasha needs to get back inside. Come on.”

He leans down to pull me to my feet and I shuffle indoors on his arm. The others come in after us.

“Can I go see it?” Zofia asks. “Can I go with Belvolk?”

“No,” Duchess Maria says firmly. “You will stay inside today.”

Zofia goes upstairs with her mother and Henryka, protesting all the way. Mariusz turns to the guards to give them some instructions about the paint. I cling to his arm and look at the staircase. It seems taller now than when I came down it, and my legs are still trembling.

The guards take their instructions and leave again. Mariusz slides his arm around me, the way his mother did. Only his arm is not bony, and the strength in it is of an entirely different quality.

“I’m going to carry you up the stairs,” he says.

“You can’t. I’m too heavy.”

“You’re really not. Steady yourself.”

He stoops and puts his other arm beneath my knees then lifts me carefully against him. Despite his gentleness, my chest spasms in pain and I lose my breath. Every step he takes sends more aches arcing through my chest. I whimper against his shoulder.

“Relax,” he says in Selician. “Relax.”

In his tongue, it is sibilant and comforting. I shut my eyes. I’m not sure if I do vaguely remember him carrying me like this after I was shot. Or perhaps it was someone else. My father — long ago — and Uncle Edmund… the memory slips in so softly it barely pricks my heart, but when I push it away it leaves an ache quite apart from broken ribs.

We reach the top of the stairs and Mariusz sets me down again. We both need a moment to catch our breath. Even after we have it, my legs still tremble, and I clutch at his arm for support. We start walking slowly down the hallway to our apartments. Now, I feel faintly ashamed of being so frightened of someone following me before. There is nowhere to hide in this hallway. Panic had me entirely senseless.

In possession of my senses and breath, I can think clearly of what happened this morning.

“The message is a threat,” I say quietly.

“Halas swore he acted alone,” Mariusz says. “Sadovnik investigated him. He would have discovered if he had partners.”

“Then who wrote the message?”

“Someone else. Someone who shares his feelings. Someone who wants us to be scared.” He pauses. “Someone who might act as Halas did, perhaps. There is a chance. I want you to stay inside the palace until… until things calm down.”

I have no desire to venture beyond these walls. Not while I am not alone, at least.

I meet Mariusz’s eyes. “Long live the king? They threaten you as much as me. Will you stay here with me?”

“You know I can’t. I have to attend Parliament. I have to go to meetings with ministers and officials. I have to attend dinner parties at foreign chanceries. Constitution Day is next month, and I have to lead the celebrations, give speeches, confer awards upon distinguished citizens.”

“If I can hide away here, you can.”

Mariusz presses his lips together. “It could be an empty threat, but we have to take precautions.”

“We do. And I ask that you take the same precautions with your life as you ask me to take with mine.”

“The danger to us is not equal. Halas never aimed for me.”

“Halas did not write the message.”

“Sasha. Please. I don’t want you hurt again.”

There is an emotion in his voice that keeps me from protesting further. Besides, we are arguing at cross purposes and I do not wish to clarify my true meaning. If I admit that I am protesting not that I cannot leave, but that he can, he will know how afraid I really am. There is something too shameful in my fear for me to admit to it. Broken bones are an acceptable, even sympathetic, sort of weakness. A broken spirit is contemptible. We reach our apartment in silence and he breaks away from me to open the doors. I shuffle through to my bedroom, discarding my shawl and slippers on a chair on the way, and crawl back into bed. Mariusz sits in the chair next to it.

“When Celina’s child is born, there will be less danger to you,” he says. “If we have any luck, it will look like its father and its father will not look like me.”

“She could be persuaded to reveal man’s name.”

Mariusz shakes his head. “I sent Barany to press her on the issue. She refused to tell him. If she would not tell one of her closest friends, she will certainly not make it public.”

“Then we find the father.”

“How?” Mariusz says gently.

“I don’t know.”

He shakes his head. “Nor do I.”

__

2025-07-15: This chapter is a little late. Why? Because I had a bout of food poisoning. Did that delay me posting? No. It was already written. But it did make me realize that when you’re sick, you need to be emotionally as well as physically frail, and, well, the first time I wrote this Alex wasn’t. Sorry, but it is so much better for it.

60. The Provocateur

My body recovers before my spirits do. When my bruises have faded to yellow and green, when I can take the stairs without help, when my ribs ache only occasionally with sudden movements, my heart still remains in a state of uneasy fluttering, taking unpleasant leaps at sudden noises and racing whenever I am alone with my thoughts. My nights are sleepless, and every morning I am wan and drawn, with dark shadows under my eyes.

Nevertheless, Mariusz wants me to host Thursday night dinner again.

“It would be good for people to see that you are well,” he says when I protest.

“But I’m not well.”

“You’re getting stronger every day. If you can dine with me in the evenings, you can dine with guests almost as well. If you get fatigued, you could retire after the meal. No one would hold it against you.”

The idea of coming upstairs alone to a dark and desolate room makes my heart race. If I go, I would have to stay the entire time. “But I don’t want to go.”

“Please. This is an important one, with many guests I would like to impress. I can’t cancel it like I did the last two, and I would like you to be there.”

I hesitate. My instinct to please Mariusz battles with my imperative to avoid a crowd.

“There are some guests who I particularly want to see you well,” he adds. “Lord Medev will be there.”

“But why would you invite him? After what he did?”

“To keep my enemies close.”

There’s a trace of irony in his tone. I think he must be doubting himself for the decision. And I don’t want to leave him to face an enemy alone.

“Then I’ll come.” I regret it even as I say it, but the look of relief on Mariusz’s face prevents me from going back on my word. “I suppose he’s my enemy too.”

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t touch my hand, he doesn’t even move a half-inch closer, but the warmth of his gaze upon me sends a glow of feeling over me that — almost — melts my regret.

The preparation for dinner requires some finessing of my gown. I choose the highest-necked evening gown that I own, but even then I have to powder my neck and chest to hide the greenish shadow of my bruises. I look unnaturally pale and not at all well, but at least our guests will be able to see that I am not dying.

When I arrive downstairs on Mariusz’s arm, our guests are already assembled. Medev is not the only politician. Vozodni is there too, and Tarnuv, and another member of the Royalist party. There is also a judge and an elderly man in a much-emblazoned military uniform and a Rothalian diplomat, and associated wives and daughters. A very important night, it seems. Mariusz circles the room with me, making introductions where needed and reminding me of names I might have forgotten where not.

Medev is the last person Mariusz introduces me to. He stands with Vozodni away from the others, neither of them talking much. Mariusz effects the introduction and I hold out my hand for Medev to bow over.

“Charmed to see you in such wonderful health,” he murmurs in French. “The events three weeks ago upon the Parliament steps shocked us all.”

I take my hand back before he can see it is shaking. “Thank you. I am very much better. I was fortunate. There will be no lasting damage.”

A lacing of scars across my ribs and belly and breasts. The shortness of breath, the doctor tells me, will disappear soon.

“Or unfortunate in the first place,” Medev says.

“The man must have been quite mad,” Vozodni says.

“People always say that sort of thing, don’t they?” Medev’s voice is soft and purring. “It’s such a convenient excuse. If we say that people are mad, we don’t need to try to understand why they do horrible things. No, my lord Vozodni, I do not believe he is mad. I even think perhaps I can understand him.”

“Understand him?” I try to blunt the sharpness of my voice. “I don’t follow your meaning, I am sure.”

Vozodni looks distinctly uncomfortable, but Medev only smiles.

“I speak only in the abstract. I have spent some time meditating upon the motives and emotions behind his act. I have come to the conclusion that he must have felt truly powerless, not just in matters of politics, but also in his personal life. Jealous of his step-daughters, no doubt, unsure of his wife, and quite without friends otherwise. His farm, perhaps not doing so well…”

“Then I do not think you understand him at all.” My voice is cold with the effort of hiding the anxiety this conversation causes me. “None of that is true.”

I have no idea if it true or not. Mariusz perhaps knows, but I have not cared to ask him of Halas. We have not even talked of him since the day he left for Rothalia.

“No?” Medev’s composure does not falter by so much as a half-breath. “Then I would love to be enlightened. I am very interested in understanding Halas’s character.”

“But that would be an uncomfortable conversation for the princess.” Mariusz gently presses my arm closer to him. “And a sensitive conservation too. Not all of what we know can yet be publicly circulated.”

“But of course.” Medev shakes his head. “My curiosity must go unanswered.”

Vozodni takes the opportunity to offer his own congratulations on my appearance of good health. I catch sight of my reflection in a mirror, looking even paler than when I left my dressing room, and I am sure he is only being polite. We move away as soon as there is a natural break in the conversation, and soon after dinner is announced and we pass through to the dining room.

As usual, I am seated at the opposite end of the table from Mariusz, too far for him to press my arm or hand in support, but he meets my eyes frequently throughout the meal, and through half-smiles and nods I am able to tell him that I am alright. It helps that I am seated between Tarnuv and Barany, who between them have enough good manners and natural kindness to make me feel protected from the insolent curiosity and galling sympathy of my guests.

Tonight, the men stay longer than usual after we women rise and go back to the salon. I had expected this when I saw how many important men Mariusz had invited, and I am glad of it, for it gives me the opportunity to sit for a long time with Dowager Duchess Maria and some older women by the fire and be as quiet as good manners allow. The long meal, the hard chair, the noise, the bright chandeliers and the crowd have fatigued me more than I care to admit and I have a headache. The duchess must have noticed, for when the men come back into the salon, she murmurs to me to have a rest and gets up to order the tea things and get everybody settled with tea and biscuits. The old ladies around me, eager for biscuits, follow her to the tea table and I am left alone by the fire to sink further back into my armchair and enjoy the warmth and solitude.

I don’t want anyone to notice me — except perhaps Mariusz, but he is deep in conversation with the Rothalian diplomat and can only spare me a glance. To my dismay, Medev approaches me and sits in the armchair the duchess vacated.

“I’m glad to find you alone,” he says in French. “It gives me the opportunity to do something I don’t do often. I must apologize to you. I do tend to stir trouble, I quite enjoy it. I see my role in parliament as the devil’s advocate. I try to incite people into more true and open conversations. But I could see that earlier I more than offended you. I wounded you, did I not? I am sorry.”

He speaks quickly now, with none of his slow, purring assurance from earlier. If I had not heard him speak in Parliament, I might have half-believed him. As it is, my head pounds too heavily for me to respond with the same level of feigned politeness.

“You admit you spoke to stir trouble, and now you apologize because you suspect you have stirred more trouble than you intended. I am not gratified, Lord Medev.”

A hint of his assurance returns in the soothing smile he gives me. “Let me persuade you of my sincerity.”

“You cannot. Words alone might convince me, I grant, but I have the advantage of also being acquainted with your actions. The bill that you… what is the phrase? Proposed? It shows me what you are. Not a devil’s advocate, but a cupid who derives amusement from other’s pain. Such men do not apologize and mean it.”

Even as I say it, I regret it. It is not wise to make an enemy of a man like Medev.

His smile does not falter. “Should I apologize for that as well? But I cannot. I wanted to pose a question to parliament at large, a question that reflected the concerns of Selician citizenry and the circumstances of the royal family as they appeared. If those concerns wound you, if the appearance of your circumstances wound you, then I would suggest you contemplate upon how you might answer those concerns and improve that appearance.”

“The appearance of my circumstances does not match the reality. It has been clouded by gossip and rumour and Lady Celina Vovesna’s misfortune.” I feel that I have not been direct enough because the smile reaches Medev’s eyes. “It is not Prince Mariusz’s child.”

“Of course it is not. I never really believed it was — such a clumsy mistake, Dowager Duchess Maria would not permit it — but after tonight I am quite convinced it could not be. It is obvious from the way Prince Mariusz conducts himself towards you that he has strongly protective instincts. Even now, trapped in conversation with that tedious Lord Blumenthal, he keeps his eyes and thoughts upon you. Lord Blumenthal, I think, would be feeling neglected if he had the wit to see it.”

I glance over and find that Mariusz is watching me while absently nodding along to Lord Blumenthal. My cheeks warm.

“The man who watches your movements so closely could not possibly have eyes for another woman.” Medev’s voice is now barely louder than the crackling of the fire. “Ah. If only you could invite the general public into this room. If only they could see it. If only Halas had seen it. He surely would not have thought it Prince Mariusz’s child. He could not have believed her his lover.” Medev pauses. “I understand that was his professed motive. I am not speculating there.”

“He said as much in his confession, yes. You understand now why the appearances of my circumstances are so loathsome for me. I cannot control what people think. I cannot control rumour. I cannot invite the entire city into my sitting room to show them the proof it is wrong.”

“No, no, quite impossible of course. A precarious position you find yourself in, but as I said, you must contemplate how you can improve the appearance of your circumstances.”

“Do you think we have not been trying?”

“Certainly, you have not been succeeding. The very first thing I would have done — and do interrupt me if I presume too much — would be to make everyone understand that Mariusz has no illegitimate child.”

“We cannot produce the real father.” The way Medev speaks, as if it so simple, irritates me and makes my head throb. “Lady Celina will not confess his name, and he cannot be traced. What else could we do? Even if she denies it is his, people will not believe her.”

“There is plenty else to do. And even if there were not, a man can always be traced.” Medev gives me a condescending wink. “Always.”

“You know who he is?”

“I would not so easily injure another man.”

His voice is plummy and self-assured. I stare at him. The firelight casts flickering shadows upon his face, and my vision blurs under my throbbing headache. Is he asking for a favour? A bribe?

“What would it take?”

“For me to help you?” He considers it. “There is a certain injury to be dealt, you do understand?”

“If someone must be dealt an injury through this, let it not be me.” I touch my hand to my ribs where I was shot. “Not again.”

“Very wise.” He rubs his chin. “Then what would it take? I wonder, I wonder…” His voice falls very soft. “I do not like the idea. I do not like it. He does not deserve it.”

“Who does not deserve it? Tell me his name.”

But Medev is looking over my shoulder, his eyes tracking someone moving. I twist my head, wincing as it sets off another series of throbs along my skull. Mariusz has managed to escape Lord Blumenthal’s conversation at last and is coming over, a cup of tea on a saucer in his hand.

“Please help me,” I say in a low voice. “It might save my life.”

“But it might not. And what a terrible thing to do to a person.”

“Please.”

But no more can be said. Mariusz is here. He gives me the cup of tea and asks Medev how he takes his, but Medev says he will get it himself and stands up. He bows very correctly to me.

“It was a very valuable conversation,” he says. “I will think about what you said.” He turns to Mariusz. “You have chosen charmingly in your princess. Her charm almost makes me forget her antecedents.”

On that barbed compliment, he leaves. Mariusz sits down in the seat he vacated and looks anxiously at me.

“You look in pain,” he says in Rothalian. “Are you well?”

I take a sip of the tea he gave me, hoping it will wash away some of the throbbing in my head. “Not very.” To my horror, I feel tears pricking at my eyes. I blink them back. It’s not just my headache that causes them. Medev gave me hope, and then took it away with him. Perhaps it was all just a cruel game. Perhaps he no more knows who the father is than I do. It seems like the kind of trick he would enjoy.

Mariusz must be able to see the shine in my eyes. “Let me take you upstairs. It’s been too much for you.”

“No. No, I’d rather sit here quietly. As long as no one else talks to me.” I drink more tea. It does calm the throbbing of my head a little. The prickly feeling fades from my eyes. “Just stay with me?”

“And not talk?” The ghost of a smile presses against his lips. “And neglect our guests?” The smile broadens. “It would be my pleasure.”

__

2025-07-20: Alex starts to get well and someone – maybe – knows who the father is.

61. Uncertain Injury

I attend chapel for the first time in three weeks the next Sunday. The chapel is at the very edge of the palace grounds, edging onto the most external wall. For the first time ever, guardsmen stand just outside the chapel as Mariusz and I get down from our coach, and at least two more I spot patrolling the farmlet next to the chapel, with Georgiana the goat leering at them from her pen. I find it more frightening than reassuring, and I cannot focus on trying to translate the service as usual.

