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wakes with full sun streaming through her bedroom window, and the grandfather clock in the corner informs her it’s nearly noon, though the pounding in her head is so strong she rolls over and buries her face in her pillow, hoping to sleep awhile longer. As she does, though, she catches sight of the sleeve of her nightgown—stark white, splotched with dark red, nearly brown. knows better than most what dried blood looks like and as she bolts upright, sending another round of fireworks off in her head, the events of last night come back to her: making that foolish wish, talking to Nicolo, seeing his face, and then coughing blood.

Did he do something to her? Surely that isn’t possible—she hasn’t truly been in Cellaria, and what Nicolo knows about magic couldn’t fill a mouse’s teacup. No, it must have been her, she realizes, her stomach sinking.

stares at the blood-splattered nightgown sleeve for a moment, her mind spinning so quickly that her headache becomes an easy thing to ignore.

Magic has a cost, Nigellus warned her as much. Perhaps this is an escalation of her usual illness after making a wish. The thought has a touch of truth to it, but not quite enough to put her at ease. She coughed blood, after all. That is a far cry from a headache and fatigue.

“Apologies, Your Highness.” A muted female voice comes through the wall that separates ’s room from the sitting room she shared with her sisters. recognizes it as one of her lady’s maids. “Princess hasn’t woken yet.”

“It’s nearly noon,” another voice says. Pasquale. She pushes off the covers and climbs out of bed on unsteady legs.

“I’m awake,” she calls out. “Come in, Pas!”

Seconds later, the door to her bedroom opens and Pasquale comes in. “You slept late. Long night?” he asks before his eyes drop to the blood on her nightgown sleeve and he stops short before hastily closing the door behind him.

“…,” he says slowly, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” she tells him, forcing a bright smile, though she doesn’t know if that’s the truth. As quickly as she can, she tells him about the events of last night, from her canceled lesson with Nigellus, to visiting Ambrose and Gisella in the dungeon, to making the wish to speak to Nicolo and the conversation that followed.

“And the last thing I remember is coughing, noticing the blood, and then I must have passed out,” says, shaking her head. Seeing the concern in Pasquale’s soft, hazel eyes, she reaches out to take his hand. “I feel fine now,” she assures him, which isn’t the whole truth, but he doesn’t need to know about the headache.

“Even still,” Pasquale says. “Coughing blood is not something to take lightly. I’ll call a physician.”

He starts to move toward the door, but , still holding his hand, pulls him back. “No,” she says. “If it’s related to the magic, a physician won’t be able to do anything more than tattle to my mother. I need to speak to Nigellus, but I can’t dothat at this hour without rousing suspicions either.”

“I’ll go,” Pasquale offers, just as knew and hoped that he would.

“Thank you,” she says, crossing toward her desk and withdrawing a paper and pen. “I’ll write down exactly what happened, and while you’re speaking with him, I’ll distract my mother.”

—

Before they left Bessemia, and her sisters would regularly sit in on their mother’s council meetings—Daphne paying rapt attention, Sophronia taking notes with a permanent furrow between her brows, and only half listening while her mind wandered to more interesting topics. Sometimes she even managed to sneak in a book of poetry, hiding it in her lap.

Today, though, is not expected at her mother’s weekly council meeting, and by the look the empress gives her when she enters the council chamber five minutes late, she isn’t welcome, either. But if makes herself a target of her mother’s ire, it allows Pasquale enough freedom to carry her message to Nigellus.

It occurs to that making herself a target for her mother in order to protect someone else isn’t an unfamiliar concept to her. She did it often with Sophronia. The thought is a sudden stab of grief.

ignores her mother’s glare, flashing a smile at the other council members gathered around the great marble table with her mother at its head—Madame Renoire, who runs the country’s treasury; the Duke of Allevue, who represents the nobility; Mother Ippoline, the head of a nearby Sororia, to represent spiritual interests; and General Urden, who advises on military matters. Other advisors sometimes attend these meetings to discuss commerce or agriculture, but these are the four faces is most familiar with and they mirror her smile, if somewhat warily.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mama,” says, returning her gaze to the empress and widening her smile. “I assumed there would be some discussion of Cellaria and I’d like to be kept informed.”

Her mother smiles back, though suspects she is the only one to see the ice in it.

“Of course, my dear,” the empress says. “Though I’m surprised you didn’t bring Prince Pasquale with you.”

“Would you like me to fetch him?” asks, and though she knows what her mother’s answer will be, she still finds herself holding her breath.

“No,” the empress says after a brief hesitation. “Sit, then, . You’re late as it is and we have much to get through.”

inclines her head toward her mother before sinking into an empty chair beside Mother Ippoline.

