Over the next week, Isolde fell into a routine.
Breakfast of salted cod, butter, and toast. Wander the grounds. Visit the library to read sermons. Lunch. Crocheting. More wandering. Dinner. She was allowed to respond to a daily letter from a Bardanian citizen, but her responses were always carefully monitored. And none of the letters ever mentioned the gassings on Holy Day. None of them expressed discontent over food shortages.
She suspected that her correspondence was being screened.
Of course it was.
Isolde tried to speak with the servants, but they turned to face the wall, their eyes fixed on oil paintings or empty sconces. A young maid brought her strong black tea every morning. When Isolde asked her name, the girl looked down at the floor.
Silence.
Isolde tried again. "You must have something that I can call you. A nickname. A surname, if nothing else."
The girl whispered something.
"Pardon?"
"I would rather not say." The maid kept her eyes on the floor, her cheeks flushed. "Your Holiness."
"Why?"
The girl's eyes flickered to the bruises on Isolde's wrists. "His Holiness doesn't approve of familiarity."
After that, Isolde stopped asking the servants questions.
Only Tilda and Sendra continued to speak to her. Tilda insisted on afternoon strolls through the gardens; they would wind their way through the winter rose garden, zigzagging across glass bridges until they reached the archery range. Sometimes, they brought a picnic of nutty cheeses and plump grapes; other times, Isolde brought her book of sermons and fantasized about chucking it into a frozen pond.
Alas.
"Oh, look," Tilda said. "Julian's here."
The other girl was dressed in a pink cloak and a thick fur hand muff today, her golden hair braided into a crown. She sounded surprised, Isolde noted wryly, although she wasn't sure why Tilda would be; Julian Winterthorpe was always at the archery range at this hour.
They paused, watching as Julian fired the bow.
The arrow sunk into the target.
Isolde shielded her eyes against the winter sun. "Not bad."
Tilda sighed. "He's so talented."
Julian notched another arrow. A vein jumped in his arm as he pulled back the string, and Tilda made a rather unladylike noise that could have either been a squeal, a shout, or a gasp. The bow fired. Again, the arrow met its target.
Isolde dropped her hand. "Have you ever fired a bow?"
Tilda's face scrunched up in horror. "Like, by myself?"
"Yeah."
"Um. No."
Isolde turned. "Sendra?"
The other girl frowned. "I once threw my hat at a squirrel. I didn't hit it, though."
Isolde decided to ignore this. "Well, then." She raised her skirts, picking her way across the frozen field. "No time like the present."
She could feel the girls exchanging a look behind her. Their hurried footsteps crunched on the ice-bitted grass. When Tilda reached her, she was flushed and panting. "You can't be serious. That's dangerous."
Isolde shrugged. "It looks fun."
"But—"
"Your Holiness," Julian said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He slung the bow across his back. His dark brows were furrowed, his hair slightly damp with sweat. Julian Winterthorpe looked about as pleased to see her as someone finding a leech on the back of their leg. Isolde gave him a charming smile.
"Might I have a go?" she asked.
Julian's eyebrow crept higher. "You want to fire the bow?"
"Why not?"
"Oh, no!" Tilda said loudly.
A white cloth fluttered from her fingers, skimming across the frozen fields. It took Isolde a moment to realize what it was: Tilda's monogrammed handkerchief. The scrap caught on a nearby shrub, fluttering like a bridal veil.
"I've dropped it." Tilda's face was the picture of distress. "What a ninny."
She peered hopefully at Julian. Julian looked at the handkerchief, looked back at Tilda, and then took off his boot to shake a rock out of it. Tilda remained motionless, her eyes darting between Julian and the white cloth. A swell of exasperation filled her.
"Oh, for gods' sake," Isolde muttered. "I'll get it."
She hobbled across the field. Her wooden leg was aching today, sending pain radiating through her limbs with every step. A result of too much walking and not enough sleep. Her own doing, really. Heavy footsteps crunched in the snow, and it took her a moment to realize that Julian was running after her.
Julian bent to retrieve the handkerchief, untangling it with surprising gentleness. He held it out, and irritation flitted through her.
She took the handkerchief. "Thank-you for your assistance."
"No trouble," Julian said.
"Of course," Isolde said, stuffing the cloth into her pocket, "it would have been more helpful five minutes ago."
Her voice was pleasant. Julian's face was inscrutable. He shifted the bow, running a hand through his dark hair. "You shouldn't go chasing a servant's handkerchief across these gardens."
"Tilda's not a servant."
"Even still."
"Why?" Isolde raised an eyebrow. "Because it's not befitting of an empress?"