After the service, just as we are about to get back into our coach, one of the guardsmen hails us with a shout, making my heart race, and a small, wiry man in a rough travelling coat comes hurrying towards us.

I instinctively draw closer to Mariusz, but the small man only stops short to bow low to the ground as the guardsman explains something to Mariusz.

“He is the stableman at Belasarna,” Mariusz explains. “He has a message for us.”

The word Belasarna brings me nothing but more alarm. “What is it?” I ask in Selician. “What do you say, sir?”

But my Selician is not good enough to follow what the stableman says. He mentions Lady Celina Vovesna, but the two or three phrases he utters are nothing but incomprehensible syllables.

The colour drains from Mariusz’s face. “How is she now?” he asks in a hollow voice.

She’s unwell. Celina Vovesna is unwell. Has she had the baby? But that would be impossible. She cannot be much more than a few months pregnant.

The stableman shakes his head slowly. “We do not know. We are waiting.”

Mariusz stares at him, seemingly unable to move or speak, for several long moments. At last, he comes to himself with a shudder. “Thank you,” he says to the stableman. He adds something else — I think he is asking him to go to the palace — and then he turns to me.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

He hands me up into the coach then gets in after me and sinks back against the cushions with a shaky sigh.

“What happened?” I ask. “Is Celina sick?”

He waits until the coach is moving before answering me. “She had a— a— I don’t know the word. The baby died inside her.”

The baby died. Horror comes first, followed swiftly by relief, followed just as swiftly by guilt for feeling relieved.

Fortunately, Mariusz is too preoccupied to notice my facial expressions.

“The stableman said she is very unwell. They don’t know if her life—” His voice catches and falls silent.

She might be dying? No. That I cannot believe. She would not die so easily.

Mariusz does not say another word. We ride in silence until the palace comes into view. I have time to sort out the thoughts in my head, and I know I have to make him the offer.

“Do you… do you need to go to her?”

Mariusz looks up at me. I can see I have interrupted his thoughts. Whatever he was thinking, it was not about going to her. “No,” he says softly. “Barany will go.”

Relief washes over me. I try to suppress any sign of it in my eyes or mouth, because I know Mariusz is sad. It’s not just that he won’t go to her. Now that she has lost the baby, no one can claim it to be an heir to the throne. My life is less in danger.

And hers is.

Again, guilt chases my relief.

We draw to a stop in front of the palace steps. Mariusz gets out and helps me down. Wordlessly, we go up the stairs to our apartments. Mariusz sinks down into a settee and stares at the wall. I ring the servants bell, and when the maid comes I order tea and toast and ask her to send someone to fetch Barany to our rooms.

Barany comes before the tea does. He enters and looks with concern at Mariusz.

“What is wrong with him?” he asks in Selician.

Mariusz stares in surprise at Barany. “Why is he here?”

“You need to ask him to go to Celina,” I say. “You need to tell him what has happened. He should go as soon as possible.”

“Yes. I… I… Thank you.” Mariusz shakes himself and stands up. He has a quick, hushed discussion with Barany in Selician, and Barany leaves again, bowing to me on the way. That done, Mariusz sinks back into his settee and stares, this time, at the fire. He remains motionless in that position for the next hour. The tea and toast comes, and he ignores the cup and plate I set by his side. I don’t think he even sees or hears me offer it to him. Even when there comes a knock at the door and the chamberlain asks if Dowager Duchess Maria may enter, he does not move. Only when she is in the room and the door shut behind her does he speak without looking up.

“You have heard the news?”

“You heard too?” Duchess Maria sounds disappointed, but then shakes her head. “No, it is something else. Darling, what is wrong?”

In a few terse Selician sentences, Mariusz explains things to her. She looks neither shocked nor horrified. Her delicately boned features show little sign of any feeling at all. Only by the compression at the corners of her lips and the downward crinkling of her eyelids can I detect any emotion whatsoever, and I could not with any certainty define it.

“Poor Lady Celina has lived a life much marked by tragedy,” she says in gentle French. “Mariuszek, I am afraid the happy news I have for you comes at an unhappy moment. Your sister Maria and Prince Kristian are expecting a child.”

This has the effect of getting Mariusz to raise his head, but he can offer his mother no words. He wanted more from his mother, I can see, more than one sentence of distant sympathy. And I can see, too, that that is all the dowager has to offer him now — she is too full of her own joy to dwell on others’ miseries. I can see it in the flush of her cheeks and the shine of her eyes. Not that she ever is very sympathetic, not even to herself, I think. She is too pragmatic for such emotions, and there is nothing she can do now to help Celina. Perhaps the best she can do is repress, like I have, any hint of relief at the release Celina’s tragedy gives us.

Guiltily, I go to Mariusz and sit down next to him so that I can take his hand in mine. He wraps his fingers around my palm and looks gratefully at me, but it doesn’t seem he has words to respond to his mother.

“It is wonderful news,” I say. “You will be a grandmother.”

A smile presses through the tight corners of her mouth. “So I will.”

“Congratulations, Mama,” Mariusz says listlessly. “It is… It is very wonderful indeed.”

It is not much of a congratulations, but Duchess Maria seems to understand that Mariusz has as little happiness to give her as she has sorrow to give him. She sits herself down on an armchair near us and we spend several minutes in a thoughtful silence. The smile presses and fades at the corners of her mouth with her thoughts. Eventually, after a long fade, she speaks.

“Expectations at this stage are ever uncertain.” Her voice is very soft, as though she is almost reluctant to speak. “I choose to believe, rather than to hope, that Maria will have good fortune with her child. My hopes are reserved for your own future fortune.”

Her voice is carefully weighted, and the silence that follows it is heavy. I look away from Mariusz, my cheeks burning, and pull my hand from his grasp.

Duchess Maria stands up, her skirts rustling. “I pray I will not be left hoping long,” she murmurs. “It would be such a blessing — personally, as well as politically.”

The image of Celina, lying in a blood-stained bed, comes to me. It’s equally coupled with the image of my cousin Kristian holding a baby boy in his arms. Of course, it could be a girl, but even if it is, Kristian is sure to have a boy soon enough. You probably get in the practice of having babies. My parents didn’t, but they hated each other. I look at Mariusz, slouched against the arm of the settee, staring at the fire with his cheeks all pink. I can’t imagine him as a father.

I can’t imagine me as a mother.

Duchess Maria comes over and kisses Mariusz on the cheek, then me, and then leaves the room. I wait until I hear the sound of the outer door clicking shuts, and then I speak — in a very low voice, in case anyone is listening.

“I’m not ready to have a baby.”

Mariusz’s cheeks darken from pink to red. “Yes.”

“I can’t do it. I’m not ready.” Now that I’m speaking, the horror of the idea becomes more vivid to me. “And it’s not right to bring a baby into the world so that… so that… It’s all wrong. A baby isn’t a… a political piece. It shouldn’t be.”

“No.”

Panic drives me to speak further. “And I’m not ready to… to…”

“I know.” He looks at me for the first time in several minutes, his cheeks still pink. “Nor am I.”

“Oh. Good.”

We sit watching each other in silence for several long moments. We are sitting close. The heat of his knee is warm against mine through my skirts, and I can see the colour pulsating in his cheeks with his heartbeat. There is still sadness in his eyes, but something else too, something warm and grateful.

“Yet,” he says softly. “Yet, I think…”

His voice fades into silence. Slowly, he leans close and kisses me on the cheek. There’s feeling behind it. He doesn’t move away after. He stays close, watching me.

My body moves on its own accord, my face tilting towards him, my eyes slipping closed. His second kiss lands on my lips and his hand cups my chin. This kiss lingers a little longer than the one on my cheek. When he pulls away, his hand stays at my chin. I duck my chin down into it, unable to meet his eyes. My heart flutters madly in my chest and leaves me quite without words. I don’t want him to kiss me again — not yet. I want to stay with this feeling.

“We have the rest of our lives,” Mariusz says softly. “Let’s take our time.”

__

2025-07-27: Their first real kiss!

62. Fatal Assignation

A letter arrives from Barany on Monday night. By that time, the gossip has already flown around the city that Lady Celina’s baby is dead and she is dying. It is violently illustrated in the newspapers Dobos brings me to study that morning, though he turns past those pages to the more inoffensive articles about the agricultural prospects for spring and planned celebrations for Constitution Day. Whatever Barany writes does little to ease Mariusz’s spirits. He sends off a reply immediately but then paces his room long into the night. On Tuesday afternoon, I attend Duchess Maria’s tea party to hear what the ladies have to say about it. They cast wary glances at me and confine their conversation to low voices, but I catch enough to understand that most of them believe she is dying.

It does not seem fair.

For all I hate Celina, perhaps even more for hating her, I feel sad and guilty and horrified at what is happening to her, and I hope and pray she will not die.

No letter arrives on Tuesday, though Barany told Mariusz he would write daily. On Wednesday, we are kept busy most of the day with preparing for Constitution Day tomorrow. Ordinarily, Mariusz tells me, some of the celebrations take place within the palace, but because of my shooting, they have been moved elsewhere in the city. The citizenship awards will be given at the opera house and the constitution ball will take place in the university’s botanic garden. Mariusz and a motley collection of advisors — among them, Tarnuv, Belvolk, Sadovnik, several university professors, and Prince Konrad — sit in our dining room debating the who will present which award and refining the elements of the constitution ball. With Konrad there, I wish to be absent, so once my lesson with Dobos is over, I go with Henryka and Zofia to play billiards. However, half-way through the afternoon, a footman comes to call me to the conference: a woman is wanted to present an award for medical service to the head midwife of the lying-in hospital. Originally, I would have presented it, but after my shooting, it was decided that Dowager Duchess Maria would do so, only Duchess Maria has come down with a cold. Now, the men are wondering if I might consider taking up the duty again.

The idea strikes terror into my heart. I want to refuse. Belvolk promises me that my safety can be assured within the opera house, where the only attendees to the award ceremony will be invited guests. Sadovnik says that Halas was a lone danger, and Halas is safely locked up in Rothalia now. Lord Tarnuv adds in a vague tone that Lady Celina’s miscarriage has subdued a particular unpositive public sentiment towards me. The aged Professor of Obstetrics tries to flatter me into the position — it is the first time a woman has won this award, and it is only right that another woman present her with it. Mariusz says cajolingly that he would like my support on stage with him. He feels stupid wearing full royal dress alone.

Even with all that, I think I would have refused, but Konrad says dismissively that he cannot think any woman would want to hear me stammering out her name on stage. He says it in Rothalian too, so that I understand completely, and goes on to suggest in Selician that his wife Irena might be an acceptable substitute.

“There is no need for Lady Irena,” I say in Selician as properly accented as my unwieldy tongue will allow. “I will do it.”

In consequence, I spend all evening practicing the words I will have to say under Mariusz’s tutelage. I think it helps distract him from the fact that we have not received another letter from Barany, though he grows increasingly impatient with my mistakes as the evening wears on and I begin to regret my decision.

We have still not received news from Barany by the end of breakfast on Thursday morning. Mariusz ignores the half-dozen other letters that the servants bring him and takes to pacing up and down the sitting room. Every time a servant comes to attend to a chore, he twists expectantly towards the door, and every time he is disappointed.

An hour after breakfast, a footman knocks and comes in to say that Lady Irena wishes to speak with me. Mariusz untwists to look at me in surprise, and I try to hide my fear with a smile.

“It has been a long time since I have spoken with Lady Irena. Where is she? Perhaps we can walk together in the gallery.”

For I have no doubt that it is Konrad who really wishes to speak with me, and I have little hope of avoiding him for long if he is truly determined.

Lady Irena is waiting in the hallway outside our apartments. She comes into the dining room, and after feigned inquiries into health and compliments as to hair and dress, I suggest the walk in the gallery. Lady Irena has a different idea. It is a fine spring day, and we might enjoy the wilderness walk.

That, I suppose, is where Konrad is waiting.

My heart trembles. For a moment, I think of running back into the sitting room and telling Mariusz everything. But even as I think it, I am going to get my coat and gloves and change into my walking shoes. I stop by Mariusz on my way out again, putting a hand on his arm to halt his pacing.

“Don’t torment yourself. Barany might be waiting until he has something certain to report.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says.

“If she were really very bad and in doubt, I am sure he would have written. With good news, he would hold off in case he raised false hopes.”

“And what is it you are doing now?” Mariusz says softly.

My cheeks warm. “I just don’t like to see you so distressed.”

Mariusz pulls me closer, pulls me into his arms, and presses me briefly against him. “You do help.”

My cheeks burn against the collar of his coat. Should I hug him back? But I don’t quite know how — my body is stiff with confusion — and before I can try to figure it out, he pushes me gently away again.

“Go walk with Lady Irena, but don’t be too long. Dobos will be here soon for your lesson.”

I am glad of the reminder. It gives me an escape from Konrad, a reason to quit our meeting. I go back to the sitting room where Irena is waiting and tell her we cannot be more than half-an-hour. She seems as relieved as I by the time limit. We make our way down to the back terrace in silence. Only when we are hurrying past the lake towards the walk, when I can see there is no one around to overhear us, do I speak.

“I take it Konrad is waiting for me within.”

Irena gives me a superior look. “Am I not company enough for you?”

“You are better company than your husband, but almost anybody is.”

“Do not pretend you do not care for him,” Irena flashes back. “Oh, perhaps you do not. Perhaps you only played with him, with his caring for you. I do not pretend to understand a woman like you. We have nothing in common.”

It would not be wise to antagonize her, so I bite back the reply that comes to my lips. Silence is safer.

She leads me down a path towards the briar-covered pagoda, only now that spring is here, the thorns have blossomed out with pale pink roses. The foliage is too heavy, now, to see the shadow of anyone within.

“Anyway,” Irena says, “it is not just my husband who wishes to speak with you today. You assumed too much.”

I stop. “Then, who? Tell me who, or I will go no further.”

It could be the man who wrote the message on the wall, or another supporter of Halas, or some other enemy. My heart races.

“Go in, and find out,” she says. “I will wait out here.” Her cheeks redden. “They don’t want me in there.”

“Who is they?”

She shakes her head. I stop still where I stand, too afraid of violence to move forward, too afraid of looking foolish to take to my heels and run back to the palace.

In my stillness and Irena’s silence, someone moves within the pagoda and gently coughs. A man steps into sight in the pagoda doorway. It is Medev.

“The mystery was unfortunate,” he says delicately, “but I am here in secret.”

Medev. My fear subsides, and a deeper, darker shadow of dread takes its place. I step warily towards the pagoda. I know something is very, very wrong, but I cannot quite name why. That Medev should not be here is not it. That he has somehow entered the palace grounds unnoticed is alarming, but that is not it either. That he is friends with Konrad is unnerving, but it is not surprising and not what is wrong.

What is it? What is so wrong?

I reach the pagoda before I can name it. Medev steps back so I can come inside. There is just barely room for he, Konrad, and I to sit on the circular bench within, no room for me to stand.

“I cannot stay long. I have a lesson with Dobos at ten.” I speak French still so that Medev can understand me. If I speak Rothalian, that is too much like speaking alone with Konrad.

In the shadowy light, Konrad looks peeved. “Always hurrying me,” he says in Rothalian.

“Always wasting my time,” I counter in French. “What is it now?”

Medev smiles. Perhaps he understands Rothalian. “I asked Prince Konrad to arrange this meeting so that I might call in a favour. It is not him you have to blame.”

“A favour?” I try to laugh. “I owe you no favours.”

But the shadow of dread in my heart darkens as I speak. What did we speak of when Medev came to dinner? Celina. It was Celina. And I…

“You begged me to help you,” Medev murmurs. “I did not like the idea. It was a cruel thing to do, but I did it, and I did it for you.”

