Camille smoothed her skirts.
The blonde woman in the mirror did the same. She was wearing a golden gown; lace twined down her arms like creeping vines, and the back of the dress plunged to reveal pale skin. Her hair was swept back into a chignon with delicate pearl clips. She looked beautiful, Camille thought, but cold. Regal.
She could see nothing of herself in it.
She turned. The powder room was a riot of floral wallpaper and plush pink settees, miniature fairy cakes and champagne. A clawfoot bathtub sat in the corner of the room, her old bathwater growing cold. The room had been bustling for most of the afternoon, although most of her ladies' maids had disappeared now to polish her shoes or sprinkle lilac on pillows or whatever other tasks Brigid had set them.
"Oh, my dove," Brigid said. "You look marvellous."
She was perched on the edge of a wingback chair, a stack of papers on her lap. Seating charts or the dinner menu or a catalogue of every flower arrangement, Camille guessed; she'd lost track of all the different lists.
She crossed to the sideboard. "Have the guests arrived?"
Brigid nodded, holding up a piece of parchment. "They're all waiting in the citadel."
"Penny?" Camille asked. "Grayson?"
Brigid frowned at the paper. "I suspect they'll arrive this evening."
"Anyone else?" Camille asked.
She poured a glass of champagne, trying to keep her voice neutral. There was a rustle; Brigid must have lowered the papers. When Camille turned, Brigid was looking at her intently, her hands folded in her lap.
"I'm sorry, my dove," Brigid said, "but Isaac Webb hasn't returned from Highcliff. He sent Ryne his regrets this morning." The dowager queen rose, patting her arm. "You must try to give him up, Camille. Look to your future. My son can be... difficult, at times, but he's loyal to those he loves. He'll be a good husband to you."
Camille swirled her champagne. "Is that all there is to love? Loyalty?"
Silence fell.
Brigid's eyes were the colour of starless skies. She steered Camille toward the mirror, plucking something from the depths of a purse.
"Here," Brigid said.
She set a crown on top of Camille's head. It was a delicate crown, with silver flower metalwork and little golden bells that tinkled when she moved. It was also, Camille realized with a dawning sense of dread, a very familiar one.
"I wore that on my coronation," Brigid said. "Arthur told me that it was forged from sunlight itself. But you know what Artie was like." Her smile in the mirror was fond. "Such a flair for the dramatic."
Slowly, Camille removed the crown. A lump rose in her throat as she traced the silver grooves, her thumb whispering over the cold metal. "My father made this."
Brigid stilled. "Pardon?"
Camille held it out. "Do you see this little bee in the corner?" She ran a thumb over the idented image. "It was my father's trademark; he put it on every weapon or pot or piece of jewellery that he created. He used to call my mother his honeybee, you see. He liked to say that there was a bit of her in everything that he did."
"I remember Adele." Brigid's face was unreadable. "She wasn't kind to you."
Camille lowered the crown. "No."
"You were so scared of spindles," Brigid said. "I had to remove every spindle from the castle, just so that you'd come out of your room." She took a step closer. "Come here. I have something else for you."
She took off her blue ring. A shiver went down Camille's spine, and she took an instinctive step backward as Brigid raised the ring, but the dowager queen merely placed it against the back of her necklace.
"This may hurt a little," Brigid said.
There was a click. Something prickled along her collarbones, like needled teeth digging into her skin. Her skin was hot. Her skin was ice cold. The necklace slithered to the floor, crumpling into a pile at her feet.
Camille stared.
The silver chain was coiled, like a cat curled before a fireplace, and the dull blue gemstone gazed up at her. It looked so innocuous, she thought. So harmless. Camille touched her neck; it felt oddly vulnerable, raw and exposed as the root of a tooth.
She turned to face Brigid. "Was it painless?"
Brigid slid back on the ring. "I don't understand the question."
"When you killed my mother." Her voice was low. "Was it painless?"
The dowager queen paused. Her ring was halfway on her finger, squatting on her knuckle like an ugly toad. Something terrible was building in Camille's chest, an iron hammer forged in flame. She wanted to kick over the chair. She wanted to break the mirror.
She looked at the necklace on the floor. Then she looked at Brigid.
And Camille smiled.
Brigid's dark eyes were blank. "I have no idea what you're—"
"Don't." She took a step closer. "Do not lie to me. Not after everything you've done."
"Camille..."
"I went to the cottage." Her voice was ragged. "I saw it."
There was a long pause. Brigid turned to the sideboard, sliding her ring into place. She poured a glass of champagne with steady hands.
"I put them to sleep first," Brigid said. "I gave them beautiful dreams of a countryside mansion, and a loving family, and a farm with three chickens and a dog. Then I injected poison into their veins." She turned. "They died painlessly."
