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And then Eryx notices me watching and looks pointedly away from the Shadow King.

I file that away to examine later.

Two men stand to the king’s left: Rhouben Contos, heir of a viscount, and Petros Leva, second son of an earl. They must be close friends to the king if they’re standing in such an esteemed position. Strange that I hadn’t noticed the connection before. I spent quite a while at the palace trying to win over the king last year. I didn’t notice him spending much time with anyone at all.

Standing opposite to the men are Rhoda Nikolaides, a dowager marchioness, and Hestia Lazos, daughter of a viscount. They have on identical red overskirts, with black pants underneath. My sister’s friends. Such a small inner circle, when I compare it to my entire household staff, who have all become so dear to me.

Some sort of marriage official stands behind the king. He and the man exchange pleasantries, the official bent over with age, while the king stands tall and strong. The shadows flicker and swirl about him, as though giving away the man’s excitement.

They look just like the shadows that poured from Eryx’s mouth the night I poisoned him.

He’s not the late Shadow King’s son. That has already been confirmed twice over, but there is no denying that there is something familiar about Eryx’s abilities.

“Stop that,” Eryx whispers.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re looking between me and the king.”

“So what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

“I’m thinking that you look even less like Kallias Maheras than you do your supposed grandfather. You have none of the same features.”

Eryx purses his lips together in a way that suggests he’s entirely fed up with me.

The room goes quiet when the king’s shadows suddenly vanish. Kallias turns to survey the door at the end of the hall and freezes in place as though some otherworldly power has hold of him.

Everyone adjusts in their seats to see what has caught his attention.

And then we stand.

For my sister has made her appearance.

And she’s not wearing white.

No, Alessandra’s dress is blacker than a sky without stars. Her skirt is full, her sleeves long and tight, and she’s got so much chiffon layered about her that the material shifts when she moves.

Like shadows.

She wears her hair down, trailing behind her. A ruby necklace adorns her throat while matching earrings dangle almost to her shoulders. Her lips are painted just as red as mine.

Alessandra strides forward alone. I see that Father was not invited to give her away, nor does he appear to be seated anywhere in front of us. But she looks better that way. Walking as though she needs nothing and no one. She belongs to no one. She is choosing a life with the king. She doesn’t take note of me when she walks past. No, she sees nothing but the man at the end of the aisle waiting for her.

And I realize for the first time that she is in love with him.

My sister is not an actress. Not a talented one anyway. Not like me. That devotion in her eyes, that single-minded purpose with which she strides toward the king cannot be mistaken.

I feel sorry for her.

By loving the king, she is giving up her power. If he knows how much she cares, he will use it to try to control her.

She should have been more careful.

THE CEREMONY IS DULL,and the coronation is even duller. I watch stone-faced as a crown is placed on my sister’s head. People cheer, as though they’re genuinely happy to have a queen, and not like they’re just putting on a show for the king.

At least… the women do. Many of the men do not seem pleased. How dreadful that my sister is making laws that prevent them from exploiting women in so many ways.