My dread crystallizes into terror. “No. No, you said you knew who the father was. You held his name over my head. But you never told me.”

Medev shakes his head slowly. “I never knew such a thing. You said — I recall this very clearly — if someone must be dealt an injury, let it not be you. I dealt the injury, your highness. I dealt it at your supplication.”

I feel sick with horror and guilt. “No.”

“Yes.” Medev’s voice is soft and regretful. “I am afraid, yes.”

“You… you poisoned Lady Celina? You killed her baby.”

“There was no other way to help you.” Something hard comes into Medev’s voice. “Even if the father admitted it, even if Lady Celina named him, people would still believe it was Prince Mariusz’s child. Only now there is no child are you safe.”

“She might die. You might kill her too.”

“Another injury you have not been dealt.”

I bite my fingers until I taste blood. If Mariusz learns this— but I didn’t ask for it. I would never ask for this. I wanted only the father’s name. I thought Medev knew the father’s name. He led me to believe he did. He tricked me. He deliberately tricked me.

I fell right into his trap.

I look at Konrad. “You were part of it too. You hurt her too.”

“Don’t try to pin the blame on me.” At last, Konrad speaks French. “I thought it was all your idea from the beginning. A nasty idea, but the kind I might expect from a woman who has attempted murder before.”

“No, I never— I would never wish— I never wanted this.” My voice breaks. “Lord Medev, you knew I wasn’t talking of— of this.”

“I had no such notion.” Medev’s voice is still hard. “It was you who put the idea in my head. I worked upon your highness’s request. I told you what a terrible thing it was you were asking for. I told you I would think about your request. I thought about it, and then I did it. I would never have thought it without your suggesting it. I would never have done it without your begging for help. I saved your life, quite possibly, at the cost of another. As you begged me to do.”

My heart races so fast I have to put my head in my hands. Their trap is sprung and I cannot see a way out of it. If I tell Mariusz about this, he will hate me as much as them. If the public ever find out, I will be forever ruined. And Celina— her blood is on my hands.

Sick with guilt, I take an unsteady breath through my hands.

“What do you want?” I ask. “You did this for something. What do you want? What favour can I do you, Lord Medev?”

“A little matter of information. Who is Prince Mariusz’s regent?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can find out.” Konrad leans forward, puts his finger under my chin, and jerks my head up to face him. “I asked you to find out weeks ago. The prince’s secrecy on this matter is very unusual. Even Lord Tarnuv does not know. Imagine, Prince Mariusz falls victim to a bladder stone or a skin tumour and he has to go under the ether for an operation, and while he is under Lord Tarnuv discovers that he is to get the royal seal of approval on legislation from… the fat fool Lord Barany? That vain misanthrope Valery? What insecurity for our country. If we face such a future, we should be prepared for it.”

I shrink away from Konrad. “I cannot ask Mariusz.” I need a lie they will believe. “I cannot ask him again. I asked before, when you first brought it up. I was curious. He refused to tell me. So I can’t help you.”

I cannot tell if the shaking in my voice is from the strain of the lie or from horror, but if they suspect me, they do not show it on their faces. Konrad scowls. Medev narrows his fox-like brown eyes.

“You can find out,” Konrad repeats. “You do not need to ask him. The declaration is written in a letter which is kept in a bureau in the palace strong room. It would be a simple matter for you to enter the strong room and find the letter.”

“And steal it for you? I think not. Its absence would be noted.”

“No. You could simply read what is written on it.”

“And could I understand what was written?”

“You would recognize the name, I am quite sure. It could not be someone unknown to you.”

That is too logical to counter. I run my tongue along the back of my teeth and try to think of another obstacle.

“Well, I could hardly just walk into the strong room. I have no reason to go there.”

Konrad shakes his head. “You are being deliberately unhelpful, princess. The most precious of your jewellery is kept there. You need only express an interest in wearing it, and I should think the Constitution Day celebrations this evening are reason enough to wear something special.”

I have run out of excuses. In the distance, a church clock strikes ten o’clock.

“It’s time for my lesson,” I say. “I have to go.”

Konrad grabs my wrist as I stand. “If you don’t give me that name by three o’clock, I will inform the newspapers and the parliament that you ordered the poisoning of Countess Celina Vovesna.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you?” Konrad stands with me and looks down his narrow nose at me. His face hovers closer. I manage not to flinch as his lips close over mine. It’s more of a bite than a kiss. Medev clears his throat and Konrad releases his grip on me.

“By three o’clock,” Konrad says.

It gives me five hours to come up with a plan.

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2025-08-12: Sorry this chapter took me so long! I guess I was nervous, because, well, it’s a pretty dark chapter. I kept rewriting things. But I think some of you guessed Medev and Konrad were working together.

63. Unexpected Revelation

I get back to our apartments to find Dobos waiting patiently in the dining room for me. I apologize for my lateness, but I might as well have not come at all. I am completely unable to concentrate on the lesson. Every time I try to conjugate a verb or construct a phrase, my thoughts are punctuated by terror and desperate machinations. If I tell Konrad the declaration was not in the strong room? If I feign a return of my illness and retreat to bed? If I ask Sadovnik to arrest Medev? But none of my ideas answer. Konrad knows the declaration is in the strong room. He will come to my bedside if I pretend to be ill. Sadovnik will not arrest Medev unless I give him a reason — and I cannot.

In the end, Dobos politely suggests that perhaps I am too tired for my lesson today, and I apologize again for my distraction and blame it on the anticipation of the Constitution Day celebrations. He suggests we break off until tomorrow and leaves me with a simple novel in case I wish to try to bend my mind to language-learning.

I don’t. I cannot. My mind can be bent to nothing but the problem I face. As soon as he is gone, I go to my dressing room and call my maids to help me try on the dress I will wear to the award ceremony. It is black, to match Mariusz’s suit, with silver embroidery heavy all over it and a red velvet train that falls from my shoulders. Mariusz will have a red velvet cloak, only his is lined with white fur, and on his head he will have the black and silver crown.

My own dark hair is twisted in a plain knot at the back of my head to keep it out of the way for the morning. A maid pulls a loose lock down over the nape of my neck

“Perhaps curls long at the back?” she suggests in French. “And high-piled and bare in front? The contrast of the black dress against your skin, the black hair against your brow, it is a nice echo.”

My own face in the mirror looks ghastly to me at the moment. I look away. “Perhaps.”

No matter what I do with my hair or dress, I cannot avoid going to the strong room. Konrad will know if I do not even pretend to try.

“It depends what jewellery I wear,” I say, guilt slinking over my heart. “I was thinking of a tiara.”

“Then perhaps all piled up on top,” the maid says. “Very simple, to show off the jewellery.”

“Yes, perhaps.” I hesitate. “Here, let me have that dressing gown. I want to go and look at my jewellery. I’m not quite sure what I want to wear.”

The maid obligingly helps me undo the velvet train and wrap the dressing gown over my shoulders to protect the dress. I go out into the hallway, clutching my dressing gown around me like a disguise. Only then do I realize I do not even know where the strong room is. I have to find a footman to ask, and he has to take me to the chamberlain who brings me down into the basement offices of the palace where a palace guard stands in front of a locked and barred door. The chamberlain has the key for one of the door’s locks but the guard has to send another footman to Belvolk for the other, only Belvolk is too busy to attend and it is one of his lieutenants who finally arrives with the other key. By this time, it is past two o’clock, and Konrad’s three o’clock deadline looms heavily on my heart. At least with all this running about of servants, he is sure to hear that I have been here. He will think I am doing as he asked.

When the door is at last open, the chamberlain presents me with a ring of keys for the cabinets in the room and makes his exit with a bow. The guard comes in with me, and for a moment fear and relief pierce me in turn — fear that he will not leave and I cannot open the bureau Konrad asked me to, and relief for the very same.

All the guard does is light the many candles along the walls so that a glow burns through the room, gleaming off mahogany strong boxes and bureaus, glinting off jewels in glass cases, and splintering into dancing flecks on the iron-panelled ceiling. Then he leaves again, and is unsuspecting enough to shut the door behind him so that I might view the collection in privacy.

Why should he imagine I would steal anything? It is my jewellery after all.

I stand in front of a glass case displaying tiaras on its velvet-lined shelves and allow the silver and glinting jewels to blur into a kaleidoscope of colour and reflected candlelight before my unfocused gaze. What do I do now? Konrad expects a name from me, a betrayal. I will not escape him without giving him one.

So it must be the wrong one.

And if it is to be the wrong one, then I must know what the right one is.

Perhaps lying will be enough.

I unlock the tiara case with the keys the chamberlain gave me and take out a tiara at random, then I lock it again and look around the room. Konrad said the paper was in a bureau, but which one?

A tall chest of japanned drawers seems likely, but when the top and second drawer reveal only boxes filled with coins of foreign mark, I give up on it. There is a writing desk against a wall, the kind with a hinged sloping lid, currently closed tight. It doesn’t have any drawers, but there must be something stored behind that locked lid.

I try the keys the chamberlain gave me, and a small silver key opens the lid. I lower it carefully. There are several small drawers within, and a number of open compartments scantily filled with small ledgers. This seems more likely. I open the largest drawer, in the centre of desk. There are several folded and sealed letters within, inscribed with Mariusz’s handwriting. My heart stammers. I spread the letters out on the desktop. They are labelled, and some I can read: Mother, Henryka, Dominik, Zofia, Alexandra. Others are more difficult to understand, and I think must be political in nature, but the label on one makes me pause: Vlada po smrti. Rule after death.

This must be it.

I take it up, and hesitate at the seal. It is only one sheet of paper, folded only in thirds. The ink traces shadows through the paper. I could probably hold it up to the light and read it without breaking the seal. Then no one would know I had ever touched it.

But they should know. How often is this drawer checked? Would they find out? In one month? One year? Eventually, anyway.

I rip the seal savagely, leaving crumbs of wax strewn over the desk, and flatten out the sheet of paper. It holds not more than a few lines and Mariusz’s scrawl of a signature at the bottom.

Something about death, something about Dominik, and then a name.

My name.

Mariusz’s regent is me.

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2025-08-24: I’m so sorry about the long delays lately - I’ve had a really crazy month. Did anyone guess Mariusz would pick Alex as his regent?

64. Betrayal

It is a quarter to three and I have to find Konrad. I leave the desk unlocked and the papers scattered within it. I want Mariusz to know a crime has been committed. There isn’t enough time to go back to my rooms or change my dress, so I tuck the tiara into the pocket of my dressing gown and scuttle through servant passages out into the grounds. Konrad said he would wait for me in the pagoda. If Irena or Medev are gone — and I think they will be — then I will be alone with Konrad. Yet I’m more afraid of not reaching him in time than I am of meeting him alone. If the world knows what happened to Celina was my fault— if Mariusz knows—

I would be better off dead.

I hurry through the criss-crossing paths to the pagoda, my indoor slippers damp and black with mud, holding the skirts of my dress to my knees to protect them. Dirt splatters up my bare ankles. I will have to hide them from my maids and wash myself off in secret or they will wonder what I have been up to.

When will Mariusz see the papers scattered across the desk? Whom will he suspect? If he accuses me, all I will have to do is not deny it. I don’t think I could deny it. I don’t think I would want to. But I don’t know how I will explain it.

I reach the pagoda and enter. Konrad sits alone on the bench within. No Irena, no Medev. I should have brought Mariusz’s gun, but there wasn’t time, and besides, I don’t think I could really shoot a man, not even Konrad. The sight of the dead pigeon, its blood brilliant and stark on the white snow, still haunts me.

Konrad smiles. “You have the name.”

The name. What name do I tell him?

I suck the inside of my mouth and the sickly, salty taste of blood seeps from where he kissed me before. “Please.” I can’t keep the begging note out of my voice. “Please, stop this. Please don’t ask me more. I don’t want to do this. I never wanted Celina hurt. I don’t want Mariusz hurt either. And what you’re asking— the only reason to want to know is if you wish him harm. Please don’t do this.”

I only meant to buy time, but the more I speak, the more I mean what I say, and on my last words I reach out and clutch supplicatingly at the collar of Konrad’s coat — and hate myself for it.

Konrad puts his hand over mine and caresses my fingers. “Oh, no,” he says softly. “It’s far too late to pretend to care for me. What I like best about you is that you never tried to hide your feelings. Your antagonism is a delectable challenge. I live for it. And one day, I will crush it. But today— today, I want what I asked you for.” His nails dig into the thin flesh of my fingers. “The name.”

“I can’t tell you.”

Gripping my hand too tight for me to pull away, he stands up, stands over me, breathes in the air that I exhale. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let the world know what was done to Celina at your request. I would give you mercy. But we have Medev to think of.” His teeth scrape the tip of my left ear. “If he doesn’t get the name, I cannot save you from him.”

It is not Medev I want to be saved from. Fear has me frozen to the spot as Konrad nuzzles at my neck. We are all alone in the pagoda, and the thick flowering briars hide whatever might happen within.

I have to get out of here.

“It’s Barany,” I say into Konrad’s coat collar. “The regent is Barany.”

Konrad stills his lips upon my neck. He laughs softly in my ear. “You are lying. Your pulse jumps when you lie. Here, and here.” He touches my neck, and his hand circles around. “Who is it really? I will keep my finger at your pulse so I know when you speak true.”

I cower backwards away from him until the thorns of the briars prick through my clothes. Konrad steps with me, not releasing his grip on my hand or neck. His long, artist’s hands have a strength I did not guess, and his thumb at my throat caresses with the threat of crushing.

“Don’t run away,” he says in a low voice. “I won’t let you run away. Now, who is the regent really?”

“Valery,” I lie.

“Hm. It is harder to tell when your heart is racing, but that was another lie. Give it up, Alexandra. I can read you too well. Desperate hope is written in your eyes, and when it dies I will know you have spoken true.”

His blue eyes are level with mine now. I cannot move to look away from them. I stare hatefully into them, and they only crease with soft, spiteful laughter. His thumb at my neck tightens.

I have to get away from him.

“It’s me,” I whisper hoarsely. “The regent is me.”

The laughter dies in Konrad’s eyes and the colour drains from his face. He releases his grip on me and steps back, blocking my route to the doorway. I collapse further against the pillar of the pagoda, beads of blood swelling where the thorns of the briars prick my neck and cheeks.

“No,” he says hollowly. “No, it can’t be.”

“Yes.” I cough the air back through my throat. “Yes, I’m the regent. He chose me. Now what will you do?”

Konrad stares at me in pale silence. I can see from the rapidity of his breath and flickering of his eyes that he is thinking hard. Without another word, he turns and leaves. I limp to the doorway. He is walking fast, just barely keeping from running. He seems scared, and I don’t understand why.

Now that he is gone, my own fear slowly subsides, and guilt rises like a dark tide in its place.

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2025-08-31: Oh no! Alex told the truth after all. But at least it seems that it was the truth Konrad least wanted to hear.

65. Confession

There is nothing for me to do but go back to my room, wash my muddy feet in the bathroom, wipe the briar scratches at my neck clean, and call back the maids to finish my dressing. I move like a puppet attached to strings, watching my limbs move as though controlled by someone else — Konrad, probably. I hear my own voice instruct my maids to do my hair this way, to put the tiara so, and it sounds like it comes from far, far away.

I am finished dressing and ready for the ceremony well before it is time to leave. I go to Mariusz’s room, but it is empty. Through the door to his dressing room, I can hear the sounds of him talking with his valet. I could interrupt. I could knock at the door and enter. I could say his name and tell him what I have done.

But my hands will not rise from my sides and my voice will not sound.

I turn away and go back to my own room.

I want to fall into bed, to press my eyes closed under the darkness of the pillows and hide even from myself, to throw myself into blissful oblivion sleep, but I will crush my grown and disturb the setting of my hair. Instead, I sit in a chair, my hands gripping the armrests, my back ramrod straight to keep my tiara balanced, and squeeze my eyes shut.

It is no use. I cannot hide from myself.

