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CHAPTERONE

The Queen Consort of Terrsaw keeps pace with her wife through the corridors of the palace, her tone blithe and her smile even more so. It is the mark of any good spouse to a monarch, she thinks, to be exceedingly vapid. Perhaps even ineffectual. Or, at the very least, one in her position shouldappearthat way.

Queen Cressida has learned all the ways to thrive and fail in her role. She has both held and mishandled the deference of the palace’s delegates. She has won and lost the favour of her constituents with the passing of years. In fact, if she looked closely enough (which she never did – one needn’t inspect the opinions of a commoner), she felt sure she would find the populace of Terrsaw held her in quite low regard. They might even hate her.

In this, she had failed her role, because as well as appearing of little consequence in the shadow of her wife, Queen Alvira, Cressida had also been charged with the task of being well-loved.

Of course, there was no ordained manual for wedding a Queen. In fact, when Alvira had been newly crowned, Cressida had envisioned the role adjacent as a robust one. One of influence. A role in which she might hold some sway.

She swiftly learned there was no sway to be had. No, her only duty was to be the gem on Alvira’s finger. The living embodiment of an ideal. Stand tall, blush, smile prettily, wave. Be demure. Don’t scowl.

How quickly she had miscarried that duty. Even quicker had she come to despise it.

Cressida nods to her wife, who walks, as always, just slightly ahead, skirts blocking the space directly at her side.

“…and the Fallen Woman will need clearing, of course. The townsfolk still insist on cluttering its dais with candles.”

“Is that not what a shrine is for?” Cressida yawns. It is always best to dilute snide with indifference.

“Perhaps during a commemoration,” Alvira scoffs. “But this is a royal jubilee.”

Cressida tsks. “The candles shall matter very little if the entire affair is disrupted by Dawsyn Sabar and her… radicals.” Another technique she has found handy – diverting any line of conversation to the focus of one’s choice.

“I am well aware,” Alvira quips.

“I only mean to hold the bigger picture in mind, dearest.”

Alvira looks ahead as she says, “I worry just as much as you do. But my mind is capable of worrying about many things at once. Perhaps it is a defining trait of a leader.”

Cressida presses her lips into a tight smile, as one demeaned by a Queen should. “Perhaps,” Cressida allows. “And is the defining trait of a leader’s wife not to stream the doubts and fears into something traversable?”

Alvira smiles in the way that she always has when looking upon her wife. With deep affection. With gratitude. “It is,” she says, reaching back to grip her hand for a moment. Alvira is never happier than when Cressida defers to her lesser role.

Still, beneath the bitter tang of resentment, the boiling restlessness, Cressida’s pulse quickens at the feel of Alvira’s fingers in hers, not so different from the way her wife’s warm touch made her heart race fifty years before.

“You know I value your insight.”

“I do,” says Cressida. How very easily they can both lie to each other.

They descend the winding stone staircase, deep into the bowels of the ancient castle, Her Majesty first. “If this traitorous leech should not be of any further help to us then–”

“Yes, yes.” Cressida waves the thought off. “You’ll string her up. The woman is well aware of the direness of her situation. I assure you; she is ready to be of use.”

Alvira continues to stomp down the narrow steps, holding her skirts above her ankles, mumbling beneath her breath. “Such a future to squander, all for a mere speck of glory,” she says. “I had high hopes pinned on that girl.”

“A pity indeed. I suspect she has since realised the gravity of her choices.”

“Be that as it may,” Alvira says, reaching the floor of the dungeon. “I will put her neck in a noose should she stick it out a second time.”

The guard standing sentry at the entrance to the cells straightens as his Queens come into view, staring somewhere just above Alvira’s head. “Your Majesty,” he greets, his tone the very essence of devotion and fear.

Alvira continues past him without any acknowledgment. “Ugh, but Ihatethe air down here. It is putrid.” She stops at the end of the room, where the last cell gate stands, and looks within. “Putrid air for the vermin it hosts. What say you, Captain?”

Cressida joins Alvira at the cell gate, and together, they look in upon the form huddled on the ground, her clothes tattered and unsightly, her long hair in great disarray.

Ruby looks up from where she lies and says in a raspy voice, “Your Grace.” It seems to take all the breath from her lungs. All the strength from her bones. She does not rise from the stone floor.

Alvira sniffs. “Have you had a moment to ponder your recent ventures, Ruby?”