Her heart hammered in her chest. "Were they even my real parents?"
Brigid exhaled. "Camille—"
"Answer the question," Camille said.
There was a knock on the door.
Both women turned as John slipped in, accompanied by his usual clipboard and quill. He was dressed in his finery today — polished boots, a golden waistcoat, and a jacket with several shiny pins and badges — and his greying hair was slicked back. He was also, Camille noted, walking just a little too quickly.
John scanned the room. Then he turned for the door.
"Sorry to disturb you, ladies," he said.
Brigid set down her champagne glass. "What are you looking for?"
John paused. "An umbrella."
Brigid raised an eyebrow. "An umbrella?"
"Mmm. Just in case."
Camille looked out the window. The sky stretched out for miles, an endless sea of azure blue; gold and red leaves tumbled to the ground in a fiery cascade. Somewhere, a songbird was singing. No sign of rain.
"John." Brigid took a step forward. "Where is my son?"
"Truthfully?" John's knuckles were white on the clipboard. "I don't know."
Brigid massaged her temples. "Who saw him last?"
"I'm not sure." John hesitated. "His valet says that his bed didn't look slept in."
"This cannot be happening," Brigid muttered. "Not today." She crossed to the sideboard, pouring more champagne. "For Lucia's sake, the Loxian ambassador is already at the citadel. We can't afford to call off the wedding now."
John shifted the clipboard. "Brigid..."
"Find him." Brigid's voice was hard. "Immediately."
"Find who?" a masculine voice asked.
All three spun toward the door. Ryne was leaning against the wall, dressed in a dark jacket, white cravat, and a gold-and-white waistcoat. His cheeks were flushed, his green eyes glittering. He looked healthy, Camille realized with some relief; healthier than she'd seen him in months, anyway.
"Ryne." Brigid looked at the ceiling, as if in silent prayer. "Thank the gods."
Ryne gave her a half-smile. "You look beautiful, Cami."
"So do you."
Camille held his gaze, trying to convey everything she felt. Fear. Hesitation. Pride. Ryne looked back at her blankly. Not, Camille thought, that this was surprising. Trying to understand Ryne Delafort was like trying to crack open a nutshell with your bare hands: difficult at the best of times, impossible at the worst.
"Come on." Brigid gathered up her papers. "We'll be late."
***
They took separate carriages to the citadel.
Ryne and John went first, riding in a black carriage with the royal crest. Camille and Brigid rode in a glass carriage: a Lucernian tradition, passed down through royal Dayweaver families. The Cidarius family, Camille knew, used to arrive by horseback for wedding ceremonies, black ravens trailing behind them like a cape.
Their advisors had discouraged them from reviving the tradition.
Camille pressed her face to the glass. Crowds of people lined the streets, throwing roses and holly garlands and golden thread. A child sat on her father's shoulders, waving meaty fists. The carriage took a sharp turn, starting the climb up the hill; it wouldn't be long, Camille realized, before they were at the citadel.
Brigid cleared her throat.
"For what it's worth..." Brigid fiddled with her ring. "I have always loved you. I realize that my motivations for taking you were... reprehensible. But then you came to the castle — this beautiful, kind, clever little girl that liked reading and sugared plums — and I loved you." Her smile was sad. "Every time we read a story together, every time we made sweet bread, I loved you. You're my daughter, Camille. My child."
Brigid was leaning forward, her eyes blazing like black suns. Almost ten years ago, Camille thought, they had sat in a very similar carriage; Brigid had given her a blue gemstone on a chain. She remembered thinking it was the prettiest gift she'd ever received. A lump rose in her throat.
Camille turned to the window. "That was a pretty speech."
"My dove." Brigid's voice was soft. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, Camille turned.
"There are things you don't understand," Brigid said. "Things I've done to protect you." She squeezed her leg. "I'll explain everything after the ceremony. I promise."
Camille looked at her hand. Long-limbed, like a pale spider. "I understand enough."
"You don't know—"
"I know," Camille said, her voice low, "that you murdered my parents. I know that you put a magical necklace on me that meant I had to do whatever you said. For years, I manipulated my friends. I lied to them." Blood roared in her eyes. "You think that love is loyalty? You forced my loyalty."
Brigid went pale. "Camille..."
She leaned forward. "I'm about to become Queen of Wynterlynn." Her heartbeat was almost painful. "And when I do, I'm going to send you to Summerhill to live out the rest of your days in solitude. I never want to see you again."
"You don't mean that," Brigid said.
