Isolde was playing cards when the note arrived.
The words were printed on white cardstock, edged by a swirling blue border. The note felt heavy. Expensive. She'd received a similar note not too long ago, Isolde recalled, the night before her wedding. She scanned the words.
Come to my bedroom immediately.
H.
She lowered the card. The heat of the fire scorched her cheeks. Tilda — who'd been dealing out cards — paused.
"What is it?" Tilda asked.
"The emperor wants to see me."
Tilda and Sendra exchanged a glance. Tilda's gaze darted to her face and then quickly away. Isolde twined her hands in her lap. She knew what the other girl was looking at: she'd done her best to cover the day-old mark with powder, but it remained on her jaw, black and tender as a bruised plum.
"I should go," Isolde said.
She rose, gathering her skirts. Unsurprisingly, neither girl offered to go with her. Halson's temper was like a storm: unpredictable at best, destructive at worst. "If I'm not at supper tonight..." The fire stung her eyes. "Will you have a tray sent to my rooms?"
"Of course," Tilda said.
Tilda looked like she wanted to say something else, but she turned back to her cards, shuffling them with expert fingers. Isolde started down the corridor. Servants faced the wall as she passed, their eyes blank and unseeing. Wind seized the shuttered windows, rattling them with impatient fists. Isolde counted each step.
Twelve, thirteen.
Bile rose in her throat. Isolde thought of a Holy Night at the convent, two days after Sister Tria had cut off her leg. A nun had pressed laundered robes into her arms. "Here," she'd said. "Take these to Sister Tria. Quick as you can."
Forty-two, forty-three.
Isolde could still recall walking down the corridor, her small hands fisted in the black material. Biting down on her tongue until it bled. Her injured leg had burned, sending waves of fire through her chest.
Seventy-six, seventy-seven.
Now, Isolde paused outside an ornate door. Someone had carved a design into the wood: a white bear beneath a winter star, gazing mournfully at a night sky. The Dolphenberg family crest. Her family crest too, she supposed.
She knocked.
"Come in," Halson called.
She pushed open the door. Halson was leaning over a wooden desk, dressed in a black velvet robe. His blond hair gleamed in the candlelight. Several bottles were arranged across the desk. Port, sherry, white wine... Isolde couldn't identify most of the labels. A single bottle probably cost more than most people made in a year.
"You wanted to see me?" Isolde asked.
Halson didn't look up. "You're meant to curtsey in my presence."
"Oh." She glanced around the empty room. "I assumed—"
"Go on," Halson said.
He clasped his hands behind his back. Isolde sunk into a curtsey, her glass leg bending awkwardly. Halson held out a bottle. "Drink?"
"No." Isolde swallowed. "Thanks."
Halson nodded. "I'm sending a case of our finest blends to Wynterlynn. To toast our new friendship." He pulled out a goblet. "Oh, and I'm sending Julian, too."
Isolde stared. "What?"
"Julian," Halson repeated calmly. "Perhaps you know him." He poured out a healthy measure of wine. "Dark hair, permanent scowl, carries a bow like he might shoot at anyone who annoys him—"
"I know who Julian is," Isolde said.
Her mouth felt dry. Halson swirled the wine.
"Good," Halson said. "I have business that needs attending to. Julian will act on my behalf during negotiations."
Her heart sped up. "Julian's your advisor."
"I'm aware," Halson said. "I appointed him."
"Surely you want to keep him close."
He raised an eyebrow. "Do I?"
Silence fell. Halson sipped his wine, apparently content to let the quiet stretch out like taffy. Isolde felt as if her heart had transformed into a pustule, too delicate, too raw. She braced her hands against the desk.
"I only meant..." She could fix this. Surely. "Wouldn't it make more sense for someone else to go? A diplomat? Or— or a member of your council?"
Halson waved a hand. "My council is filled with idiots and drunks. And Julian is very motivated to keep me... happy."
"I should go with him," Isolde said.
Slowly, Halson lowered his wine. "You?"
Her heartbeat was a drum in her ears. "Wouldn't it be good to have a member of the Dolphenberg family there? As a show of power?" She splayed her fingers. "A crown in their courtroom. Imagine it."
"What I imagine," Halson said, his voice soft, "is that my cousin will tiptoe into your rooms at night." He set the wine down. "What I imagine is that he'll climb into your bed. He just can't help himself."
She looked away. "I wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't you?" Halson murmured. "Silly darling." There was the scuffle of footsteps, and then his hand brushed her cheek. "We've had this conversation before. It didn't end well, remember?"
His thumb flicked over her bruise, and Isolde flinched. Halson's blue eyes glittered like chipped glass. Something sour burned in her throat. She wondered how she'd ever found him handsome. He was like a snake, Isolde thought, all beautiful, supple armour and flat behind the eyes.
Halson leaned closer. "My cousin will never love you."
Isolde closed her eyes. "You don't know him."
"Don't I?"
Halson stepped back, his cloud of aftershave lingering like smog above a city. When Isolde opened her eyes, he was back at the desk, pouring more wine.