“As I was saying, Your Majesty,” General Urden continues. A short, stout man with a shining bald head, he has always reminded of an illustration she once saw of a walrus, though that might be mostly attributed to his spectacular yellow mustache. “The situation in Temarin has grown somewhat precarious.”

“Our hold on Temarin was secure, as I last heard,” the empress says, turning her gaze to General Urden. Even the general, who doubtless saw all sorts of horrors duringthe Celestian War, withers beneath the empress’s gaze.

“It was—it is, but I’ve received word from some of my men that there have been spots of rebellion cropping up over the last few days,” he says.

The empress blinks slowly. “What in the name of the stars do they have to rebel against?” she asks. “Are they not grateful that Bessemia stepped in when we did?”

“Many are,” the general is quick to assure her. “But there are some who believe King Leopold survives and call for his reinstatement.”

The empress’s mouth purses. “There has been no word of King Leopold since Sophronia was executed; it is difficult to imagine a scenario where he is still alive.”

“Logical as that assumption might be, Your Majesty, the people of Temarin hold out hope for a Temarinian king to lead them, and many are openly resentful of your leadership,” General Urden says.

“I see,” the empress says, though those two syllables carry an ocean of venom. “Can these rebellions simply be stamped out?” she asks. “From my understanding, Leopold had few supporters when he was alive and reigning—I can’t imagine there are too many hoping for his return.”

“While you are correct, Your Majesty, Temarinian pride runs deep,” General Urden says.

“The Temarinian people prefer a dead, incompetent king to our illustrious empress?” asks, widening her eyes. The rest of the council might think her truly confused, but her mother knows her well enough to detect the sarcasm inher voice. Her eyes narrow at .

“You are welcome to stay, , but your commentary isn’t wanted or needed.”

“Of course, Mother,” says. “It’s only…one must…wonder, I suppose.”

“Must one?” the empress asks, and knows that if they were alone in this room, her mother would eviscerate her, but there is power in an audience. Retribution will be coming in some roundabout way, but tells herself it will be worth it to knock her mother off-balance and plant just a few seeds of doubt in the minds of her council.

“Well,” says placidly, “perhaps we ought to put some effort into finding the missing princes. Surely it doesn’t look good, even to our allies, that you are seizing a throne that rightfully belongs to mysteriously kidnapped children.” She pauses. “Allowing for the assumption that King Leopold is dead, of course,” she adds as an afterthought.

The empress’s pinched face gives way to a smile that twists ’s stomach. It’s a smile of triumph, which means made a misstep, she just doesn’t know what it is.

“In that, at least, we agree, ,” the empress says, turning back to her council. “As it happens, I received word from some of my spies in Friv about where the kidnappers were taking the princes and sent soldiers to intercept them. The spies sent word ahead that the boys are safe and sound, though as the rest of his family is dead, as far as any of us knows, Gideon will need a regent to rule in his stead until he comes of age.”

struggles not to frown even as she tries to make sense of her mother’s new plot. A plot that appears to sever her relationship with Eugenia—and possibly sever more than that, knowing her mother. will have to figure out how to get a letter to Violie as soon as possible.

“I know that Pasquale is the boys’ cousin, and their closest living relative, but he seems to have his hands full at the moment with his own country,” her mother continues. “I know that my relationship to them was only through our dear Sophronia, but in her honor, I feel obliged to help guide this new King Gideon for as long as he has need of me.”

For a moment, all can do is stare at her mother, trying to understand the rules of this new game she’s playing. Was she responsible for kidnapping the princes in the first place, all to arrange this? would assume so, if not for the fact that she could have had them here far quicker. Perhaps there is some truth to the story she’s spinning. When the tense silence between them stretches on too long, General Urden clears his throat.

“Very good, Your Majesty,” he says. “It would be better to have a solid ally in an independent Temarin than for you to rule over a country that is eating itself alive.”

The empress inclines her head toward the general, but her mouth has gone back to appearing pinched, which gives some comfort, though she can’t keep her mind from spinning. She is staring at a puzzle with half the pieces missing, and she can’t quite make out the shape of it.

“Now, in regard to Cellaria, we’ve received some interesting news from our spies,” General Urden says, shuffling the papers in front of him. “There have been whispers of a coup to overthrow King Nicolo, led by another of Prince Pasquale’s cousins—a Duke of Ribel.”

frowns. She didn’t meet the Duke of Ribel during her time in Cellaria—she knew him by name, but he hadn’t set foot in court. As understood it, he and King Cesare didn’t get along, and the duke rightly believed his best chance of keeping his head was to stay in his summer manor on Cellaria’s western coast.

