Nothing had prepared Isolde for this.
She peeked across the table. Princess Penelope Delafort was calmly buttering a scone; her red hair was damp from the bath, and she smelled of lilac soap. She was also wearing one of Isolde's gowns — a pale champagne dress — that was too small in the bust, and too long in the ankles. Not that Penelope seemed to mind.
She kept buttering her scone.
Isolde swallowed.
Sunshine spilled in through the glass roof, reflecting off fuzzy white throw cushions, a silver tray of tea cakes and scones, and a stag's antlers that were mounted above the fireplace. Poor stag, Isolde thought; how terrible to be inhaling smoke for eternity.
"I trust your journey was pleasant," Isolde said.
"Well," Penelope said, "I was forcibly removed from my childhood home after my mother, brother, and several of my friends were slaughtered. Then I was crammed in the belly of a boat for several weeks." She nibbled on the scone. "So not really."
"Don't forget the sea monster," Grayson added.
The young blond man was standing by a potted plant, examining the spiky leaves with interest. Isolde caught the flash of a tattoo. Waves? Birds? She couldn't tell from this distance. Penelope clicked her fingers.
"Ah, yes." She lowered her scone. "Are you familiar with Loxian sea monsters?"
Isolde picked up a knife. "No, Your Highness."
"Neither was I," Penelope said. "Then one tried to eat me."
The Delafort princess added jam to the scone. Isolde cut into a lemon tart and tried not to think about how strange this whole thing was. Nothing had prepared her for this. Nothing. She was barred from most etiquette classes at the convent, and the few that she'd attended had been called things like "The Art of Crochet" and "How to Master Napkin Arrangement."
Not exactly helpful.
She needed "How to Master Tea With a Princess" or "How To Eat a Lemon Tart in A Way That People Deem Socially Acceptable."
Most pressingly, Isolde thought, what on earth was one meant to say when a royal tells you she was almost devoured by a sea monster? Sorry? I hope you're alright? Ah yes, we had meant to feed Nessie on the weekend but forgot?
"How unfortunate," Isolde ventured.
"Yes, I rather thought so," Penelope agreed. "The creature's breath was terrible." She took a bite of scone, then wiped the crumbs from her mouth with a napkin. "Why did you call me that?"
Isolde blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your Highness," Penelope clarified. "You don't need to, you know. We're equals."
Hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest. Equals. Sure. Penelope had probably grown up choosing which crown to wear to breakfast; Isolde grew up cleaning ash out of fireplaces. She had no idea how to host a foreign princess. She'd sent for Julian several times, but he was off somewhere. Earlier, he'd raced out of the garden like his arse was on fire, so whatever it was, it was important.
Bugger.
"What shall I call you, then?" Isolde asked.
The princess smiled. "Penny. And you?"
"Isolde."
Penny studied her. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."
Isolde bit into the lemon tart. "The same age as you."
"Does it hurt?" Penny's eyes flickered to her forehead. "Your mark?"
Isolde examined the lemon tart. She'd definitely eaten it wrong. She had no idea how, she just knew. "No."
"Can I touch it?" Penny asked.
Isolde glanced up. Touch it? Like, physically feel up her forehead? Something squirmed in her chest, and she lowered the lemon tart. Penny's face fell.
"Sorry," Penny said. "I've made you uncomfortable."
Isolde shook her head. "Not at all."
"I have." Penny's voice was firm. "I can sense emotions, you see." She picked up a book, running her finger over the title: Drusden's Sermons. "Is this yours?"
"Yes," Isolde said, wondering how the in the seven burning hells one could sense emotions, and then wondering if Penny could feel her wondering.
Penny turned over the book. "What do you think of it?"
Well. A few words came to mind. Just this morning, Isolde had seriously considered throwing the book into a frozen moat. She took a sip of raspberry tea, and then coughed into her palm. Dreadful. How on earth were people meant to drink this?
"I find it very useful," Isolde said, which was true. She used Drusden's sermons all the time. Most often to stand on when she needed to reach high shelves.
Penny's eyebrows flew up. "Do you?"
"Incredibly," Isolde said. "The book enhances my daily life." She lifted the teapot. "More tea?"
Penny looked rather put out. She probably hated the tea, too. Impossible not to. Still, Isolde thought, ladling a generous amount into the princess's cup, someone had to finish the pot. Better Penny than her.
Penny set down the book. "When did you say your husband would be back?"
"Several weeks, I'm afraid," Isolde said.
Penny and Grayson exchanged a glance. The young blond man drifted closer, abandoning his spidery plant.
"We'd like to speak with Halson upon his return," Grayson said. "It's urgent."