"As a child," Halson said, "Julian had a whole room full of toys. Wooden horses, tin soldiers, little dragons that breathed flame... he would beg my father to bring a new one back every time he went away."
Halson took a long sip. "He never wanted the most expensive or the shiniest toy; he just wanted a new one. And he would play and play with that toy until it broke, and then he would move onto the next one." His blue eyes were winter ice, the coldest part of the freeze. "That's all you are, Isolde. You're Julian's latest toy. And when he grows tired of you, he'll cast you aside, just as he always does."
Isolde bit down on her tongue. Her eyes burned, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Her voice came out steady.
"Is that all?"
"No." Halson swirled his wine. "I've considered your request to turn the East Wing of the palace into a poorhouse, and I've decided to take an alternative route."
Something cold slid down her spine. "What do you mean?"
"More gassings," Halson said.
"No."
"You see, my darling," Halson continued, "you were right about one thing. Those people are suffering. There are too many mouths to feed, and not enough food to feed them with. And now you've driven them into one place for me." He smiled at her over the wineglass. "Convenient, isn't it?"
"Please," Isolde whispered.
Bo. Rosie and her cat. All the people she knew, the people she called friends. The room full of drawings and dreams. It all whirled around like a carriage wheel, spinning around and around in her mind. Halson moved closer.
"I met with your friend this morning," Halson said. "Bo, is it? He was all too eager to tell me about your little flower shop. He was so grateful that we'd agreed to help him that he cried." He laughed. "Truly touching."
Isolde's throat was tight. "Don't hurt them."
"It's too late," Halson said. "I've given the order." He drained his wine. "They'll all be dead within the hour."
Something in her broke. "You asshole."
Isolde lunged. She was going to tear him apart. Scratch his eyes out with her bare hands, rip his beating heart from his chest. Red blurred her vision. Steel arms caught her around the waist, and Halson's voice was low in her ear.
"Such filthy words from such a pretty little mouth."
She shoved at his hands. "Get off me!"
"Oh, dear." The words were a purr. "We're going to have to teach you some manners."
Her head cracked against something. The desk? Pain exploded in her temples, sending stars scattering across her vision. Halson's hand pressed into her neck. "Submit to me."
Isolde twisted. "Get off!"
The hand grew stronger. "Submit."
Isolde spat. The spittle struck Halson in his left eye, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. His eyes were so dark that they looked like coal. "Fine. We'll do it this way, then. I don't mind." His voice was hot in her ear. "I like it when you struggle."
He seized her dress. For the first time, Isolde felt a flash of fear.
"Stop," she croaked.
Halson tore off the dress, forcing her onto the desk. Isolde lashed out.
"Stop."
Halson pinned her hands down. Primal fear flooded her. Isolde smashed her head into his shoulder, and Halson laughed.
"Please."
Her voice broke. There was the sound of a metal buckle coming undone.
"Please," Isolde whispered again.
Isolde closed her eyes. Everything came in shattered fragments: the winter wind rattling the window frame, the sour smell of red wine, the burning wick of a candle. Her pulse was loud and terrible. She was suddenly back on the table in the convent, the terrible sound of a saw grinding at her leg. There had been a candle burning then, too; the cloying vanilla scent had lingered on her skin for days.
A thick hand grasped her throat.
The breath disappeared from her lungs. Isolde choked, and black spots danced in front of her eyes. The rattle of the window grew louder; she had never realized the sound could be so grating. Halson's breathing was low and harsh in her ear.
Isolde closed her eyes.
She could recall retreating into herself at the convent too, crawling into the darkest, smallest recesses of her mind. Phantom fire burned in her leg. Isolde could hear a branch scraping the window, and the sound felt like a saw. Tria's face loomed over her, her eyes burning like blue fire. I will chase the devil from you, the older nun was saying. I will remake your body, starting with your leg—
Her leg.
Realization struck Isolde, so fierce that a sob caught in her chest. Her beautiful, dangerous glass leg. Her hands scrabbled for a button, and a slender blade shot from her ankle. Isolde didn't let herself hesitate. Didn't wait. She reared back, stabbing Halson in the calf.
The emperor roared.
He stumbled back. Isolde shoved him, sending him toppling backward; Halson smashed into the desk. Glass bottles shattered on the floor. Red liquid soaked into the rug, and Halson raised his head, his gaze like hellfire.
"You bitch," he breathed.
Isolde turned, wrenching open the door. Halson raised his voice.
"Guards!"
Two men shouldered into the room. Isolde stumbled back. They'd been so quick. How had they been so quick? She hadn't seen anyone earlier, hadn't realized they'd be standing so close. A guard grabbed her shoulder, and she cried out.
Something smashed into the guard's head.
The guard crumpled. A familiar dark-haired young man stood behind him, breathing hard. His dark hair was mussed, his blue eyes wild. A bruise bloomed on his cheek. Isolde watched, frozen, as he stepped toward her.
"Jules?" Isolde whispered.