“The Duke of Ribel has courted favor with other noble families who were outcast during Cesare’s reign. It’s understood that he is far more popular a choice for king than King Nicolo, who has enemies aplenty in his own circle.”

The empress turns toward with raised eyebrows. “Well, ?” she asks. “In this, your opinions might just be of use.”

resists the urge to glower at her mother.

“Nicolo and his sister spent far too much time trying to claim the throne, not nearly enough time understanding how to keep it,” says, choosing her words carefully. She thinks about Nicolo as she saw him last night, drunk and reckless but by no means defeated. He has something up his sleeve, is sure of it, and she won’t underestimate him again, but the empress certainly can. “If Gisella were at his side, I would caution against underestimating them, but divided from her, he won’t stand a chance against Ribel.”

“Good,” the empress says. “And, of course, the chaos around this infighting will make it all the easier to put you and Pasquale on your rightful throne, if you can manage it.”

stares at her mother. So they’re still keeping up this pretense, that and Pasquale will waltz back into Cellaria and onto their thrones, despite the fact that no one in Cellaria seems to want them there.

On Cellarian soil, by Cellarian hands, Nigellus said. Having a Cellarian kill in Cellaria is the only way the spell Nigellus cast upon her birth will come true. But isn’t about to give her mother that opportunity.

“How many troops can you spare to accompany us?” asks—not of her mother but of General Urden.

Still, the general’s eyes flicker toward the empress before he answers. “The empress has assured me that five hundred men will be sufficient,” he says carefully.

stifles a laugh. “I see,” she manages to say with a straight face. “And tell me, General, do you have any reports on the number of troops Nicolo and the duke have at their disposal?”

The general opens his mouth to answer, but the empress gets there first.

“Surely that shouldn’t matter,” she says with a smooth smile. “You are the rightful King and Queen of Cellaria, and if this business in Temarin has shown us anything, it’s that loyalty to the royal line always wins out. Do you believe yourself less deserving of loyalty than two boys who have barely entered adolescence?”

It’s a trick question—there is no comparing and Pasquale to Leopold’s brothers. But the empress knows this, and so does everyone else in the room, is sure. And it doesn’t change the empress’s mind.

“I believe we can manage,” says through clenched teeth.

“I’m sure you can,” the empress counters. “After all, have I not raised you to move mountains, my dear? What trouble, then, is an anthill?”

For one thing, thinks as the subject shifts to import taxes on Cellarian silk, ants bite. Mountains don’t.

—

When the meeting eventually dwindles to a close and the council members hurry to say their goodbyes to the empress, Mother Ippoline lingers beside , offering her a small smile that uncertainly returns. There has always been something discomfiting about Mother Ippoline—a constant cloud of disapproval that hangs over the older woman, and has ever since can remember. Seeing her smile, small a thing as it might be, is as strange to as hearing a cat bark.

“I heard about your unfortunate experience at that Sororia in Cellaria, Princess ,” Mother Ippoline murmurs. “I’m sure it’s left you with a terrible impression of Sororias. You’ve never visited mine, have you?”

“I haven’t, Mother,” says, working to hide how little the idea appeals to her. If never sees another Sororia again, she’ll die happy.

“You should remedy that,” Mother Ippoline says. “I would love to show you how different our Bessemian Sororias are from where you were kept—for one thing, everyone within our walls chooses to be there.”

“Oh, I know, Mother Ippoline,” assures her. “While I haven’t been to your Sororia, I’ve met several Sisters who lived there and they all spoke very highly of the place, and of you. But I’m afraid my mother keeps me quite busy here. I’m not sure I’ll have the time before returning to Cellaria.”

Mother Ippoline’s gaze flickers to the empress, and ’s follows. Her mother is deep in conversation with General Urden.

“I hope you will make time, Princess,” Mother Ippoline says. “There is someone there who is keen to make your acquaintance.”

looks at Mother Ippoline, unable to suppress a frown. Who at a Sororia could possibly seek her out? Before can ask as much, Mother Ippoline rises to her feet.

“Should you find time in your schedule, it would be best for all of us if your mother didn’t know of your visit,” she tells before curtsying and making her way to where the other councilors are gathered around the empress.

watches her go, unable to make sense of her words but knowing one thing: she’ll be setting foot in another Sororia after all.

—

When returns to her rooms, Pasquale is already waiting in the sitting room, pacing in front of the fireplace decorated with the birth constellations of and her sisters. When she enters, he stops, and the way he looks at her tells he doesn’t have good news.