What have I done?

I am still sitting there with my eyes closed, too paralyzed even to think about it, when Mariusz comes to find me an hour later. His voice breaks off when he opens the door, and I hear only the thump of his shoes on the rug as he pads softly over.

“Are you ill? Is something wrong?”

I pry my eyes open and look brokenly up at him. I can say nothing. My voice is not under my control. Someone else owns it. They have taken it from me. I cannot find it. I must have given it away.

Mariusz presses a hand to my brow and, finding it unheated, kneels at my side and takes my hand in his.

“You’re ill,” he says. “I will tell everybody you cannot come tonight. We should have known better. It is too soon for you to be out and about again.”

If only he wasn’t so kind. If only he betrayed a hint of impatience in his voice or annoyance in his expression. If only he snapped at me and told me to pull myself together the way my mother would have. If only he had a dry, half-veiled criticism to offer the way my father or my uncle would have. Then, perhaps, I would not feel so guilty. Then perhaps I would not hate myself so much.

His kindness breaks through my paralysis like a lump of hot lead through a sheet of ice. Hot tears well up in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. My hand in his trembles. I heave in sobs as my voice returns to me.

Through the blur of my tears, Mariusz looks horrified. He tries to touch my arm, my cheek, to talk to me, but I push him away.

“You can’t go to Coronation Day,” I say. “You can’t go.”

“I have to go,” Mariusz says. “I’ll call a doctor for you. I’ll get Henryka to come, but I can’t stay with you.”

“No. You don’t understand.” There’s no way to make him understand, not without telling him. And if I tell him, he will hate me.

If I don’t tell him, he might be killed.

He reaches out to me again, tries to speak, but I interrupt him.

“Medev knows I’m your regent.”

The words come out too fast and too rough. Mariusz freezes where he kneels, his hands halfway to mine.

“What?” He looks confused more than angry. “Sasha, what are you talking about? Medev knows— but how did you know? Did he tell you? How did he find out?”

More tears spill uselessly down my cheeks. I brush them away with the lace and velvet sleeve of my dress.

“I looked,” I say. “I looked in your desk. I saw the paper. I read it. And I told him because he wanted to know.”

The colour leaches slowly from Mariusz’s face. “What?”

But it is not a question, and if it was, I could not answer it. Having spoken, having revealed my sins, my voice has left me again, and I have nothing but silent tears. Even my arms and back refuse to support me, and I fall back against the chair, the tiara sliding forwards over my brow and pulling my hair with it.

“Is it true?” Mariusz says in a grim voice. “He asked, and you told him?”

I manage to nod. Mariusz is silent for a long moment, then he stands, pulls out his watch, and looks at it.

“Don’t go tonight,” I whisper. “You mustn’t go.”

He must know as well as I do that the only reason a man could have for wanting to know his regent is if they planned on his death. A regent has no power or importance while Mariusz is alive.

“Do not tell me what I must do.” His voice is heatless. It would be easier if he was angry, but I think he is too shocked to be angry. He puts his watch back in his pocket and stands with his head bowed for a long moment. His face twitches with his thoughts. Abruptly and without a word, he leaves the room. I wonder if I should follow him, but the paralysis seems to have spread from my voice and heart to my limbs. I cannot move. I am capable only of waiting.

I do not have to wait long. Some ten minutes later, I hear Mariusz’s voice and the rapid thumping of many boots. To my relief, he has Belvolk with him, and another three palace guards beside. He asks them to wait in the sitting room, then he comes back into my room and shuts the door on them.

“It’s treason,” he says. “It’s spying, which is treason. So… you know what happens.”

Ah. The guards are here not to protect Mariusz, but to imprison me.

“I don’t know what you were thinking.” His voice is rough. “I can’t get my head around it. You barely know Medev. You’ve barely spoken with him.”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I did it.”

“But why?”

“I don’t want to tell you.” He knows enough to protect himself now. He doesn’t need to know more. “I will go with Belvolk now. You don’t have a tower here, but I suppose you have somewhere, some place for people like me.”

I move with conscious effort, joint by joint, limb by limb, and manage to stand. The tiara falls heavily over my brow and I drag it from my head, pulling several painful strands of hair with it, and drop it on the chair. My feet stumble on my way to the door. Mariusz stands in my way. I try to move past him, but he grips my shoulders and forces me to stop.

“Why?” he demands. “Tell me why, Sasha. What happened to you? What did I do to you to deserve this?”

There’s anger in his voice now. I thought it would make things easier, but it only makes my heart ache through its paralysis.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His grip on my shoulders slackens, and for a moment — just a moment, so brief that I cannot be sure I do not imagine it — his hands come around me as though he will pull me closer. Then he jerks away from me, pushes me backwards, and I lose my uneasy balance and fall to the floor.

“I’m going to the Coronation Day celebrations,” he says. “I’m going to the awards ceremony, and the ball in the university gardens afterwards. I won’t be back until late. God only knows if…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“Please don’t go.”

He looks at me one last time, then tears his gaze away and marches for the door. He leaves it open and there are brief words outside.

His guard enters and, once more, I am a prisoner.

__

2025-09-07: There. She told him. Not everything, but it’s a start.

66. The Princess in the Tower Again

The first thing Belvolk does is send for the maids so that I can change out of my regalia and into a serviceable woollen daygown and walking boots. He says I should take a coat also, so I take my plainest walking coat. There is, in his manner, something both embarrassed and kind. I wonder what Mariusz told him. Not all of it, I think. Just enough to have him arrest me.

There are no ornamental chains this time though. Nor handcuffs, not even a rope. Belvolk and one of the guards take me through the palace as casually as if we all just wanted a walk and happened to fall in together. We go out on the terrace with the statues, and then down the stairs onto the south lawns. I cannot think at first where he is taking me, but then the bulky silhouette of the old granary appears against the moonlight and some pigeons coo sleepily at our approach.

It isn’t a prison, of course, but up a creaking flight of wooden stairs there is a loft door, and it latches on the outside. I have a sudden spasm of nausea as Belvolk takes a glinting silver key from his pocket. It isn’t helped by the musty scent of pigeons sinking down from the roof.

Belvolk unlocks the door. By the light of his lamp, the loft within is vast and cluttered. Linen dustcovers drape over clumps of unrecognisable furniture. Belvolk enters and pulls one away, revealing a set of padded chairs. He tries another and finds a threadbare chaise.

“I think there is no bed,” he says in Selician. “We were not ready for your highness.”

“I’m glad,” I say in Rothalian, “that no one thought I would need a prison this time.”

Belvolk looks blankly at me. “Forgive me, I don’t understand.”

“It is not important,” I say in Selician.

Belvolk takes his lamp and explores the room further. In a wooden chest, he finds piles of neatly folded old quilts. I gather up my courage and step into the loft after him. It does not feel as confined as my tower. It is larger, and fragments of sky show through the gaps in the roof tiles. It doesn’t seem like a prison. It isn’t a prison, really. It must have been the only place they could think of to contain me on short notice.

I join Belvolk at the chest and pull out two or three of the quilts. They are scratchy with age, the feathers poking through the threadbare cotton, but they smell only like the wood of the chest they came from and they promise to be warm.

“It is enough,” I say. “Can I have the light? I don’t want… It is dark, and…” But I don’t have the language or courage to express what I mean.

Perhaps Belvolk understands. He gives me a look of pity and sets it down on a covered table.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“No.” Now that I think of it, I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I could not face anything now. “I need nothing, thank you.”

He bows to me and goes to the door. It shuts to the chorus of fluttering pigeon wings above. The lock snaps, and the latch thuds, and I am alone.

If I am not hungry, it is not long before I start to feel cold, despite my coat and woollen dress. I fetch more quilts from the chest and pile them on top of the chaise, then I bury my body beneath them. Their weight and the occasional prickings from an errant feather cannot make me comfortable, but at least they warm the blood in my limbs.

I lie on the chaise until the lamp slowly dies and the only light in the room is from faint glints of moon through the roof. I can no more sleep than I could eat. What time is it? What will be Mariusz be doing now? Will he be in the coach riding through the shadowy streets of the city? Will he be on stage in front of enemy eyes? Will he perhaps be in the university gardens surrounded by crowds of malevolent strangers?

Everywhere he goes, he is vulnerable. All it would take is a single gun shot. Or perhaps they would be less discriminate. Perhaps they have planted a bomb and will terrify half the populace with it. But silence is more Konrad’s style, I think. An assassin of his would use a knife and sneak up behind Mariusz in the dark or in a crowd. No one would know what had happened until it was too late. Then again, Medev poisoned Celina. If he is the one directing things, perhaps he will do the same again. It would be very simple for a corrupt serving maid or footman to spill some noxious vial into a glass of wine.

I have never, in my life, hated myself so much.

The moonlight fades and the room goes very dark. I have only the cooings and scratchings of the pigeons in the eaves to keep me company. Perhaps I do fall asleep then, somehow, or perhaps time simply ceases to have meaning, because very suddenly the wooden stairs outside are creaking again as someone thuds up them. A yellow light flashes through the cracks in the door. I sit up, my heart pounding. Is it Belvolk coming to tell me Mariusz is dead and I am a disgraced widow?

The person at the door fumbles with the key. They cannot seem to get it in the lock. At last they do, but the door bangs and shudders against the frame when they try to open it. They have forgotten the latch. Their clumsy, thumping fingers try to find it. It is not Belvolk. He would not be so incompetent. My heart pounds faster. Is it Konrad?

The door slams open. Mariusz sways in the doorway, a lamp swinging wildly in his hand.

He is drunk. Dead drunk.

He stumbles into the loft and places the lamp with overdue care on a table. He looks around the room, his gaze skipping over me, then lurches for one of the chairs Belvolk uncovered and manages to fall into it.

“You’re not asleep,” he observes without looking at me. Perhaps he is speaking to the pigeons, who are fluttering and cooing urgently in the eaves at the disruption he has brought to their home.

“I could not sleep.”

“Well.” He leans back in his chair and stares into the rafters. Under his breath, he mutters a few curses in his own languages at intervals.

He’s not dead. Either they made the attempt and failed, or they made no attempt. Perhaps no attempt was ever meant to be made — but if so, why the urgency of knowing who the regent is?

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He lowers his gaze from the rafters to look at me. “Then tell me why you did it. Tell me what happened.”

“No.”

He turns his gaze upwards again. We sit in silence, mostly, for an hour or more. Every now and then he asks me, without hope or violence, to tell him why I did it, what happened, or who his enemies are. Each time, I tell him nothing.

“What am I meant to tell people?” he asks as morning light starts to pierce the gaps in the roof tiles. “They will want to know why I have locked my wife in a storage room. I will have to give them a reason.”

“What did you tell Belvolk?”

“I said you attacked me.” He shrugs. “I can excuse that as a temporary hysteria. I can dismiss that. I can’t excuse espionage. Not unless you give me some reason to.”

I swallow to get some moisture into my dry throat. “Then tell the others that too. Tell them I— I used a knife. They’ll believe it. I’ve done it before.”

He looks at me, his expression skeptical, and says nothing for a long moment. Then he gets to his feet and moves to the door, collecting his lamp on the way. He must be sobering now. He neither lurches nor stumbles.

“Mariusz.”

He stops in the doorway. “What is it?”

“Why did you choose me?”

He shakes his head. “Because I thought I could trust you.”

Then he is gone, and his fingers do not fumble this time as he drops the latch in place and turns the key.

Somehow, after that, despite the increasing daylight filtering down through gaps in the roof, I manage to fall asleep. When I wake, it is to a servant bringing me a tray of food and a pitcher of water and bowl. I get out of my makeshift bed and pull covers off furniture until I find a table I can use as a washstand. I feel dirty just from the scent of the pigeons clouding the air around me. I’m not much interested in the food, but I drink some wine and force down a few bites of bread to soak it up. It makes me nauseous, perhaps because I can still smell the pigeons and hear them cooing and scratching above me. I think some of them are inside with me, hiding in the shadows of the rafters. If I leave the bread out, they might come down to peck at it. The thought brings back my nausea. I crawl around the room until I find a small shuttered window. I shove it open with a bang, setting the pigeons off squawking. I get the bread and toss it through the window, watching it land with a dull thump on the grass below. After a few minutes of squawking, fluttering uncertainty, the pigeons start to drift down towards it. I watch them squabble over it until there is nothing of it left but the hope of crumbs, then I shut the window and go back to my bed to crawl under the quilts and wait for time to pass.

Time does pass. The light swells and then fades. When it comes red and warm through the cracks in the roof, another maid comes to bring a new tray of food and take the old one away. This time I think I really should eat, so I manage to worry down another few bites of bread, but each bite seems to raise more bile in my mouth. I tear it into little pieces to throw to the pigeons. I am still tearing when the door opens again. It is Mariusz once more, dressed in a stark black suit which brings out the shadows under his eyes.

“I’m going to ask you once a day,” he says. “Why did you do it? What happened?”

“I will not tell you. You know I won’t.”

“I don’t know anything.” He turns to leave, but I call him back. I don’t want to be alone here, not now it is getting dark. However, now I have to think of something to say that isn’t about my betrayal.

“How… How is Celina?” I manage. “Have you received any news?”

Mariusz’s expression darkens. “I’ve received no letters from Barany. I can only assume one thing by it.”

She is dead. He thinks she is dead, and he is probably right.

The bile rises sharply in my throat and I retch over my food tray. I wipe my mouth and pour myself a glass of wine, but it does nothing to settle my stomach or the shaking of my fingers.

Mariusz comes closer. Perhaps he means to help me, but after a moment my nausea settles and I breathe more easily.

“What is this?” he asks, flicking his hand over my pyramid of bread crumbs. “Are you not eating?”

“I was preparing it for the pigeons. I think they like it more than me.”

“The pigeons?” He scowls. “For God’s sake, Sasha, you must—” His scowl deepens, and he glares at me in silence for a long moment, anger building behind his eyes. “I don’t suppose you must eat,” he says coldly. “No one ever starved to death in a day. But if you will not have it, the vermin certainly will not either. I will take it with me.”

He picks up the tray and tucks the wine bottle under his arm.

“I was going to drink,” I say. “I am thirsty.”

“You have water.” He takes my half-empty wine glass and throws its contents carelessly onto the floor, then sets it back down on the table. “Prisoners do not take wine.”

That was just cruel, but perhaps he thinks cruelty will bring me to speak. Or perhaps he is merely that angry, perhaps I have made him hate me almost as much as I hate myself.

He leaves, and in the fast fading light I take myself back to bed to wait.

__

2025-09-14: let me share something about myself - I loathe pigeons. Swans? Elegant birds. Sparrows? Smol birds. Penguins? Waddle birds. Pigeons? Flying rats.

67. The Paper Crown

It starts to rain in the night and continues through into the next day. The grey light makes it impossible to tell how far the day is advancing, but it seems hours upon hours into the morning before anyone comes to see me. Perhaps Mariusz told them to stay away. Perhaps he thinks to starve and silence me into speaking. I lie on the chaise under my quilts, nothing but the steady drumming of rain to keep me company. In this weather, the pigeons are still and quiet. Perhaps they are all sleeping.

I do feel hunger, but it settles into a distant emptiness within me, quite bearable, not even unpleasant really. Every now and then I drink from my pitcher of water. It fills the emptiness a little.

When the door does open, it is Mariusz again. The shoulders of his coat are shiny and slick with rain, and I have never seen such a bitter, set expression on his face. He carries a lamp and the sky behind him is gunmetal grey. Either it is not as far into the morning as I think or it is very late afternoon.

“What time is it?” I ask.

He gives no answer. He simply kicks the door shut behind him and sets his lamp down upon a chair. There is something in the inner pocket of his coat. It weighs it down. He keeps his hand on it as he drags another chair closer and slings himself into it. For several long minutes, he watches me without speaking.

“What time is it?” I repeat.