The carriage stopped. The citadel stretched out above them: a towering stone building, inlaid with stained-glass windows. Camille shifted, knocking Brigid's hand off her leg. The dowager queen curled her arm protectively to her stomach, as if Camille had struck her.
"Camille," Brigid said, "you don't—"
She pushed open the door. "People are watching. Smile."
Music swelled.
People cheered, and Camille waved, her smile sunny and serene. Two years ago, she thought, she would have never been able to do this. The crowds. The pageantry. Then again, two years ago, she hadn't imagined that Ryne would be standing at the end of the aisle.
Things changed.
She hiked up her skirts, climbing the stairs. At moments like this, Camille liked to pretend to be book characters: Rissolyta, the warrior queen; Marigold, the clever pirate. She felt braver when she was someone else. More confident.
But today, Camille thought, she was just her.
Camille DuFleur.
The towering doors opened. A golden carpet unfurled toward a dais, illuminated by light streaming through a rose window; choral music reverberated from the walls. Camille took a step forward, and a sea of heads swivelled toward her.
She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead.
She counted each step, trying to steady her breathing. One, two. No sign of Penny or Grayson. Five, six. And where was Anna? Would Ryne have invited her? Nine, ten. No. Too complicated. Especially with all the foreign dignitaries. Thirteen. Eris wasn't here either, although that was to be expected; he was still with Tristan, trying to find God-Slayer.
She paused at the foot of the dais.
Ryne held out a hand. His green eyes shone like summer lakes, his golden rings winking in the light. Dust motes haloed his head.
Camille took his hand.
A priest cleared his throat. He was dressed in a golden tunic, and his square cap — folded at the top, like mountain peaks — was the size of a small child. Camille frowned. He also, she realized, looked oddly familiar. Something niggled at the back of her mind, but then the candles dimmed, and she turned to face Ryne again.
"Welcome, beloved friends." The priest opened his arms. "We are gathered here today in the home of the six gods to honour a union between His Royal Highness Ryne Delafort and Lady Camille DuFleur. May this union grant..."
Camille looked around.
The citadel felt hot. Stifling. Beads of sweat gathered along her lace collar, dripping down her back. Gleaming golden thread twined around their hands, binding them together. Ryne's hands felt like ice beneath her fingers.
The room swam. Camille blinked.
Ryne leaned in. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," she whispered.
His green eyes were concerned. "Do you need to stop?"
Camille shook her head. It wasn't long now; she just had to repeat a few phrases, and then the twelve gongs would sound. Then she could get out of this bloody corset. Provided she could still breathe by then, of course.
"Repeat after me," the priest said. "I vow to always dream with you. I vow to always wake with you."
Camille mumbled the words. The room was expanding and contracting like some great, pulsating flower, and she gripped Ryne's hand.
The priest continued. "I vow to pledge my soul to your service. I vow to devote my body to your needs."
A shiver tickled her spine. She didn't recall those words being in the traditional ceremony, but whatever; Brigid must have added them in. Her lungs felt like shrivelled grapes. A strange ringing had begun in her ears, sharp and insistent.
The priest raised his hands. "I vow to be your sword in battle. I vow to be your shield in peace. Forever and ever more, this I swear."
"I—" Camille swallowed. "Sorry. I really don't feel well."
She let go of Ryne's hands, stumbling slightly. The golden thread melted away. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Ryne placed a hand on her back. "Camille?"
"My Lady?" The priest closed his prayer book. "We really must continue."
She looked up. And suddenly, Camille was struck by why the man looked so familiar.
He was one of Eris's men.
Cold crept over her skin. She looked at Ryne, but he was turning to John, saying something about a healer. The walls were spinning. Invisible hands pushed at her skull, crushing it with gleeful fingers. Camille gripped his shoulder.
"Ryne?" she asked.
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"Something's not right," she muttered.
"What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "Something's not—"
"Stop!" a voice called.
The doors burst open.
Penny stalked into the room. Sunlight spilled through the open door, turning her auburn hair to flame; mud smeared her left cheek, and her dress was torn at the hem. Tristan and Grayson strode behind her, both breathless and carrying swords.
"Penelope?" Brigid rose. "What in the world are you doing?"
"It's a trick." Penny's voice rang through the citadel. "Don't say anything else, Cami. You're putting yourself in danger."
Her head throbbed. "What?"
Grayson stepped forward.
"You asked me to look into birth records." His blue eyes were steady. "I found nothing on missing children in Wynterlynn, but that's because you're not from Wyterlynn, Camille. You're from Lucerna."
Whispers chased each other through the crowd. Camille's lungs felt like they were being crushed under bookstacks, and she pressed a hand to her ribs. Penny and Grayson exchanged a meaningful glance.
"Camille," Penny said. "You're the Lost Princess."