“I take it coughing blood after making a wish is not a good thing,” she says, keeping her voice light to try to alleviate the tension in his brow—something else she used to do for Sophronia, she remembers before pushing that thought away.

“Nigellus didn’t seem to think so,” he says, wringing his hands. “He…said you shouldn’t have made a wish after he explicitly told you not to.”

rolls her eyes, collapsing onto the sofa. “I’m sure he said far more harsh things than that, but it’s kind of you to soften them.”

One corner of Pasquale’s mouth lifts, just a fraction, for just an instant, but that feels like a triumph for . “He said he didn’t know the stars cursed you to be a fool as well as an empyrea,” he says.

“That sounds more like Nigellus,” says before sighing. “I’ll have to find a way to sneak off to see him again tonight. It won’t be easy, but—”

“Actually,” Pasquale cuts in, “he explicitly said not to come tonight. Apparently your mother has need of him.”

frowns, sitting up straighter. “Has need of himhow?”

Pasquale surprises her by giving a snort of laughter, and shakes her head.

“Right. Of course he didn’t tell you.” She pauses. “Well, surely my incident can’t be all that serious. If it were…if I were…”

“Dying?” Pasquale supplies.

nods. “I mean, surely that would take precedence over whatever my mother has need of.”

Pasquale doesn’t reply, but she hears the doubt in his silence, feels it in her own bones. Surely Nigellus would care if she were dying, wouldn’t he? If only because she would be a mystery unsolved and he couldn’t abide that.

“I’m not dying,” she tells Pasquale firmly. “I feel fine now—it was a fluke, nothing more.”

She can tell Pasquale still doesn’t completely believe her, so she tells him about Mother Ippoline to distract him.

“What could she want?” he asks when she’s done, his brow furrowed.

“I don’t know, but if I’m not seeing Nigellus tonight, my schedule just cleared, and I intend to find out. Would you like to join me?” she asks.

Pasquale’s smile becomes a little more genuine. “Do you even have to ask?”

—

and Pasquale sneak out of the palace the same way and her sisters used to—by dressing in servants’ clothes stolen from the laundry, and hides her auburn hair beneath a kerchief. They wait until the guards outside her room rotate at dusk before slipping out.

“Princess and Prince Pasquale are resting,” she tells one of the guards, careful to keep her face lowered, taking advantage of the shadows that have already begun creeping into the darkening hallway.

The guards seem to accept this readily enough, and from there, it’s easy for and Pasquale to slip out of the palace and into the city surrounding it. Pasquale finds a carriage for hire and tells the driver to take them to Saint Elstrid’s Sororia—a place she knows by name but has never seen in person. When they arrive, gives the carriage driver two gold aster coins and asks him to wait, promising him a third if he does.

As they approach the Sororia, looks up at the large white stone edifice, gleaming silver in the twilight. Before they reach the wooden door, it opens and Mother Ippoline steps out, looking much the same as she did when saw her earlier in the day.

“You didn’t waste time,” she comments to , her narrowed blue eyes darting toward Pasquale. “And you brought company.”

“Surely the stars wouldn’t wish me to keep secrets from my husband, Mother,” says, injecting her voice with sugar.

Mother Ippoline gives a harrumph and ushers them both inside, closing the heavy door behind them. “This way,” she says, leading them down a dark and winding hallway, lit only by a few sconces.

takes the opportunity to survey the Sororia—how different it is in some ways from the Cellarian Sororia she was imprisoned in, and how similar in other ways. It is just as sparsely decorated, just as severe, but here there is some warmth—plush rugs that line the stone halls, a tapestry showing a dozen constellations on one wall. The biggest difference, though, is the glass ceiling that reveals the stars flickering to life overhead. In the Cellarian Sororia, at least the parts was restricted to, there was no sign of the stars at all.

“Are you all right?” Pasquale asks, his voice hushed.

“Fine,” whispers back, giving him a small smile. And it’s the truth, she realizes. This isn’t the Cellarian Sororia in many ways, but chief among them is the fact that she will be able to walk out its doors whenever she chooses.

Mother Ippoline stops in front of a wooden door and opens it, ushering and Pasquale into what appears to be a small chapel, set with five rows of pews, an altar, and the open sky above. One figure is kneeling at the front, lighting small candles.

“Sister Heloise,” Mother Ippoline says. “Your guest has arrived.”

The woman turns toward them. She must be near sixty, with lined skin, bright green eyes, and a few gray curls springing out from beneath her headdress. When her gaze moves over , she blinks as if she is seeing a ghost. She turns her attention to Mother Ippoline.