Again, he ignores me. He taps the lump in his coat pocket thoughtfully. The rain drums louder on the roof and a draught makes his lamp flicker.

“Mariusz, why won’t you—”

“Do you know your food is being poisoned?” he interrupts.

“What? I— But I haven’t had any. Not since yesterday, only a few mouthfuls then.”

“Which may have saved your life, at the cost of thirty or so pigeons dead on the lawn. There was arsenic in both the bread and the wine. Someone is trying to kill you. I think you know who.”

Me. It’s me they’re trying to kill. Of course it would be. I was the wrong regent, for whatever reason. That’s why Konrad ran away when I told him. Mariusz is safe while I’m alive.

“You look relieved.” Mariusz’s voice is hostile. “I wonder, did you know about the poison and hope I would discover it? Or did you not know and somehow the thought pleases you?”

He hates me again. Of course he does. I betrayed him to his enemies.

“Answer me,” Mariusz says. “Did you know?”

“No. No, of course I didn’t. Do you think I would poison myself?”

“I don’t know. It could be another plot of some kind. A ploy to get out of here. I am surrounded by conspiracy it seems. My letters are being intercepted. Did you know that? How much of anything do you know? More than me, at the very least.”

“Your letters?”

“Barany sent a messenger to me. I sent a messenger to Barany. They met halfway to Belasarna. The letters he sent me and the letters I sent him never arrived.”

Was that Konrad too? Or was it Medev? Medev must be the one trying to poison me. It is his weapon of choice. But stolen letters feels like something Konrad would do.

“How is Celina?”

“She will live. And for whatever reason, it was important to someone that I could not be sure of it.

No. It was important to Konrad and Medev that I could not be sure of it.

A chill runs down my spine.

“You have to tell me what you know,” Mariusz says. “You must tell me why you did this. How Medev made you do it. Who else is is involved. Someone is trying to kill you, Sasha. If they fail one way, they will try another. I can only protect you if I know more.”

“No.” Cold fear turns to fire in my heart. “Stop asking me things. Go away. I don’t want you here. I can’t stand it. I— I hate you. Can’t you see that? That’s why I did all this. I hate you. What other reason could there be?”

I speak only to get him to leave. If he is gone, perhaps I will be able to think things through and come up with a plan. Perhaps I will be able to work things out. Even as I say it, I regret it. The words cannot be unsaid.

I am always saying things that cannot be unsaid. Always doing things that cannot be undone.

My heart beats loud in the long silence that follows.

“You don’t hate me,” Mariusz says at last. “If you hated me, you would never have told me you betrayed me.”

“But you hate me. You must hate me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You will.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t. Tell me why you betrayed me.”

“I will tell you nothing.”

Irritation sparks across his face. He slips a hand into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out the thing making the lump. It is one of his pistols. He pulls back the hammer.

“I loaded this before I came here,” he says. “You know how to use it. I want you to understand, if you don’t tell me the truth, you are killing me. I would rather you shoot me. It would be quicker and less terrifying.”

He gets up and comes over to my chaise to kneel on the floor in front of me, holding out the pistol towards me.

“Make it quick,” he says. “Aim for my heart.”

“No. Don’t be stupid.” I shrink away from the pistol. “Stop it. Stop it!”

He grabs my hands and forces the butt of the pistol into them, then pulls its muzzle fast against his chest. “Save my life or kill me. Hate me or don’t. It is your choice. It is all up to you.”

His hands are so tight around mine that I dare not move in case I discharge the pistol accidentally.

“Please don’t. Please, Mariusz, stop. Let me go. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No.” He shuts his eyes. “You have the choice to save me or kill me. If you have chosen to kill me, this is how I have chosen to let you do it.”

“No, no, no.” My arms tremble, and the gun trembles with them. “No. Please. No. Let me put the gun away. Let me put it down. Let me go.”

His grip only tightens. “You are killing me, Sasha. I will have you know that you are killing me. I will have you see yourself do it.”

Tears blur my vision. “Stop this. Please. Stop. I don’t want to kill you. I’m scared.” My whole body is shaking now. My left knee jerks up and down uncontrollably. “Stop it. Let me go. I can’t— I can’t—” My shaking fingers stammer against the trigger guard. “Please don’t. Please. I need you.”

His grip softens a little. “Then save me.”

I see my chance in his slackened grip and try to drag my hands away. He jerks me towards him and I come off the chaise and collide against him, the pistol pressed between us. Something pops — the percussion cap. My heart seems to explode with it. Is he dead? Have I killed him?

But there is no smell of powder, no heat in the barrel, no weakness in the hands that grip mine.

The gun wasn’t loaded.

“You bastard. You pig bastard.” The salt of tears hits the back of my throat. “I thought I killed you!”

“If you don’t tell me the truth, Sasha, you have.”

Mariusz lets my hands go and sits back on his heels. The gun slides to the floor with a dull thump. I put a hand to my heart to try to calm its racing and fall back against the edge of the chaise. Tears keep running down my face and I cannot stop them. Every time I think they are slowing, the terror of hearing the pop of the percussion cap comes back to me and a new flood comes. My breath comes in rags.

After a few minutes, Mariusz’s tear-blurred figure takes something else out of his pocket. I hear the squeak of a metal screw cap and the glug of liquid. Mariusz leans forward and presses a steel cup to my lips. I swallow a burning measure of spirits. It helps a little. My heart slows and my breath returns to my aching chest. Exhausted by tears and hunger, a strange, numb clarity comes to me.

Mariusz is right. If they will poison me, if they will poison Celina, they will not stop short of killing Mariusz. Not once I am dead and out of their way as regent.

If I do not speak, I am killing him.

If I do speak, he will hate me for the rest of his life.

Fresh tears roll down my cheeks. “They… they poisoned Celina too,” I whisper. “They poisoned her to make her lose the baby. They didn’t care if they killed her too.”

In front of me, Mariusz goes very, very still. “Go on,” he says quietly. “Keep talking.”

“It… they… It was my fault.” My voice breaks. “I didn’t know they were going to do it, but I asked them for help— I asked Medev for help. I didn’t know what kind of help it would be, I swear. I never would have asked for murder. I’m sorry. It nearly killed her. I’m sorry.”

“When did you ask him? What kind of help did you ask him for?”

“At the dinner he came to. I thought he knew who the father was. I thought I was asking him to tell me his name. But… but the way he repeated my words back at me, I can see how it might have seemed… I never intended… to ask that. But he thought I asked that, or he made it seem like he thought that. If I hadn’t been so careless with my words, if I had been clearer, he never would have… the baby would not be dead and he would have nothing to hold over me, and…”

“Sasha, you are not making sense. What exactly did you ask him?”

“I don’t remember my exact words. I wanted to know the name of the baby’s father. Medev made it seem like he knew. So I begged him to help me, and he said… he used the word blessure. I took it to mean injury, that the man would be injured by his name being known. I said I would rather someone else be injured than me. I had no notion he meant to actually wound Celina, to hurt her. You must believe me.”

“My darling, I know that. You don’t need to persuade me of that. What I don’t understand is why you thought he had any power over you. If what you say is true, if he poisoned Celina, then only he is in danger. He could not bring you into it. Oh, perhaps he could lie, perhaps he could twist your words, but he would not dare — he would be hanged for admitting his own role in it. If you had just told me everything when he first asked you to tell him my regent… Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you trust me?”

My heart sinks. I wipe the last vestiges of tears from my cheeks. I have to tell him everything, right from the beginning, but I don’t think I really understand all of it myself. My heart gets so full of terror when I think of it that my brain clouds over.

“I was afraid,” I whisper.

“Afraid of Medev?”

“No. Not… not him.” I pull my knees to my chest. “Konrad.”

I speak barely louder than a breath, afraid, suddenly, that he will be listening somehow and hear me speak his name.

“Konrad,” Mariusz repeats slowly. “He’s involved in this?”

“I don’t know. He could be working with Medev. He could be part of the conspiracy. Perhaps he’s just taking advantage of Medev’s plans. He likes to do people favours so that he can hold something over them. I don’t know if he knew about poisoning Celina— no, he must have, but… But then he asked me weeks ago about your regent — I refused to ask you about it. If I had… but he would have found out. He would have used me to find out. He can tell when I’m lying. Not all the time, but often. He knew when I said Barany was your regent. I tried to lie but—”

“Then it was him you told? Not Medev?”

“Medev was only here in the morning on Constitution Day. He was in the pagoda covered with roses in the ramble. When Irena came to ask me to walk with her, she took me to them. I don’t know how much she knows. Not much. She thinks I’m Konrad’s lover. She might not have even known Medev was there. She might not have seen him. He wasn’t there afterwards, when I came back to tell them, to try to lie. It was just Konrad then.”

Mariusz presses two fingers to the frown on his brow. “Wait, Sasha. I can’t keep up. Irena thinks you’re Konrad’s lover? Why?”

My heart thuds in my chest. “Because she saw— she saw him kiss me.”

Mariusz’s hand drops from his face. He stares at me, his grey eyes wide. “He kissed you? When? What kind of kiss?”

“It was at night. One of the nights we had a dinner. We didn’t go up to our apartments together — you went off with Valery for some reason. Konrad was waiting for me on the staircase by the prayer room. It was just on the cheek, that first time. Maybe in the dark it looked like more. I think he told her it was more afterwards. Maybe it was more. I don’t know. I don’t trust my memory.”

“There were other times?”

“In the pagoda. He kissed me in the pagoda. And he tried to kiss me in my lessons once. That was why I quit. He gave me too many compliments and he tried to kiss my hand. He tried to make me let him. So I quit. That was just before your name day party. And then… I suppose your name day party was when… I think I kissed him first. I was running from him when I went to the roof. I thought he was behind me, but it was you. I was terrified of him. Then, in my room afterwards, when I had been stitched up, when I had had the opium… after you had left again… I was sleeping…”

“He came into your room?” Mariusz’s face turns pale. “Sasha, please, did he… he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Hurt me? You mean… No. But…” But he would have. The cloudy shadow of my terror takes on a sudden sharp silhouette. If he had the opportunity, if it served his purpose, he would have. “The opium made me so strange. I don’t remember everything, but I know it was I that kissed him. I just… I don’t remember why. I think… I can’t have wanted to do it. I’m sure I didn’t want to do it. I think he made me do it somehow. I’m sorry.”

“My God, don’t apologize for that. He was in your room, Sasha. In your room when you were injured and drunk and drugged and asleep. He was there to take advantage of you. If you escaped with only a kiss, I have everything to be grateful for, and you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“For this? For what he did? No.” Mariusz shuffles closer to sit next to me on the floor in front of the chaise. He takes my hand in his. “I was angry with you for betraying me, but I’m starting to understand now. It’s all such a mess. I don’t know what to do.”

I lean against him and drop my head to his shoulder. After a moment, his arm comes around me. My heart slows to a steady, calm thump in my chest.

“I should have told you months ago,” I say. “I should have told you the moment Konrad started frightening me. You warned me against him, and I didn’t listen.”

“I warned you against him because I thought he was lazy, selfish, and greedy. He doesn’t work. He just writes his poetry and leeches off the public purse. He doesn’t even look after his own child. Irena and my mother do all that. He makes friends with rich and powerful people and he uses them for favours. I didn’t want you to be one those friends. I never imagined he would abuse you. I never imagined he had any greater ambitions than living an easy, comfortable life. Konrad, running a conspiracy. It’s laughable.” Mariusz swears in Selician. “I’ve been blind.”

“What about Medev?”

“If he poisoned Celina, I will find the evidence and have him charged. Your name won’t come into it. I will make sure of that.”

“And Konrad?”

Mariusz shakes his head. “I don’t know. He has rich and powerful friends who owe him favours. I would need to prove something against him without involving you in it. Until I can do that, I don’t know if I can keep you safe from him.”

“But you wear the crown. You are the duke, the most powerful man in the duchy, the second most powerful man in the kingdom. You can keep me safe.”

Mariusz laughs hollowly. “It’s a paper crown, Sasha. I am beholden to the whims of parliament, the will of your uncle, and the rule of law. Between those three forces, I’m little more than a figurehead. Every now and then, I dress in costume and present an award or give a speech. Every week I go to Parliament, but other than occasionally vetoing a law that would probably never pass anyway, I sit and watch other men shape my country. The king tells me what I should do, and I do it, and I have noticed, Sasha, that he never asks me to do anything very important. How can I keep you safe? Set my guards to watch you all hours of the day? You’ve been locked up for two nights and two days with a guard outside to watch the door, and someone — Konrad, or Medev, who knows which — still tried to kill you. Could I imprison Konrad like a despot? Could I make up some excuse to throw him in a cell? No. Sadovnik would not follow such an order. Tarnuv would lead an official investigation in Parliament. Your uncle would force me to set him free. What can I do, Sasha? How can I protect you? I can’t. Not from Konrad.”

I find his hand at my waist and interlace my fingers with his. “Then what do we do now?”

__

2025-09-24: My god this chapter was hard to write. Also, uh, no pigeons were harmed in the writing of this novel. I swear.

68. A Night Together

In the end, we go back to our apartments. Mariusz makes some excuse to Belvolk, who accepts it without blinking an eye. He doesn’t let me out of his sight as we cross back across the gardens, up through the terrace, and through the dark passages of the palace. Even when I call for a bath, he waits with me as my maids prepare the water and waits outside in my bedroom as I bathe. When I come back out, wrapped in a dressing gown, he has a tray loaded with steaming soup and dumplings and a pot of tea waiting for me on a table by the fire.

“It is safe,” he says. “I had my valet watch the cook prepare it.”

Despite that, the first dumpling makes my stomach spasm with pain. It’s been nearly three days since I have eaten a proper meal. I sip slowly at the soup as Mariusz eats the dumplings. Somehow, by the time I’ve finished my bowl, I’m hungrier than when I started to eat. I nibble at a couple of dumplings and drink some tea, and that settles my stomach. While I’m finishing my tea, Dowager Duchess Maria enters the room. Her gaze rests expressionlessly on Mariusz sitting cross-legged on the hearthrug at my feet.

“I understand you had an argument,” she says in French. “It became a physical event. You attacked my son. He arrested you.”

Guilt flashes across Mariusz’s face. I wonder if Duchess Maria believed his lie. She is not easy to lie to, and she knows him well.

“I lost my temper. I had hysteria.”

“That was unwise.” Her tone betrays no hint of suspicion. “I see he has forgiven you now. But perhaps he provoked you to begin with.”

I look at Mariusz. “Ah. Perhaps I reacted too strongly.”

“It is water under the bridge,” Mariusz says. “We do not need you to reconcile us.”

Duchess Maria looks skeptically at him. “What really happened?” she asks in Selician. “What did she do?”

She speaks quietly and rapidly, perhaps hoping I cannot understand.

Mariusz shakes his head. “Mother, it is between us.”

Duchess Maria says something else, and this I cannot translate so easily, but I gather she doubts that I attacked him.

“It is between us,” Mariusz repeats. “Please, Mother, we are tired. Let us alone.”

Duchess Maria is not so easily put off, however. She presses Mariusz for a few more minutes in Selician. I cannot tell if she is more suspicious of me or of him. He persists in his refusal to say a word, however, and she reluctantly gives up on the topic. She turns instead to me.

“You do not look well,” she says in French. “You are very pale. You look thin. This must have been a tremendous strain on you. Do you want a doctor? Has he offered you a doctor?”

“I thank you for your concern, but I need nothing but a good night’s sleep,” I say.

Duchess Maria keeps her gaze on me a few moments longer. “I hope that if you do need anything you will ask for it,” she says finally. “Perhaps, if you had spoken to me before whatever happened, I could have prevented it.”

My heart quickens with some strange guilt. Duchess Maria, with her observant eyes and watchful silences, must understand a man like Konrad well. Perhaps if I had confided in her earlier, well back, when Konrad first started to make me uneasy, she could have helped, she could have prevented what came later.

I never even considered it.

“I will remember your kind words,” I say.

