This was new.
Camille looked around the room. She was standing in the west conservatory; sunshine streamed through the glass dome, illuminating potted orange trees, black-and-white tiled floor, and little iron tables. A sideboard groaned under platters of cold cuts and bread, nutty cheese and plump berries.
She looked wistfully at the croissants.
She missed croissants. Lucia ate the same meal every morning: half a grapefruit, with honey and salted nuts. Then she went for a swim in the bracing cold stream before meeting with Eris to pore over maps and battle plans. Sometimes Lucia would sit in the study and stare at the oil painting of all six gods and goddesses. Other times, she would find a spindle and weave bottles and bottles of dream somnium.
Lucia rose.
She was dressed in a black gown, her blonde hair — Camille's hair — pulled back in a silk ribbon. Lucia was nervous, Camille realized, although she wasn't sure why. They must be meeting with someone. But who? A friend? An enemy? Maybe it was someone she knew, Camille thought, her heart beating faster; maybe it was someone that could help her.
The door opened.
Eris stepped through. He was dressed in a smart navy-blue jacket, the collar flipped up to reveal a slash of silver. He bowed.
"Your Majesty," Eris said.
"Is he here?" Lucia demanded.
The goddess picked up an apple; it felt too smooth in her hands, round and waxy, like a pebble sanded down by water. Eris glanced at the door.
"He arrived an hour ago," Eris said.
Irritation flickered. "An hour?"
"He wanted to bathe first," Eris said. "It was a considerable journey."
Lucia pursed her lips. "Even so."
The door opened again.
Vulcan stepped through this time, breathless and slightly sweaty. There was a red smear near the corner of his mouth that could have been tomato sauce, blood, or a bit of dust. Eris smirked, producing a handkerchief.
"You have a little..." Eris gestured at Vulcan's face. "Just there."
Vulcan took the handkerchief. Lucia raised an eyebrow.
"Steak?" she asked.
"Servant girl." Vulcan's smile was vicious. "I became a little too... enthusiastic."
"I see," Lucia said.
Vulcan crouched down, reaching into the fireplace to adjust a log. Orange flames licked at his bare hand. Lucia looked away. He was a brute, but he would be useful; if there was an explosion — if the battlefield went up in flames — an Agnirian could change the tide of the war. A pity, Lucia thought, that Vulcan Agnirian possessed the intelligence of a metal spoon. But alas. These things couldn't be helped.
"Where's our esteemed guest?" Vulcan asked.
Lucia set down the apple. "An excellent question."
"He's right here," a voice said.
They turned.
A young blond man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in black furs and shiny boots, his hair meticulously combed to the side. He didn't bow, Lucia noted; just continued to lounge against the frame, studying her with abject curiosity.
She inclined her head. "Halson Dolphenberg."
"Your Majesty." Halson stepped into the room. "I enjoyed the bodies on the front gate. A very bold choice of décor."
Lucia tracked his movements. "I hear congratulations are in order."
"What for?" Halson asked.
"Your marriage."
"Ah." He popped a grape into his mouth. "Thank-you."
She watched as Halson chewed. He was a very average chewer, Lucia thought; that was interesting. Some people made a great show of chewing. They took the time to savour it, to really take their time before speaking. Other people swallowed their food quickly, so nobody had time to get a word in edgewise. Both strategies commanded power.
Eris poured some wine. Halson swallowed the grape. Four-point-seven seconds, Lucia noted, which was exactly average; even more interesting.
Lucia accepted a wine glass. "The empress didn't care to join you on the voyage?"
Halson's smile was mild. "My wife has a delicate constitution. I'm afraid the boat wouldn't have suited her."
"Pity," Lucia murmured. "I do enjoy seeing my sister's selections. The girls that she chooses are always so... earnest." She swirled her glass of wine. "Would you care for a drink? We're celebrating today."
Halson chewed another grape. "What's the occasion?"
"Our imminent victory in Lucerna."
He swallowed. Four-point-three seconds. "You've taken the castle?"
