Of Heirs and Havoc ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 2

nine: of princes and plots

"You reek," Francisco told his sister plainly, his voice hushed to ensure that their clandestine meeting remained secret.

"Of course I do. The scent is of wickedness, because I bathe in sin," Celeste declared dramatically, posing by the closed door with a gloved hand on her hip. Isko rolled his eyes at his younger sister's antics and she gave up the pretence with a condescending sniff. "It's fish guts. I had to pass through the kitchen, of all places, to get here, and some clumsy cook was unfortunate enough to splatter them on my gown."

"Clumsy, or malicious?" he challenged teasingly, the steely glint in her eye letting him know the three simple words would make her drop her guard, her flair and her persona, and tell him what she had really summoned him for. 

After all, in a place as warm as the Sleeping Island, there was no real need for gloves, or the pearl-scattered veil Celeste used to arrange her waves of dark hair--both for fashion, he knew, and to hide any traces of her being here. The veil to ensure no errand strands of hair drifted onto Prince Matthew's carpet, the gloves to ensure no fingerprints found their way onto locked drawers, doorknobs, or any other surfaces she ran her hands over. Francisco had achieved the same effect by wearing livery, the red-and-blue cap catching up all his hair, the starched burgundy gloves like a splash of blood against the pale walls.

"I may have made some enemies, but I'd like to think none of them would be petty or idiotic enough to attempt to ruin my clothes," she replied with a deceiving sweetness. "Of course, I could be wrong." The false admission was accompanied by an airy, empty shrug. Celeste was never wrong--he would attest to that much, at least. She also never wasted actions or words or breaths, never did anything that was not for some agenda only she knew about, an agenda he was now only partially privy to.

"But enough about enemies--if this plan works, dear brother o mine, I can have them all put to death with a wave of my hand." 

Francisco leaned back carefully against the teak armoire. A breeze ruffled the billowing white curtains of the bay window, which was open to the sounds of the dark jungle and the distant ocean, always pounding. Always relentless. Just like his sister. "I'm listening."

"Well, have you heard that the prince has been found by his royal sister?" Celeste's smile was truly wicked, a sharp curve of wine-red lips, the bright flash of a predator's teeth hidden by pretty lipstick and the innocent veil. "The Queen of Arlea, Natasha Blackmore?"

"You're his confidante, so I do not see why he would inform me before he did you," Francisco said brightly, though beneath the ever-present mask of cheer insecurity was iron spikes coating his heart, making his chest ache with each beat, which each breath. 

When the prince had first washed up on shore, he had thought they might be friends, that he had finally found a friend other than his sister, someone of a similar background who might finally understand him. But instead, Celeste had drawn him in like the star her name suggested she was, and everyone else moths to her flame. Sure, they spoke infrequently, as acquaintances were ought to do, but there was no real friendship there. No real friendship possible, with the ghost of his sister hanging between them, the only thread they had to hang onto for conversation. 

"Jealous, brother?" And she had predator's eyes, a falcon's eyes, to match her predator's teeth, eyes that saw everything. Weakness included, and she dove for it. "Do not be. I'm sure I'll find a place for you, in whatever court I wind up ruling."

"So certain of your victory?" He asked, eyebrows raised. Francisco shouldn't have been so surprised--shouldn't have thought of Celeste as anything other than a queen awaiting her crown. No, not awaiting--lying in wait to snatch it from whatever unfortunate fool lay snared in her trap. 

"I have my schemes, but they cannot be accomplished without you, Isko." Her voice was warm, like molasses that melted over him. Molasses, that would eventually harden and leave him trapped, but Celeste had her way of doing things that made you want to be trapped. Just like that, a few glimmering words later, they were children again, and Celeste used her grins and charm to wheedle candy from their parents, or an extra hour of time spent on the beach--not for suitors and thrones. "The queen did not come herself to retrieve her brother--I wouldn't leave Arlea either, not if I had the trouble she did in her court--so she sent an envoy in her place. Blake Rutherford, who brought his sister."

She flashed a smirk at him, all cloying honey that made him bend. "Of course, I know how good you are at charming noble lords' sisters."

And bend, he did.