Isolde set down the teapot. "You know my husband, then?"
That would make one of them. Although in some ways, Isolde thought, tucking her bruised wrist further into her sleeve, she might know Halson better than most people. Grayson picked up Penny's tea. The princess gave him a grateful look.
"A little." Grayson sipped the tea. "We've done some business together over the years. I transport goods from Wynterlynn and Lucerna."
"I see," Isolde said.
She wondered if Grayson knew that some of those goods were vials of nightmare somnium. Probably not, Isolde decided; nightmare somnium was still largely illegal in Wynterlynn, and Grayson didn't strike her as the sort to smuggle goods. Also not the sort of person to assist in mass genocide, come to think of it.
Penny nibbled on the scone. "Where did you say he was going again?"
Isolde hadn't. Had deliberately avoided that topic, in fact. Somehow, Isolde suspected that Halson's journey to Wynterlynn to meet with the very people that had slaughtered Penny's family wouldn't go over well.
"I'm not entirely sure," Isolde said, polishing off her lemon tart. "Halson rarely speaks to me about these matters."
Penny frowned. "He doesn't?"
"No."
"That surprises me."
"Well," Isolde said, "I'm new to this."
Isolde took a sip of disgusting tea. Warmth pooled in her cheeks, and she glanced at the door. Gods, this was awkward. But how to extricate herself? Could she invent a crisis in the stables? An emergency in the kitchens? Perhaps she ought to burn her hand on the teapot. Yes. That seemed like a brilliant idea.
The door creaked open.
Julian stepped into the room. He'd changed out of his archery gear and into a fitted black suit, and his dark hair was neatly combed. His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked tired, Isolde thought; tired, and a little stressed.
"Oh," Isolde said, setting down her tea. "Penny, Grayson, this is—"
"Jules," Grayson said.
He rose. The two men clapped each other on the back, although there was something solemn about it. Like exchanging a hug at a funeral.
Julian turned. "I'm so sorry to hear the news about your family, Your Highness." His throat bobbed. "You have my sincere condolences."
Penny stared at her lap. "Thank-you."
"You look taller," Julian said, turning back to Grayson.
His smile was faint. "You look smarter."
"Finally went to see a tailor," Julian said. "It turns out that you shouldn't have holes in your dinner jacket. Who knew?" His eyes slid to Isolde. "Can I borrow you for a moment, Your Holiness?"
She stiffened. "What for?"
Because if Halson was on his way... if he was sailing back to Lox... Isolde stared at the dried-up raspberry flakes at the bottom of her teacup. She didn't want to see him. She'd rather read a dozen more books of Drusden's sermons.
"It's a rather personal matter," Julian said. "We discussed it earlier this week."
He gave her a significant look. Something clicked. Oh, right; this was a ruse. She supposed she should have guessed that.
"Ah," Isolde said. "That."
"Indeed."
Isolde rose, setting her teacup on the table. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. Please do enjoy the rest of the tea." If that was possible. She didn't think it was. "I'll see you both at dinner this evening."
**
"Where were you?" Isolde hissed.
She raced alongside Julian, holding up her skirts. Sunshine filtered through the glass walls, illuminating vases of dried flowers and stag horns and jars of red potpourri. Her leg cramped, and she gave it an impatient shake.
Julian took a left. "I was busy."
"Doing what?" Isolde demanded.
Another left. "Tasks."
"I swear to gods, Julian..." She resisted the urge to stamp her foot like an overwrought damsel in a novel. Just barely. Mostly because it would hurt. "Look, I've just spent the last two hours making small talk with a princess. I smiled. I laughed. I drank bloody raspberry tea, which tastes like a worm's backside. Do you really want to test my patience?"
Julian glanced at her sideways. "You're very vocal today."
Isolde ignored this. "You were writing to Halson, weren't you?"
Julian climbed a set of stairs, pausing at the top. She waited for him to deny it. To invent an excuse. But instead, he shook his head.
"It doesn't matter," Julian said. "The letter will never reach him in time. And even if it does..." His blue eyes were crushed petals, the kind that left residue on your fingers. "Halson makes a point to always be on the winning side."
She braced a hand on the bannister. "And you don't think the Delaforts will win?"
"Against an omnipotent goddess?" Julian asked. "No." He watched as she ascended the stairs. "Anyway, Ryne Delafort is dead. Penny's a lovely girl, but she won't have the support; allying with her is signing our death warrant. She can stay until Halson's back, but then..."
Isolde climbed the last step. "Surely he wouldn't evict her."
"No," Julian said grimly. "He'd do worse."