"Almost," Lucia said. "The royal family have been under siege for weeks now." She sipped at her wine; it was terrible, just like all human food was terrible. "Their supplies are dwindling; they won't last beyond morning."
Something sharp lodged in Camille's throat.
Her family.
Or her birth family, at least, Camille thought; she'd caught only glimpses of them over the years, spinning around ballrooms or laughing over platters of roasted goose. King Pieter, his handsome face crinkling as he laughed; Queen Aurelia, twirling a fork with delicate fingers; her older brothers, Benjen and Ashling, shoving and wrestling and playing.
The pain grew sharper.
Had Aurelia recognized her? Did her mother have the same love for summer strawberries, and distaste for lavender-scented oil? She'd called her Orla, which meant bright star. Would she think Camille had lived up to that name?
But it didn't matter.
She'd read enough stories, Camille thought tiredly, to know how this was going to end. This was the second act. The "villain-takes-it-all" part of the book. Lucia wasn't going to let anyone stand in her way.
Only a fool wouldn't realize that.
Halson sniffed his wine. "You'll offer the Vespertines a deal, I suppose."
"Oh, yes," Lucia said. "If Pieter Vespertine agrees to vacate the throne, I'll offer to set the family up in a countryside manor. Plenty of fresh milk and eggs. Beautiful sunset picnics for the rest of their days."
Halson swirled the red liquid. "Living monarchs are dangerous things."
"I'm well aware," Lucia said.
They exchanged a look. Halson nodded, as if he'd expected it.
"You intend to kill them," he said calmly.
"Oh, not personally," Lucia said. "I'm far too busy."
Halson raised an eyebrow. "Even the boys?"
Lucia crossed to the window. "The castle gates could use some additional décor, don't you think?" She could just make out the iron gates. The shapes that swung like chandeliers. "Bodies are like flowers: they dry out far too quickly."
Birds circled the trees, black ghosts against the white sky. The weather was turning; she could feel the damp blanket of humidity in the air. Halson ate another grape. He chewed faster this time, his jaw working to crush the fruit between his jaws.
Halson turned to Eris. "I assume you'll sit on the Lucernian throne?"
"I'll rule in Her Majesty's stead," Eris said.
He looked at Vulcan. "You'll take the Gongo Islands."
Vulcan nodded. There was still a spot of red near his bottom left, drying into the texture of cereal. Halson looked at Lucia.
"Zarob?" he asked.
She waved a hand. "Easily taken. There are no monarchs to defend it."
"Salvatoria?"
"Trickier, I grant you," Lucia said. "The kingdom is full of secrets. Perhaps better to win over Princess Tallula and her advisor."
She took a sip of wine; the sour taste coated her mouth. Terrible, Lucia thought, but she'd learned that drinking it put other people at ease. Humans were truly unfathomable. To poison themselves for pleasure? Idiots. The lot of them.
"And Lox?" Halson asked.
Another begrudging sip. "That depends."
Halson's face was impassive. "On what?"
"On how this meeting goes," Lucia said.
She smiled. Halson turned to the window, watching as the birds plummeted toward the treeline like falling midnight stars. Rain pattered against the glass.
"And what of Wynterlynn?" Halson asked.
She raised an eyebrow. "What of it?"
"Do you believe that you have a secure foothold?"
Lucia raised a glittering hand, sweeping it to indicate the conservatory. "We're standing in Stillwater Castle, aren't we?"
"There are threats to your reign," Halson said. "Annalise Cidarius. Penelope Delafort. Both women have a claim to your throne." His voice was low. Hardly audible over the rain. "There will be support behind them."
"Both will be eliminated," Lucia said.
"When?" Halson asked.
His dark eyes were steady. Irritation flickered inside her, brief and hot as the flame of a candle. A uniquely human emotion, Lucia thought; she had yet to understand how anger served her, but perhaps that would come with time.
"You know," Halson said, "I overheard the most interesting bit of gossip between some servants earlier today. Apparently, there was a prison break just a few days ago." He leaned against the fireplace. "Two young men escaped."