But I am not sure I would ever dare take her up on them.

She does not press the matter further. She merely bows her head, wishes us goodnight, and leaves. I turn to Mariusz.

“You didn’t tell her the truth?”

He shakes his head. “I thought secrecy best until I knew more myself. I would like to tell her everything. I think she would understand. She would be angry, but she would understand.”

“Angry with me?”

“Not just with you.” Mariusz pats my foot. “I won’t tell her if you don’t want me to. Perhaps it’s best to keep it secret a while longer anyway. I think we should tell King Edmund first.”

“What?” Alarm floods my veins. “No. No, please. I don’t want him to know. He— he…” I try desperately to find the words to explain my feelings. “I don’t want him to see my shame.”

“He could help us. He could rid us of Konrad in a single breath. He could exile him. He would, to protect you.”

My hands tremble and I wrap my arms around myself to stop them. “Konrad humiliated me,” I whisper. “I don’t want my uncle to know. I really don’t want him to know.”

Mariusz is silent for a long moment. “I won’t tell him without your consent,” he says eventually, “but I must explain some things to him. I think I will have to explain that you opened my declaration. He will not accept that I imprisoned you simply for losing your temper and attacking me. I expect a letter — or a messenger, even — in a day or two to demand me to explain myself.”

“It would not be beyond your legal rights to do so, if I had attacked you.”

Mariusz gets to his feet and looks down at me. “You may not be the easiest person to become intimate with, but no one who does know you well could believe that you had attacked me. King Edmund knows you. He will want to know why I really imprisoned you.”

“I did try to kill him. He knows my violence.”

“Exactly. He knows your violence.” A wry smile shadows Mariusz’s lips for half a heartbeat. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Maybe in the morning I’ll know what to do.”

I don’t think I can sleep at all. Certainly not alone. I follow Mariusz into his room as though tied by an invisible chain. He stops and turns to look at me.

“Is something wrong?”

“I… I don’t want to be alone.”

“Ah.” His eyes crease with sympathy. “You can sleep with me. Go on. Get into bed. I’ll just get undressed. I won’t be long.”

There’s no insinuation in his tone or expression. He speaks to me almost as a nurserymaid to a child. Even then, I dare not slip beneath the covers of his bed. I lie on top, my hands folded at my waist, while he disappears into his dressing room. I hear the squeaking of drawers opening and shutting, the running of a tap, and the thumping of cupboard doors. Mariusz emerges again, resplendent in a nightshirt with billowing white sleeves and a frothy lace collar undone nearly to his navel. The down on his chest glints under the light of the candle he carries. He goes around the room, dousing lights, and then into mine to do those I left burning there. Then he comes back to bed, and before I can quantify the thickness of the hair on his chest or qualify its colour, blows out the candle he holds, throws back the covers, and buries himself beneath them.

He is on his side, with his back to me. After a few minutes’ deep silence — though I can tell from his breathing he is not asleep — I worm myself beneath the covers too. My foot touches his calf and he jerks away.

“Cold toes,” he mutters.

“Sorry.”

The silence returns. Mariusz humphs over to his other side. His warm breath brushes my cool cheek. He shifts his arm, trying to get comfortable, and his hand meets mine. Our fingers link. We lie connected for another long silence before I dare speak in a whisper.

“You’re not asleep.”

“Mmm.”

“Are you tired?”

“Very.”

“But you can’t sleep.”

“It happens. I’ve so much to think about. It keeps me awake.”

“What if I tell you a story?”

“Like a child?” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Please.”

“I can’t think of any stories.”

“Then tell me something true.” His finger moves back and forth across mine. “Tell me a memory. A happy memory.”

I pull back the curtain in my mind that I normally keep drawn. Something happy. I push away the flickers of memory with my uncle’s voice and face. Something happy. There’s my father, so like my uncle, a little darker, a little narrower of face and figure, but his eyes, I think, a brighter blue.

“One time, when I was very, very young,” I say. “I think I would have been about five or six. My father woke me up. It was the middle of the night. It was pitch black. I thought there was something wrong at first. I was in a big panic. He said no, no, come with me. Follow me. He wouldn’t tell me why. I followed him through the palace in the dark. He would allow no candle. I was terrified. I thought something was really wrong, but I trusted him, so I followed him. We went all the way up a tower. There were so many stairs my little legs got tired, so he picked me up and carried me. Well, we got to the top of the tower. We were on the roof. It was still pitch black. There were stars, but no moon, and the stars didn’t give out much light. I asked my father, what are we doing here? And he said, just wait, wait, wait. So we waited. And, then, slowly, a red glow started towards the east, over the mountains. Then it became burningly bright, brilliantly red and pink and purple as the sun came over the mountains. My father said, look, there’s dawn. I wanted to see the dawn with you. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And we sat, and we watched the sun rise together. And it was beautiful, and I was very, very happy being up there with him. Just him and me.”

“That’s nice. You were close to him.”

“I loved him. He had to travel often. He was away a lot. I was always so happy when he came back. I would run screaming towards him, and he would pick me up and toss me around. I think even fourteen, fifteen, I didn’t scream by then, but when I saw his coach, I would run to it, and he couldn’t pick me up, but he would hold out his arms to me and embrace me. I wasn’t like that with anyone else.”

“It’s easier when you’re a boy,” Mariusz murmurs. “I never liked hugging or kissing my sisters, but I could always wrestle with Adam. Mind, Zofia would wrestle, I think, if I had ever let her. I was too scared of hurting her. She’s so little.”

“I can’t imagine your mother approved.”

“Probably not, but she understood. She only stepped in when we might damage something, or when we were in company, or when we really crossed a line.”

“What lines did you cross?”

“Hm. Well. Once, during chapel, Adam slipped a frog down the back of my shirt. It was so wet and jumpy. I stripped off all my clothing off in the pew to get it out. I was about ten or eleven years old. The choir boys were laughing at me. I was a small ten year old. Adam was bigger. He had muscles. At that age, I was just beginning to understand that muscles were important for men. Of course, my mother was furious with Adam, but I had to get my revenge.”

“How did you?”

“We had a stag hunt a week or so later. I unpicked the lining of Adam’s hunting trousers, sewed nettle leaves into it, and stitched it closed again.”

“That was mean!”

“Yes. He couldn’t keep his seat at all. Fell off five times before my father ordered the groom to take him back to the lodge. Kept scratching his rear in front of everyone too. Of course my mother figured it out, and it was my turn to be punished.”

“And after all that, you were still friends.”

“I think we loved each other more for it. We both thought we were quite clever, quite admirable.”

We fall into silence again. My back gets tired and I turn over onto my side, breaking contact with Mariusz’s hand. He turns over as well, and we are back to back.

“I still can’t sleep,” he says after a while. “Tell me another story. What kinds of things did you father teach you? My mother taught me to sew. I used it for evil. What did you father teach you?”

“Hm. A little bit about guns. How to knot a cravat.”

“A cravat? Why would you need to know that?”

“Because eight year old girls look very charming in their father’s suits. Or at least, I did.”

“Really?” Mariusz laughs under his breath. “Yes. You would have been a charming eight year old. Very solemn, I imagine.”

“Maybe. Yes. I think I was. I’m a solemn adult too, I suppose.”

“It only makes your rare smiles more delightful.”

My cheeks warm. I can think of no reply.

“Well, go on,” Mariusz says after a while. “Tell me another story. How often did you dress in your father’s clothes?”

“Every now and then, to amuse myself or my father. I would dance, too, in his clothes, taking his spaniel as my dancing partner. The poor spaniel didn’t like it very much. One Christmas, in very dull weather, all of us children — that’s my cousins and I — put on a sort of show for the adults. I did my dance routine with the spaniel. My cousin Viktoria was furious. She had a dance routine of her own, you see, but in hers she dressed in a ballgown and tried to look beautiful and graceful. But you can’t follow a dancing spaniel and not look silly.”

“No, of course not. Maria and Adam and I used to do the same sort of thing, plays for Mother and Father. Adam and I would always find a way to make a joke of it, and Maria would always be so annoyed. She took it all very seriously. She always wanted singing parts as well, though she can’t sing. She goes off-key.”

“What about you? Can you sing?”

“A little. I can keep a tune.” Mariusz turns over again, so that he’s facing my back. “I’ll sing you a song. My mother used to sing it to us as children.”

He begins to sing softly in Selician. It seems to be about frogs. I try to untangle the meaning of the words, but my thoughts get tangled up in the sound of his voice. It’s a lullaby, I think dimly. The tune is familiar. Someone once used to sing something similar to me.

When I wake, sunlight is streaming in through the window and Mariusz is standing in front of it drinking a cup of tea in his dressing gown. I stretch into the bedsheets with a yawn and find his warmth still lingers in them.

“You’re awake?” He turns from the window.

“Yes. Did you sleep well?”

“Not much at all.” There are dark shadows under his eyes. “I thought about it all night. There is only one thing I can think of to do now. One way to keep you safe.”

__

2025-10-16: Sorry for the extended delay. Once I entered holiday mode, it took me a while to get back out of it.

69. A Secret Shared

We take the train to Rothalia. Mariusz tells me that the only way he can keep me safe is by keeping me away from Konrad and Medev. In Rothalia, they will have no reach. He promises me, though, that he will tell nothing to my uncle without my permission except that I opened his declaration of regent. He repeats that promise as we pass the crossing point into Rothalia, sorrow in his eyes and hopelessness in his voice.

“Are you asking for permission?” I say.

“Will it be granted?”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Mariusz. I can’t. I can barely even face him.”

“It won’t be for long. We’ll figure out a plan. You’ll be back home soon.”

Home.

Is Selica home? Has anywhere ever been home since the day my father died?

But Rothalia certainly is not home anymore. My heart grows heavy as our train passes through the spring-green damp countryside, grows heavier still as we enter the city outskirts. We stop for water and coal, and Mariusz and I get out to stretch our legs on the station platform. Stationhands call to each other in Rothalian as they work, and I yearn for the incomprehensible babble of Selician. When the train stops at Rovenberg Station and we are let down onto a secret, dark platform away from the general public, I wrap my hands around Mariusz’s arm and cower into him.

I have failed. I was never meant to return.

“Stand tall,” he says. “You are Princess Alexandra, Duchess of Selica. Stand tall.”

I straighten, but keep my arm around his. “I hate this place.”

“Then hate it with a straight back.” He pats my arm. “There you go. Don’t let King Edmund see you bend.”

His words and his touch are enough to keep my chin raised all through the carriage ride to the palace. Even as we are led through the familiar palace halls, each step sending dread echoing through my heart, I keep my chin tilted high.

King Edmund receives us in his study. He waits for the door to shut behind us, then gets up from his desk and comes to meet us by the fire. For several long moments, he is silent, merely looking from me to Mariusz and back again. My chin quavers. My gaze drops.

“What happened?” he says quietly. “I have heard a rumour you attacked Mariusz. I know you were imprisoned — he imprisoned you. What happened? Something has gone wrong. You have come to me. For help? For something else? Explain yourselves. I cannot make sense of it. I am missing something.”

Mariusz waits for me to speak, and when I don’t, he says, “I imprisoned her, it is true. She did not attack me. I invented that lie for the public. She broke the seal on my declaration of regent. She looked at what was meant to be secret. She shared that secret with others. She broke the law. I had to do something.”

I feel King Edmund’s gaze resting upon me and manage to meet it for a fleeting moment.

“I am still missing something,” he says. “Alexandra, why did you do this?”

“I did it. My reasons are my own.”

“But you share them with Mariusz?”

I say nothing.

“She has trusted me,” Mariusz says. “She has given me her reasons.”

“So she steals your secrets and gives you her own in exchange.” King Edmund moves to a chair and sits. “Sit down, both of you. I will not call for tea. We will dine soon. Tell me more. Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

“There is no more I can tell you.” Mariusz guides me towards a cushioned armchair and then pulls another forward for himself. “The rest is Sasha’s to tell, if she wishes to, which I think she does not. I only wanted to explain that I imprisoned her because I had to, because she had done something which demanded it, not because I was being cruel or unjust.”

“Really?” King Edmund says politely. “Then for what reason did you set her free?”

My heart drops. It is impossible to lie to King Edmund. The only way to keep a secret from him is not to speak. Mariusz doesn’t understand. He has already said too much.

“I was afraid I was hurting her,” Mariusz says. “She wasn’t eating. She wasn’t sleeping. She cannot be imprisoned. Not again.”

King Edmund looks at me, a crease between his brows. “She always had trouble sleeping,” he says absently. “You must have noticed it before now.”

“I had noticed.” The way Mariusz says it makes me realize he means it. “This was worse than normal. She would not sleep at all.”

“To my eyes, she looks healthier than when I left her with you. There is a little colour in her cheeks. She is not so thin as she was.”

“Do you doubt she was unwell?” Mariusz says impatiently. “I was afraid for her, sir. She was hurting. So I released her. Would you have me put her away again? I won’t. I won’t let you do it either. She has suffered enough.”

I keep my gaze nervously upon King Edmund, hoping he will believe what Mariusz says. It’s not even a lie, really. He’s just not telling him all of the truth.

King Edmund transfers his gaze to Mariusz and stares heavily at him. “I am relieved in one matter,” he says. “You care for her. More, I think, than mere duty demands. In that respect, I am gratified.” His gaze returns to me. “Do you not care for your husband, Alexandra? Is that why you shared his secrets? Did you wish to hurt him? Or was it one of your lesser emotions? Was it pride? Could you not bear not to know his secrets? Was it mere stupidity? Were you simply being rash, and once again leaving another to wear the consequences? Why can you not speak now? Why do you let him speak for you? What happened, Alex? What happened?”

“Sir,” Marius begins.

“No,” King Edmund says. “I want Alex to speak. You care enough to protect her, I can see that, but she does not need protecting from me. I have only ever hurt her pride, and that deserves the blow. Alex? Say something.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Nothing personal, I grant.” A hard glint appears in his eyes. “I am asking you as Princess Alexandra, Duchess of Selica, not as Alex, my niece. You stole — and sold — a political secret. You will not tell me why. Perhaps it does not matter. To whom was it sold?”

I bite my bottom lip. “I didn’t sell it.”

“Then you gave it away freely. That is probably worse. To whom?”

“What will you do if you know? Don’t you already know? Don’t you have spies that tell you these things?” Tears prick at my eyes. Perhaps he already knows everything. Perhaps he knows what Konrad did, what Konrad wanted to do. “You never ask what you don’t already know. You asked my father the same—”

My voice breaks. I blink back the tears before King Edmund can see them.

“I’m not omniscient.” The hard note in his voice softens a little. “I knew nothing about this until Mariusz told me just now. What I know is that he imprisoned you, then a few days later, set you free. And now you’re both here, without invitation, without more than a few hours’ notice. I thought it must be that you needed help or that Mariusz wanted to return you to me. It is not the second, and I cannot give you first if I do not know what I am to help with.”

“I don’t want your help,” I say. “I didn’t want to come here. Mariusz did.”

“And why did you?” Edmund turns to Mariusz again. “A letter would have sufficed if all you wished was for me to know that you had not unjustly imprisoned my niece.”

“I don’t think it would,” Mariusz says politely. “I’m a little afraid of you.”

A corner of King Edmund’s lip lifts in a hard half-smile. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

King Edmund looks at me. “Perhaps. But then why is Alex here? She would not agree to come for the sake of your fear. No, no, no. You have put yourselves in a tangle. You are keeping secrets. What can I do when you insist on keeping secrets from me? Nothing. I can and will do nothing.” The hard glint returns to his blue eyes. “When you are ready to talk, Alex, I will listen. I will always listen when you wish to talk. But I will not my waste my time trying to tease threads of sense from your foolishness.”

He knows we are lying to him, but he does not know what the truth is. A sense of relief so strong it almost hurts sinks over me.

“We will mark this conversation at an end,” King Edmund says after a pause. “If you wish to continue it later, you need only tell me. For now, I have only one other matter I wish to speak of. You were shot four weeks ago. How are you now?”