Julian crossed his arms. "Because there are rabbit holes in this field. You see?" He kicked aside some snow, revealing a large divot in the earth. "One false step and you'll twist your leg. That's weeks of recovery."
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I can assure you, my leg does not prevent me—"
"I would give the same advice to anyone," Julian said.
They surveyed each other. Julian's gaze was unflinching. His eyes were a chocolate brown, melting in the winter sunshine. It was unnerving, Isolde thought, to do this; she'd grown so accustomed to shopkeepers ducking their heads, to strangers averting their gaze, that she'd forgotten how intimate it was to actually look at someone.
"Well." Isolde cleared her throat. "I should be going."
She turned toward the archery range. Julian's voice rang out.
"Wait a moment."
She paused. He drew closer.
"Your wrist," Julian said. "What happened to it?"
His voice was calm. The skin on her forearm tingled, and Isolde resisted the urge to shove her hand into the pocket of her cloak. A purple bruise bloomed on her skin, winding its way around her wrist like a fat snake.
"I fell," Isolde lied.
That eyebrow went up again. "You fell?"
"Yes." She met his gaze. "I took a set of stairs the wrong way. Put out a hand to brace myself. I must have caught the edge of the stair."
"Funny," Julian said slowly. "I wouldn't have thought an accident like that would leave bruises."
"Well," Isolde said, "you thought wrong."
A winter wind ruffled her hair. Her leg was trembling slightly, struggling to adjust to the deeper snow. A white rabbit darted across the field, making Tilda squeal and leap onto a wooden stump.
"If it..." Julian blew out a breath. "If you should ever find yourself having trouble with the stairs again, please do let me know. I can help you."
Isolde laughed. "You."
"Yes."
"You can help me."
"That's what I've just said, isn't it?"
A note of irritation crept into Julian's voice. Hysterical giggles bubbled in her chest. The idea that Julian Winterthorpe could protect her... the idea that the emperor's cousin and closest advisor could be the person to save her...
Absurd.
"How?" Isolde asked.
Julian's face was blank again. "I have more influence at this palace than you think."
"Yes," Isolde said. "Because you're close with Halson."
"I'm Halson's advisor," Julian corrected her. "I work for him."
"You're also his cousin."
She waited for him to deny it. Julian dug his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his toes. Dark strands of hair blew into his eyes.
"That doesn't necessitate us being close," he said finally.
Isolde crossed her arms. "So tell me, Julian Winterthorpe. What does your role as the palace advisor include? Do you decide which roses in the garden get trimmed? What dishes are served at dinner? Which areas of Bardan are gassed on Holy Nights?"
"Those are rotational." Julian's voice was even. "There are sixteen areas of the city. The gas operates in a clockwise direction."
Isolde looked at the archery range. "How systematic."
Something terrible clawed at her chest. The images came again, faster this time: a man, his arms wrapped around his crying child; a dog cowering in a cardboard box; a woman desperately scrabbling at her own chest. The people she'd been able to save from the gas. And the people that she hadn't.
"You sound angry," Julian said.
"Do I?" Isolde offered him a bland smile. "How bizarre."
They both stared at the empty archery range. Julian touched his bow: a quick, absent gesture, like a child touching a security blanket. Isolde dug her hand deeper into her pocket, fisting it around the handkerchief.
"Why won't you teach me?" she asked.
She didn't need to specify. Julian dropped his hand.
"I don't see the point," he said.
Isolde raised an eyebrow. "What if I need to defend myself?"
"You have an army of soldiers at your disposal."
The handkerchief felt hot in her hand. "And what if they can't help me?"
Julian's left eyebrow went up again. "What sort of threat is too great for an army of trained soldiers?"
"I think you know," Isolde said.
She released the handkerchief. They both looked at her bruised wrist, a mangled canvas of lavender and plum and delicate sage. Julian's mouth tightened. He took a breath — to say something, she assumed — when footsteps sounded across the lawn.
"Your Holiness!" a voice called.
A servant in silver livery scurried across the lawn, cursing as he slid on the snow. Isolde shoved her hand back into her pocket.
"Yes?" she asked.
"There are visitors at the gate." The servant was panting, his cheeks flushed from either the cold or exertion. "A young man and a woman."
Isolde looked to Julian. "Are we expecting anyone?"
"No." Julian's face was grim. "Did they give their names?"
The servant shook his head. "No, sir." He hesitated. "At least, the man didn't. He looked familiar, though."
Julian frowned. "And the woman?"
"She gave a name. But..."
The servant pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at the sweat beading his forehead. Julian took a step forward. "But what?"
"Begging your pardon, sir," the servant said. "It just seems so impossible."
"What did she say her name was?"
He lowered his hand. "Princess Penelope Delafort, sir."