Lucia's gaze was cool. "I'm well aware."
"And you don't feel that has any significance?"
"Well," Lucia said, "I had to kill my prison guard." She set down her wine glass. "A great shame. He had the most excellent singing voice; did a wonderful rendition of And The Lady Ran Away With Her Tailor."
"Which prisoners escaped?" Halson asked.
She studied his face. "I'm sure you already know."
"Tristan Beauchamp," Halson said. "And Isaac Webb."
Shock lanced through Camille.
She swum back into consciousness, kicking and struggling against the dark current. Isaac? He'd been in prison? Had Lucia captured him? Worse, had she...? A sick feeling settled in her chest, sour as curdled milk. Oh, gods. Had Lucia tortured him? Had she done it while wearing Camille's face?
A sob rose in her throat.
Let me out. The thought was desperate. Let me out, let me out.
She stared down at her pinky finger. Move.
The finger stayed still.
Move, Camille thought urgently. For the love of gods, move.
Halson was speaking again, his face half-illuminated in odd milky white light streaming through the window. "My sources tell me that both men are close to Penelope Delafort. Don't you find the whole event oddly coincidental?"
"What are you insinuating?" Lucia asked.
Halson frowned. "She's gathering forces."
"Everyone's always gathering forces," Lucia said. "It makes no difference to me."
Halson paused. His wine glass was empty, and the fire was spitting sparks, burning down to orange embers and ash. He set the glass on the table. When he looked up, his face was the blank canvas of a trained politician.
"I regret," Halson said, "that I must decline your offer of working together, Your Majesty. I see no benefit in the alliance. I will stay the night, but then I'll take no further advantage of your generous hospitality." He gave a little bow. "Good day."
He turned for the door. Lucia spoke.
"Stop."
Her voice was quiet. Power rippled through the room, golden strands slithering around stuffed cushions and half-drunk whisky bottles. Slowly, Halson turned.
"You mistake me," Lucia said.
Halson raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
Amusement curled in her chest. "Do you think that I'm threatened by Penelope Delafort? Do you think I cower at the idea of Annalise Cidarius? Do you imagine that my reign is so fragile that it can be destroyed by a few teenagers?"
"Here we go," Eris muttered.
"I am older than the sky," Lucia said, rolling up her sleeves. "I am older than the stars." She raised her hands. "I am invincible."
There was a smash.
Birds careened through the window. Rain lashed the carpet, breaking like glass against the carpet. Lucia twisted the golden strands, and then a sunhound sprung from the earth, snarling and tearing at the couch cushions. She watched impassively as the birds continued to hurl themselves at the glass. They were desperate, Lucia knew; just silent sleepers caught in a dream, willing to break their bodies if it meant another moment of pleasure. Another hit of dream magic.
Halson stared at the cacophony, his expression one of abject horror. Lucia smiled and rolled down her sleeves.
"So, Emperor Halson," Lucia said. "I will ask you again. Will you join me?"
***
Lucia shut the door to her bedroom.
She sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection. Soft brown eyes, a clever little button nose... Blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, falling in a silky waterfall of silver and white gold. Stardust hair. The phrase came from somewhere inside her, dragged out of a memory that she couldn't access.
Lucia picked up her brush.
Today had been a triumph. She ran the brush over her hair, watching as the strands fell obediently into place. She'd won Halson Dolphenberg to her cause, which was a gods-damn relief. Nobody, Lucia thought, wanted to invade Lox in the dead of winter; her soldiers would either starve, freeze, or abandon the campaign. No. Far better to play nice with the Loxian emperor.
At least for now.
She hummed, running the brush over another strand. Her finger twitched.
Lucia frowned.
She set down the brush, staring at her pinky finger. The digit was still. But it had twitched. She had felt it twitch.
Her frown deepened.
"Camille?" she asked.
The room was silent. A wind tore through the window, rattling the bedposts. And from somewhere in the castle, a broken bird began to cry.