I trace my ribs where the bullet shattered. “I’m all better.”

King Edmund looks at Mariusz.

“It still hurts her,” he says. “She’s still bruised and scarred. She gets tired very easily. She isn’t quite herself.”

King Edmund presses his lips tight. “Why do I waste my time?” He goes to the door and opens it. “Go. Dress yourselves for dinner. Perhaps in better company Alex might find herself able to better acquainted with honesty.”

In the hallway outside, Mariusz takes my arm and pulls me close so he can speak low in my ear. “It would be best if we told him everything. He could help. He could fix it all.”

“No. Please, no.”

“Let me rephrase that. It would be best if you told him everything. I will tell him nothing. I am waiting for you.”

My heart flutters. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t.”

He keeps hold of my arm like an anchor. “You can’t?” It is only half a question.

“I’m sorry, Mariusz.”

“I know.”

__

2025-11-11: Ssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh.

70. Protection

Mariusz’s sister Maria is at dinner, very pretty and cheerful at my cousin Kristian’s side. She rests a hand on her belly throughout the meal, though the fullness of her skirts disguises her condition. Afterwards, she approaches us in the drawing room and offers me a few polite, heavily accented inquiries in my own language, but I know it is Mariusz she has come to see, so I excuse myself on the pretext of wanting to speak to my cousin Viktoria and as I walk away, they break out into fluent, excited Selician.

I expect little from Viktoria and I am not disappointed with the snide remarks she offers me. I trade some sarcasm of my own and move away to a quiet corner of the room where I run my eyes across the company and decide that I would be better off without it. The drawing room windows open onto a terrace, but at this time of night the curtains are drawn and hiding the view. I wait until I am quite sure no one is watching me and slide behind a pair of curtains. The nook within conceals me neatly enough while I unlatch the window, silently pull it open, and climb out onto the terrace. I push the window gently shut again so that no one will notice the draught and pace quietly down the terrace.

It has been a rainy day, but it is a fine, mild night, the sky covered with a thin blanket of greenish cloud reflecting the city gaslights below. At the other end of the terrace, a set of stairs bring me down into the exterior palace courtyard. The oaks that line the pathways are budding out into leaf now. I trace their avenues at random, until without quite knowing how I find myself at an exterior gate to Justice Square.

Perhaps the gate is locked. But, no, it opens at my touch, and I find myself facing two surprised, but not startled, palace guards.

They bow low. “Your highness.”

“Good evening.”

Justice Square lies silent and dark beyond the guards, Parliament looming on one side and my tower on the other. There is no sign of the crowd that was here the night I left it. The slate pavers are swept clean and smell damp with rain.

No one is here at all. Not one indigent sleeping on the Parliament Stairs. Not one civil servant hurrying to Parliament with a message. Not one protestor with his placard and torch. No one but me and the guards.

“May we be of service?” one offers as I pass between them into the square.

“No, thank you. Not tonight.”

I go to the gate leading to the tower. There are two more guards posted here, but when I ask, they unlock the gate to let me pass through. Once inside, my heart starts beating erratically and cold sweat prickles at my temples.

Nevertheless, I go onwards and upwards, up the one hundred and thirteen stone steps, around and around, until I come at last to the door that locked me in for three years. Three years, two months, and six days.

Tonight, it stands open.

I pass through.

White linen sheets cover the furniture from dust. The carpets have been taken up and put away, leaving the bare stone behind. The fireplace is empty. Someone has cleaned up every last speck of ash and scrubbed the stones. I pull back some of the dustsheets to inspect the furniture beneath. The wardrobe is empty but for a mothball. The bookcase is bare. A grimy cobweb spans from one corner of the mirror to the other. A smudge of red oil on the dressing table is all that remains of the rouge I painted upon my lips the night I thought I was going to die.

How terrified I was.

I sit down at the window and look through the bars at Parliament. The roar of a long dispersed crowd echoes in my ears.

Kill the devil princess. Let her die.

But I’m not a devil, and I want to live.

I want, very much, to live.

I don’t know how much later it is when I hear footsteps mounting the stairs outside. I know it is Mariusz by their sound, and I know he will be alone because I know he has come for me.

“So this is where you lived.” He enters the room and looks around. “Sasha.”

He speaks my name with pity and sorrow. He doesn’t need to say more.

“I don’t know how I did it,” I say. “I don’t know how I survived. I can’t imagine it now. I was so alone. I was so scared. Angry. Maybe anger got me through it. Or maybe, maybe I just had no choice but to keep on breathing. Maybe that was it.”

Mariusz comes and sits down next to me. He touches my hand, traces his fingers up to where the scars from my chains lace over my wrists, then circles his fingers over the bars that cross the window. They’re a little weathered now, but they are still obviously new, clean cut, freshly soldered, at least compared to the rest of the tower, which was built centuries ago.

“King Edmund told me how you tried to choose,” Mariusz says softly.

“Did he?” He must have told Mariusz all sorts of things, but there are things he can’t tell him. Things even Edmund doesn’t know. “I don’t think I would have jumped. I don’t think I could. I sat there, on the edge, on the other side of those bars, and I thought that if I jumped, I would… I would prove everyone right. But that’s not why I didn’t do it. I thought that I would end all my suffering if I died, and it didn’t seem fair to take the easy way out, when my father had the… the prestige and suffering of an execution. But that’s not why I didn’t do it. I thought I could cheat my uncle if I jumped, but even that couldn’t persuade me.” I laugh and shake back a tear. “I didn’t want to avoid my fate. I didn’t want to escape my present. I wanted to change the past, and I could not. I knew I could not. Despite all, I wanted a future. Even if that future was here, for the rest of my life. And I didn’t know then that it might not be. I had no idea about you and… and everything. Believing I had nothing but prison awaiting me, I still did not want to die, I wanted it more strongly than I wanted anything else. And now, knowing I have you and freedom and a terrifying unknown, I… I want very much to live. I promise you that. You need not be afraid for me.”

Mariusz lets out a long, guttering breath. “Good.”

I put my hand over his on the bars and gently pull it into my lap. His fingers are chill from the damp outside. I warm them between my own. And then, since I am telling him things King Edmund cannot, I keep talking.

“My father was the only one who ever loved me,” I say. “My mother was cold. She hated me because she hated my father and I was my father’s child. She hated me more after my father was executed and I stabbed King Edmund. We both embarrassed her, you see. She moved to Vienna — I think it was Vienna, at least. Somewhere far away, where people see the title ‘princess’ and like her for it, without understanding the significance of the name which follows. When I was young, I used to try to convince myself that it was all some sort of mistake, that she wasn’t my real mother, that she was a stepmother like in a fairy tale. Only I look like her, you see. I don’t look like my father much at all. Just my eyebrows. Long and winged, the way his were. I’m lucky I have the eyebrows. People might suspect things, otherwise. Everyone knew my mother hated him.”

“You also have his smile,” Mariusz says. “King Edmund told me that.”

“Did he?” I drop Mariusz’s hand to trace the outline of my lips. “My father didn’t often smile.”

“Nor do you.” Mariusz takes my hand again. “It makes me feel so… lucky when I win a smile from you.”

I try to smile, just for him, but I cannot quite manage it. Instead, I take his hand, raise it to my lips, and kiss the back of his knuckles. With my fingers hooked within his, I feel his heartbeat skip a beat and then race. My own quickens in response, and I look away to hide my blush.

I talk to hide my confusion. “My father and I were always such close friends. I never believed he could keep a secret from me. I thought he told me everything. That’s why, when they arrested him, when they found the bomb he commissioned, when his co-conspirators confessed, I thought it was all a lie. I thought someone must have plotted against him, my mother, perhaps, or King Edmund. It didn’t make sense. I told everyone who would listen that my father didn’t do it. King Edmund forced him to see me in prison, before he was executed. I tried to promise him that I would clear his name. He said I didn’t understand. He said he never wanted me to get involved, that I was too precious to risk. At least I know he kept it secret from me because he loved me.” My voice thickens with the threat of tears. “But I wish he had loved me enough not to do it. I wish my uncle had loved him enough to save him.”

“The way he saved you.”

“Yes.” My voice cracks. “Why couldn’t he do it for my father too? Why did he give mercy only to me? I came closer to killing him. I watched the blood flood his shirt and drip from his hands. The only reason he didn’t die is because I wasn’t strong enough to drive the dagger deep enough. Why did he give me mercy, but not my father? I can never forgive him for that. Never.”

Mariusz is silent for a long moment and I have run out of words, but in the silence, his fingers brush gently back and forth over mine.

“I understand,” he says at last, his voice gentle and sad. “I understand what you cannot forgive. And I understand how, being unable to forgive, you cannot ask him for help, cannot tell him the truth. I understand.”

I have the sudden devastating feeling that he understands too much, that I am exposed before him, naked to my soul, but if I am, his gaze shows no contempt or disgust, only kindness and sorrow.

“Let’s go back,” he says. “I think I’ve seen enough of this tower. I think you’ve seen enough.”

“I’ve remembered enough. I would now like to forget again.”

Mariusz gets to his feet and pulls me up with him. He doesn’t let go of my hand when I am standing. He doesn’t let go until we reach our room in the palace and we separate to undress for bed.

–

2025-12-14: Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I promised to finish it, and I will. I am.

71. Exile

We stay in Rothalia for a week. During the day, Mariusz spends most of his time with his sister, though I tag along with them and so does my cousin Kristian. It is obvious that he adores Maria. He watches her with puppy-like longing in his eyes, races to open doors for her or help her up stairs, and glows every time she mentions his name. While Mariusz and Maria have conversations in rapid Selician, Kristian earnestly asks me questions about Zofia and Henryka and Dominik, about Selica, about the palace, all seemingly for the joy of hearing what Maria has told him confirmed. A malicious impulse comes over me to lie and say that it is all entirely different from how Maria has described, but I contain it. I would only spoil Kristian’s mood.

In the evenings, we attend dinner with the family. Mariusz meets all my cousins and several of my aunts. I cannot help but suspect that most of my relatives are a little charmed by him. Even Viktoria concedes an uncertain smile at some of his jokes, though when Elisabeth presses her for an opinion she refuses to admit that she finds him handsome. My own presence is less welcome, I suspect. Perhaps it is partially my own fault. I have very little conversation to offer my relatives. I fear that if I speak too much of Selica, I will reveal something of what I did, or of what was done to me, and there is little else I can speak of. But people have always thought me rude, they expect it of me, and so perhaps it is for the best that I spend most of my time in silence and solitude when Mariusz is not with me.

At night, we share the same bed. No one thought to put us in separate rooms, and I do not wish to draw suspicion by asking for them. Besides, it gives me a secret pleasure, really. With Mariusz beside me, I feel safe, comfortable. We can talk without being overheard. Sometimes, we hold hands or Mariusz plays with my hair. He never tries to kiss me or hold me close. Sometimes, when he falls asleep first, I lie awake imagining that he might and wondering what it would feel like, but I never dare speak of my imaginings and I certainly don’t dare touch him first. I am not even sure I would like it, really. The memory of Konrad’s last kiss lurks at the back of my mind. Sometimes I can still feel his teeth cutting into my lip, his thumb at the base of my throat, taste him upon my tongue. Mariusz is different, but he is still a man, with a man’s appetite, and I fear the act of sating that hunger.

Twice, King Edmund summons me to his study to press me again about why I betrayed Mariusz. Each time, I stand mute before him until he gives in. I think he knows he has no chance of persuading me to admit the truth to him. I suspect, also, that he has his spies searching Selica for clues, and I dread that they will find some.

But it is not his spies who expose me.

A third time, I am summoned to his study, and this time, Mariusz is summoned with me. King Edmund is not alone. He has several of his Selician attaches and secretaries with him. However, when we enter, he sends them away.

“News has come from your country,” he says bluntly. “There are wide-spread rumours that Alex opened your decree of regency and boasted to others that she is your chosen regent. Lord Vozodni is putting forward a motion in parliament to officially investigate the rumours. Lord Tarnuv intends to support the motion.”

“Lord Tarnuv?” Betrayal sinks like a stone in my stomach. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“He must believe the rumours to be false,” Mariusz says. “He cannot suspect there is enough truth in them to damn you.”

“How damning is it?” King Edmund asks. “My advisors have been discussing the legal implications, but they cannot be sure. I understand that in your country, the choice of regent is typically a carefully guarded secret.”

“It depends on the situation,” Mariusz says. “Were I to be temporarily hurt or unavailable, the prime minister would assume temporary leadership of the country and guardianship of Dominik. This is publicly known. But regency has historically been reserved for the death or permanent incompetence of a ruler, and the post of regent is an inheritance that he bestows on the person of his choosing by royal decree. It does not have to be a sealed decree, but traditionally it has been. It served me well to follow tradition. I knew people would be angered if they knew I had chosen Sasha.”

“And opening any sealed decree before the appointed time is an act of treason,” King Edmund says softly.

“Yes. Espionage and treason.” Mariusz looks at me. “How much proof is there? Is it just your word against— against another’s?”

My heart sinks. “I left the letter torn open on the desk in the strong room,” I whisper. “I left the drawer open, all the letters scattered. I didn’t want to hide what I had done. And I’m the only one who went in there in weeks, I suppose.”

Mariusz swears softly under his breath. “I have to go back,” he says. “I have to veto this motion.”

“If you do,” King Edmund says, “you are as good as confirming that Alex is guilty.”

“If I do not, I cannot prevent her being charged with espionage. Treason, perhaps, I could protect her from. I might be able to claim that it is a crime against me, and that I do not wish to charge her, but espionage is a crime against the state. It would be out of my hands. I might eventually pardon her for any state crimes she was found guilty of, but I cannot spare her the pain of the trial, the imprisonment, the examination. Not without preventing the investigation in the first place.”

A trial. My heart skips several beats at the thought. I would be asked, in front of hundreds, perhaps, why I did what I did, who I told, why I told them. Everything would come out. Everyone would know about Konrad and me.

King Edmund’s brow creases. “If you can pardon her any punishment, what permanent suffering is there in letting an investigation and potential trial run its course? It may be greater political misadventure to intervene.”

Mariusz meets my eyes then shakes his head. “No.”

Relief washes over me, as swiftly followed by a flood of guilt. He is protecting me. Again, he is protecting me.

But he cannot stop all Selica knowing what I have done. He cannot bring down Konrad or Medev. No. In protecting me, he casts a veil of secrecy over their crimes too.

King Edmund drums his fingers delicately on his desk. “I will not pretend to understand what you so desperately keep secret from me,” he says. “Nor can I give advice when I do not understand. But, blind as I am, I cannot help suspect, as much by the expressions on your faces as by what little I know, that you are choosing the wrong course of action here. If your country knows that Alexandra is guilty of espionage and treason — even if it cannot be proven through legal mechanisms, perhaps, especially, if legal processes are engaged to keep the truth from coming to light — then she can never be trusted by your people. You, yourself may come under suspicion.”

“They never trusted her to begin with,” Mariusz says.

“But they trusted you.” King Edmund’s voice is very soft. “Would you trust a ruler who colludes in covering up a loved one’s crimes? Would you trust a ruler who charges an enemy for keeping a private still and prevents his independent courts from charging his wife for espionage?”

Mariusz looks at me but says nothing. I do not need to read the doubt in his eyes to know King Edmund is right.

“I must be punished,” I say. “You must not forgive me.”

“But I do,” Mariusz says. “We never talked about it, but you know I do.”

We never talked about it because it would mean cataloguing all the sins I have committed for him to forgive — perhaps, too, all the sins he has committed. We never talked about what we would do after we left Rothalia either, where I might go next, what we do about Konrad. The past week, we have stubbornly avoided such difficult conversations and closed our eyes to unpleasant futures.

I think, perhaps, because we both knew we only ever had one road open to us, and we dread having to take it.