Ah.
Something in her brain clicked. Right. Halson would hand Penelope Delafort over to Lucia, to get in the goddess's good graces. Isolde frowned. She had no loyalty to the Delaforts, but something about that idea felt...
Well.
Icky.
She let go of the bannister. "What about the other girl?"
Julian started walking. "Who?"
"The Cidarius princess," Isolde said.
"Annalise?" A right. "I'm surprised you've heard about her."
Isolde shrugged. "One of the novelists that I like based a character on her. Melissa De La Fox. She's a princess-turned-assassin that kills abusive men. I'm just starting the third novel. What Hunts in the Shadows."
His dark eyebrow inched higher. "The nuns allowed you to read that?"
"Well," Isolde said, "allowed is a strong word." They paused outside a wooden door, and she frowned. "Where are we going?"
"I told you," Julian said, not impatiently. "To get your leg fitted. We discussed it earlier this week."
"Oh." She sucked her lip. "I thought that was a front."
Julian shrugged. "Two seals with one harpoon."
He pushed open the door.
A parlor, Isolde thought, walking through the door. No, wait: a study. The room was filled with sturdy mahogany furniture and whisky tumblers and a fire crackling in a grate. And the walls. The walls. Every surface was lined with leather-bound novels, ranging from poetry to crime fiction to the classics.
And then it struck her.
She turned. "Is this...?"
"My quarters." Julian's voice was brusque. "I figured it was the best place to avoid palace gossip. I don't keep any servants, you see."
"Right," Isolde said.
A short man stepped forward. He was standing beside a long table lined with — in Isolde's opinion — some very scary-looking silver tools. A glass leg was carefully positioned in the center of it, and it seemed to glow orange in the reflection of the fire.
"Your Holiness," the short man said, giving a little bow. "It's my great honour." He gestured to a wingback chair. "Please, take a seat."
Isolde sat. The man — a designer, she realized — approached, cradling the glass leg like a child. The heat of the fire burned her eyes.
"It's beautiful," Isolde said.
"Thank-you." The short man smiled. "One of my finest pieces of work."
The designer knelt, looking askance as he placed a hand on her knee. Isolde nodded. Carefully, the man removed her wooden leg. His fingers worked quickly, yanking and fastening and lacing. He was an expert, Isolde thought, but then of course he'd be; he worked for the palace. Worked for her, she supposed.
Julian braced a hand on the back of her chair. His jaw was tight. She wondered what he was looking at. The puckered skin? The scars where Sister Tria's knife sawed at the bone? Heat spread to her cheeks.
"You can look away," Isolde said. "If you like."
Julian's jaw tightened further. "I'm fine where I am."
"There!" The designer rolled back on to the balls of his heels. "How does that feel, Your Holiness?"
Isolde rose.
The difference was immediate. Whatever this material was — whatever the designer used — it wasn't glass. The material was light. Spongy. She took a step, and it felt like walking on spun cotton-candy.
"Wonderful." Her voice came out hoarse. "You're a very talented man."
The designer beamed. "I took the liberty of adding a few features." He tapped a button near her thigh. "This increases grip strength; press it when you're walking over a nasty bit of ice. And this button?" More tapping. "Changes the angle of the foot. Makes it easier to run."
Isolde ran a finger over the last button. "And this one?"
"Ah." The designer smiled. "Lord Winterthorpe requested that one. A last-minute addition."
She turned. "You did?"
Julian crossed his arms. "It was just a suggestion."
Isolde turned back to the designer. Something swelled in her chest, and she wondered if this was what happiness felt like. She'd been a lot of things over the years — amused, hopeful, maybe even content — but never happy.
"What does it do?" Isolde asked.
The designer's smile grew. "Press it."
She did. A slender blade shot out of her ankle, almost stabbing an errant sofa cushion. The designer yelped, ducking to grab the cushion. Warmth spread through her chest, and she turned to face Julian.
"A knife?" Isolde asked.
He shrugged. "You said you wanted to defend yourself. Now you can."
Isolde opened her mouth. No words came out. She wasn't sure any thoughts were coming out, either. She felt like a winter field where the frost was melting, exposing the raw roots of grass beneath.
"Please." The designer raised a hand. "Go look in the mirror."
Slowly, Isolde crossed the room. A willowy blonde stared back, her eyes like coal. She hiked up her skirts; her glass leg threw off cold sparks. She looked strong. Beautiful. Resilient. She looked like the warrior princesses that she read about in books. Isolde pressed a hand to her mouth, and Julian frowned.
"Isolde?"
She turned. "It's perfect. Thank-you."