“I know, but the rest of Selica must think you do not.” I stand in front of Mariusz and take his hands in mine. “We cannot hide from them that I am guilty, so we must make them believe that you cannot forgive me, that you are privately punishing me for the sins you will not let them prove against me. I must leave the palace. I must go to Belasarna, where… where I can live in exile, uncharged and equally unabsolved.”

Mariusz lifts a hand from mine to touch my cheek. “Sasha.” His voice is husky with feeling. “But I want you with me.”

His hand on my cheek sends electricity shooting through my body and paralyses my thoughts. I only notice with a start that King Edmund has left the room when the door clicks shut behind him.

It startles Mariusz too. He steps back, dropping his hand from my face.

“We don’t always get what we want, do we?” He laughs, tremblingly. “It fits, doesn’t it? You will be safe from Konrad in Belasarna. You will be safe from prosecution. And… and you will keep me safe too. My people will trust me if I send you away. And as long as you are my regent, I am protected, in some small measure, from Konrad’s plotting. For whatever reason, he is afraid of you being in command.”

“You won’t change it? After all that has happened, now that everyone knows, you will not change it?”

He shakes his head. “I cannot. I would not even if I could, because I do trust you, but I cannot. If you are right, Konrad and Medev plotted to kill me, and changed their plans when they learned you would take control if I died. They tried to kill you too, don’t forget that. If I can keep you alive, which I can in Belasarna, then I can keep myself alive too.”

“They nearly killed Celina in Belasarna.”

“I know. We know what they are like now. We are prepared for them.” Mariusz offers me a weak smile. “Once we have defeated them, I will make an excuse for you to return to the palace with me. We won’t be apart forever.”

If we ever defeat them.

__

2026-01-11: I can’t believe it’s 2026 already. How did it take me nearly 2 years to finish this story? But, yeah, it is finished now. Two more chapters after this one, and they’re already actually written, so no more ridiculous hold ups. So sorry for the continued delays, guys, and thank you so much for your patience ♥️ Also, lol, some of you guessed it ages ago – Alex is going to hide in Belasarna.

72. An Old Enemy

We go to Belasarna first, arriving the day before Vozodni puts forward the motion to investigate the rumours of my conduct. It is not quite what I expected, a sort of toy palace built on a rocky outcrop of mountain, surrounded by pine forests of gentle riding trails and shy deer. Barany and Celina are waiting at the front doors when we arrive. Celina looks very thin and pale, and leans heavily on his arm. Her eyes when they meet mine are full of pain and loathing.

“You did not give me much time,” she says in Selician to Mariusz, “but I have prepared two rooms.” Her gaze flicks to me and she switches to French. “I hope you approve what I have done with this place, your highness. It seems you will be spending much time here.”

Her voice, though frail with illness, still carries the keen edge of spite. I look away, unable to bear the sight of her razor-thin collarbones showing through her flesh or the blue-white pallor of her cheeks. She does not know I am responsible for the loss of her baby, almost, it is obvious, the loss of her life. She hates me, without knowing that, and knowing that, I can no longer blame her for hating me.

“How are you?” Mariusz asks in Selician. “You do not look well.”

Celina’s bottom lip trembles and her hands tighten around Barany’s arm. She says something I cannot translate, but I gather from the savage look she darts at me that it is about me.

“Yes,” Mariusz says. “It is true. How are you, Celina?”

But she does not answer. She just clings to Barany, who slides an arm around her waist with an apologetic look at us.

“Why don’t you go and rest?” I say in Rothalian. “Please, we did not expect you to prepare anything for us. You are obviously still unwell. I am sure you should not be up. I’m sorry.” It slips out before I know what I am saying. “I am sorry about… about the baby. It is not fair. I am so sorry.”

Hatred burns in her pale blue eyes. “I need not your sorry,” she says stiffly in my own language. “It is nothing to do with you. I do not want your… your sympathie.” She finishes in French, then hides her face against Barany’s shoulder. Perhaps she hides tears too. “She will live here?” she mutters. “It is impossible. Impossible.”

Mariusz looks upset. “You are not well,” he says in Selician. “Please, go and rest. We do not need you now.”

“I know,” Celina snaps. “I know you do not need me.” She lifts her head from Barany’s shoulder and pushes away from him. “Fine. I go. I go.”

She hobbles away. Barany looks apologetically at Mariusz, who waves him after her. It is a servant who takes us to the two bedrooms she has prepared for us — not, I notice, with a connecting door between them, nor even next to each other. While a maid unpacks my cases, I go back down the passage to Mariusz’s room. His valet is unpacking his things too, so he takes my arm and we walk the halls of my new home. On the ground floor, we find a small, quiet sitting room full of sun this time of afternoon. I shut the doors tightly behind us and sit down with Mariusz on a pair of chairs in front of the window.

“Celina doesn’t know I’m the reason she lost her baby.”

“You’re not the reason. Medev was. Or perhaps it was a tragic accident that he laid claim to. You are not the reason.”

“I believe he poisoned her. It is too much a coincidence otherwise. He probably used arsenic, the same as with me. She thinks it was a tragic accident. She doesn’t know.”

“You cannot tell her.” Mariusz presses a finger to my lips. “Do not tell her, Sasha. It may relieve your guilt, but it will not relieve her suffering to know the truth.”

My lips tingle where he touches them.

“Besides, she already hates you.” He lifts his finger from my lips. “Don’t give her ammunition to hurt you.”

“I won’t tell her,” I say. “I… I thought you might.”

He shakes his head. “It is a secret better kept.”

We sit in silence for several long minutes.

“She cannot continue to live here with me,” I say after a while. “She hates the idea. She hates me. And I cannot face her every day, knowing what I have done to her.”

“Where will she go?”

“Ask her where she wishes to go. I will send her there, even if it is the palace, with you.”

Mariusz nods slowly. “Thank you, Sasha.”

I stand and walk around the room. It is newly papered in a cream floral print picked out with Indian red. The curtains are cream too, but the Indian red follows through in the rugs and cushions. Attention has been paid to detail. Every metal ornament or object in the room is gold, even the hardware on the sideboard. The whole effect is elegant but comfortable.

“She did this, didn’t she?” I say. “I told her to decorate according to a woman’s comfort, and she has.”

“It has certainly changed from how I remember it,” Mariusz says. “And it is to her taste, I think.”

“Then she has good taste.” I run my finger across the edge of a painting frame and find it absent of dust. “And good management.”

“She would not do the job poorly. She is too proud for that.”

Somehow, I can respect that about her, even if part of me still hates her just a little bit.

“No doubt she has made sure dinner is prepared for tonight,” I say. “I do not think she is well enough to come, and you leave at first light tomorrow. Why don’t go to her now? I am sure you have things you wish to say to her. And you can tell her that she will not be staying here long.”

“You don’t mind? I have precious little time left with you too.”

“We have dinner and the rest of the night. I can spare you some of it.”

Mariusz touches my wrist. “Thank you.”

I don’t know if I do it to be kind to Mariusz or to appease my guilt over Celina’s miscarriage, but I feel better for doing it, even if as soon as he has left the room I do feel a little lonely.

__

2026-01-13: There’s no need to be that nice to her, Alex. She hates you. Leave her alone.

73. Dawn

While Mariusz is gone, I explore my new domain. There are some twelve bedrooms on the top floor. On the ground floor, there is a sort of hall with an oversized fireplace which I suppose at one stage was where the men who came to hunt dined. Celina does not seem to have touched that room yet, but the other rooms on the ground floor, all smaller and more suitable to modern living, have been freshly painted and papered, and neatly furnished. There are two sitting rooms, a music room, and a dining room which opens onto a circular terrace cut from the rock of the mountain and overhanging a steep cliff which drops down onto pine trees below. From here, I can see the valley stretching east over forest and farmland until it climbs into another swell of sloping mountains. Birds cry out in the forest below, and somewhere unseen a creek burbles.

I return here when I have dressed for dinner, and I find Mariusz and Barany waiting for me.

“It is beautiful here,” I say in Selician.

Barany’s face lights up with a smile that quickly fades. Mariusz must have told him already that I am here in exile, here because I betrayed him.

“I am happy that you like it,” Mariusz says. “I like it too.”

But I did not say I liked it. And I do not. It may be larger than my tower, and the doors may unlocked, and the windows unbarred, but it is still a prison, and its beauty cannot distract me from that.

Barany cannot be in low spirits long, however, and we have not finished the soup course before he is smiling again and prompting me to try various dishes. His good nature infects mine, and I find myself smiling too. We drink more than is good for us and pile out onto the terrace under the starlight with another bottle of wine and a peasantish lute that Barany purloined from the music room.

Barany may not be able to dance, but he can play and he can sing. He plays Selician folk songs for us. Mariusz tries to persuade me to dance, but my heart is too heavy to attempt it. We sit and listen and drink wine instead, and when Mariusz says he is tired and lies with his head in my lap, I do not stop him. I even stroke his hair from time to time.

But it is Barany who falls asleep first, making it back into the music room where we hear him collapse with a discordant jangle of lute strings onto a couch.

“We should go to bed too,” I say. “It must be well past midnight.”

“Let’s stay here,” Mariusz says. “The night is not too cold for you, is it? Let’s spend it together, out here. It is the last night we will have for some time. I don’t want to waste it.”

His head is still in my lap. I stroke his hair one more time then push him gently off me and lie back with him so I can see the stars in the sky above.

“It’s remarkably clear tonight,” I say. “I wish I knew all these constellations. My father did. He taught me some. There. That one is Ursa. And near him is the herdsman. I always thought it looks more like a big fish. I’ve forgotten the rest. I don’t have the right kind of memory for this. I get too confused. I get turned around.”

“There should be Canes Venatici between them,” Mariusz says. “I remember that one, but I was never much good at finding them either.”

“There. It must be those two. How did ancient people imagine pictures in the sky from the stars? It just looks like two dots to me.”

“It’s not really a picture, just a representation. One of the stars is the dog Asterion, and the other Chara, though I don’t remember which is which.”

“Asterion. That’s a good name for a dog.”

“Do you like dogs?”

“Not particularly, but I can appreciate a good name for one. Asterion sounds very… elegant, but intelligent and powerful.”

“I think you’re right. Chara, on the other hand, not nearly so impressive.” Mariusz yawns. “Chara would be a lazy dog, one that likes to sleep in front of the fire, close against its master.”

“And where are Andromeda and Perseus?” I say. “My father told me that tale when I was very young and I thought Andromeda such a fool and Perseus a bit of an idiot for falling for her.”

“I don’t think you can see them this time of year,” Mariusz says. “Wasn’t it romantic though?”

“I don’t think so. Andromeda’s only virtue was beauty. She always reminded me a bit of my cousin Viktoria.”

Mariusz lets out a bark of laughter. “Poor cousin Viktoria.”

“Don’t tell me you have pity for her.”

“Oh, I do.” Mariusz feels across the terrace floor for my hand. “She is only mean to you because she knows you are prettier and cleverer and more interesting than she is. And you are only mean to her because you don’t know that.”

“Everyone always likes her better. They always have.”

“Not me.”

There is quiet satisfaction in Mariusz’s voice. I shiver with pleasure to hear it.

“You’re not cold are you?” he asks. “Should we go indoors?”

“No. I like it here.” I squeeze his hand. “No one in Rothalia has ever called me prettier than cousin Viktoria before.”

“And why would they?” Mariusz says. “She is the king’s eldest daughter, and you are only his niece. How could they dare? But her eyes, you know, are very ordinary round eyes, and yours…” he rolls on his side and props himself up on an elbow so he can look at me “…very dark and mysterious under those heavy lids. And what a stubborn, charming round chin.” He brushes his thumb over it. “And your lips, so fierce, but so…” He parts them with a finger. “…yielding?”

My stomach flutters and I close my eyes as he presses his lips to mine. The heat of his body sinks against me, but he holds enough of his own weight to keep from crushing my still fragile ribs and lungs. His mouth plays at mine, trying to find an opening.

“Let me in,” he whispers against me. “Sasha, my sweet, let me taste you.”

I thrust the memory of Konrad’s teeth on my lip to the back of my mind and let Mariusz’s tongue part my lips. He tastes of the red wine we had been drinking. It’s faintly metallic. Faintly reminiscent of blood.

I let out a whimper and Mariusz withdraws.

“Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t.” Hot tears prick at my eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what? What can’t you do?”

“I can’t kiss you.”

Mariusz pushes himself away from me and sits up. “Oh.” His voice is flat with disappointment.

“I want to.” I sit up too. “I want to, but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking of Konrad. The way he— I’m sorry.”

“Shush. No. Don’t apologize.” Mariusz shakes his head. “I should apologize. What was I thinking? I’m drunk. That’s what it is. No. That’s an excuse. I want to kiss you, Sasha. That’s what it is. I want to kiss you a lot. I’m sorry.”

“I want to kiss you too,” I whisper. “But… when you touch me, I feel his hands on me. When you kiss me, I taste him. I’m not… I’m not ready.”

“You want to kiss me too.” Mariusz tilts his head back to stare at the stars above us. “My sweet. My treasure.

You want to kiss me too. But you can’t. Oh, my heart.“ He puts a hand over it. “My heart, my heart.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He turns towards me with a sorrowful smile. “Let’s not kiss. Let’s not think of — or talk of — that man. We have some hours left, you see, I don’t want to waste them on unpleasantness. Come here. Can we hold hands? Is that safe? Look, I have remembered another constellation. There is Leo, there, below Ursa Major. He was slain by Heracles, you see, but I always felt sorry for him. A lion is a noble creature. Why destroy something noble just for the thrill of the hunt? What kind of cruel man would do that?”

I shuffle closer to Mariusz and take his hand in mine. “My father told me that story too. It wasn’t just a lion. It was a monster.”

“I know. I know.” Mariusz squeezes my hand. “But Heracles would call him a monster. I never believed Heracles. I always thought him an arrogant, dishonest fool.”

We don’t sleep that night. We sit on the terrace and talk. At some point it gets cold enough that Mariusz goes inside and finds blankets for us both. At another point, Barany stumbles out onto the terrace, sees us beneath the blankets, our hands clasped, apologizes, and stumbles away again. It makes Mariusz laugh, but I am only relieved he had the sense to leave. I like Barany, but I don’t want to share these last hours with him.

The stars fade as the sky lightens, and birds begin to sing in the forest below. Mariusz gets up to stretch his legs and stares eastward towards the tinges of lilac on the horizon. We have very little time left now. In the faint light, I try to commit the planes and angles of his face to memory. I don’t know how long we will be parted.

“I wish you could stay here with me,” I whisper.

He looks at me, then holds out his hand. “Dance,” he says. “I want to dance with you.”

“We have no music.”

“I don’t care. I want to dance.”

So I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet and into his arms. We spin slowly, his chin falling to my shoulder, his arms looped around my waist.

“It’s almost dawn,” I say. “The sun is rising. Look. I have never hated more something so beautiful.”

“Shush.” Mariusz shuffles his feet. “Don’t talk about it. It is not dawn yet. We still have time.”

But over his shoulder, I can see the tinges of lilac in the sky are turning pink. Glimmers of orange threaten over the shadow of the horizon.

“Mariusz. Look at it. It’s beautiful. No clouds at all. I hate it so much. I wish tonight would never end.”

“No. No. Don’t look at it. It’s not dawn yet. Don’t look.” He buries his face against my neck. “Don’t look. We still have a little more time.”

In the distance, the first rays of sunlight slip over the mountains.

__

2026-01-15: At last, it ends. Well, for now, anyway. There will, eventually, be a sequel in which Alex will get her chance at redemption – or possibly revenge.

Thank you so much, beautiful readers, for sticking with this story through all the lengthy delays I’ve had with it. I really appreciate all the reads, votes, and of course lovely comments. I’m going to take a little break from Wattpad and then come back with… I don’t quite know what yet. It probably won’t be the sequel to this story first – I need a break from this world as well – but I have plenty of ideas left.