“Thank you, Mother,” she says, her voice coming out soft but marked by the polished accent of a Bessemian courtier. She rises to her feet gracefully.

“You don’t have long,” Mother Ippoline says. “If the empress finds out about this—”

“The empress doesn’t scare me, Mother,” Sister Heloise says. “And she shouldn’t scare you, either.”

Mother Ippoline sets her jaw but doesn’t reply. Instead, she inclines her head and ducks out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Silence stretches out in the chapel, and doesn’t know what to do with it. She doesn’t know who this woman is, or why she’s been summoned here, or how Sister Heloise knows her mother. Before she can ask any of those questions, though, the woman speaks, approaching her.

“You have a bit of your father in you,” she says, her eyes scanning ’s face like she is searching for something.

Whatever she might have said, wasn’t prepared for that, and she stumbles back a step in surprise. In sixteen years, she can’t remember anyone comparing her to her father, or speaking much of him at all. Most days, it felt as if the empress created her from whole cloth.

“It’s the nose,” Sister Heloise continues when doesn’t reply. “I wonder…might I see your hair?”

and Pasquale exchange a look and he shrugs. reaches up to unwind the kerchief she tied around her head, letting her auburn hair fall down around her shoulders, earning a smile from the woman.

“Ah yes,” Sister Heloise says. “I’d heard you got his hair. Of course, everything else is hers as far as I can tell.”

Hers. The empress’s.

“Who are you?” asks.

“Sister Heloise,” the woman says with a wry smile. “But before I took that name, I was Empress Seline.”

Empress Seline. The name slides through ’s mind and out again, catching on no memories. Sister Heloise must notice the blank expression on her face, because she smiles.

“You truly don’t know me,” she says, sounding more amused than offended.

Beside her, Pasquale clears his throat. “Seline was the name of Emperor Aristede’s first wife,” he says.

Rather than jog ’s memory, that only confuses her more. “I thought my father’s first wife was dead.” And on top of that, it only strikes her now as strange that she didn’t know the former empress’s name. She never heard it spoken in the Bessemian court, heard few references to the former empress at all, except when absolutely necessary.

Though she only needs a few seconds of thought before she understands why the woman standing before her has been so thoroughly erased. Sister Heloise or Empress Seline or whoever she may be sees the understanding in her eyes and smiles.

“Your mother hated me,” she says, shrugging. “I won’t lie and tell you I didn’t hate her in turn, that I was some paragon of virtue while she took everything from me. But…well…you of all people should know that your mother makes a formidable opponent.”

doesn’t know what to say to that. “You said I looked like my father,” she says instead. “Did you love him?”

To that, Sister Heloise laughs. “You don’t strike me as a na?ve person, Princess . I’m sure you understand perfectly well what royal marriages are made of.” Her eyes flick toward Pasquale and back to and she raises her eyebrows. “Unless you truly are that na?ve?”

doesn’t flinch. Instead, she holds Sister Heloise’s gaze. “I’m not na?ve,” she says. “But if you believe I wouldn’t burn the world down to keep Pasquale safe—”

“Triz,” Pasquale says softly.

“It’s quite all right,” Sister Heloise says. “It’s more than I ever felt for Aristede, I’ll admit, but I did care for him in my way. For a while, he cared for me, too.”

“Until my mother came along,” says.

“Stars, no,” Sister Heloise scoffs. “No, I lost count of the women who came before your mother. But I won’t bore you with the details of my failed marriage. I asked Mother Ippoline to bring you here because you are in grave danger, and your sister, too.”

“Daphne?” asks. “What danger?”

Sister Heloise takes a steadying breath. “I know you will find this difficult to believe, but your mother created you and your sisters from a wish to take over the continent—and to do that, she’ll have to kill you. Sophronia was the first, but you and Daphne—”

She breaks off when starts laughing.

“I assure you, this isn’t a jest,” Sister Heloise says coolly.

“Oh, I know it isn’t,” says when she catches her breath. “I’m very aware of just how serious it is.”

Pasquale places a hand on her arm and speaks. “What she means to say is that we know about Empress Margaraux’s plans.”

“You know,” Sister Heloise says slowly. “You know? Then what in the name of the stars are you doing here still? You should leave Bessemia as soon as you’re able! Run to Friv, fetch your sister, and then flee even farther.”

“To where?” asks with another laugh, harsher this time. “To a Sororia? Like you?”

“I’m alive,” Sister Heloise says. “And if I hadn’t surrendered, if I’d refused to go peacefully, I can assure you I wouldn’t be.”

“And that might have worked well for you, but I’m not a coward,” snaps.

For a moment, Sister Heloise just looks at her. When she finally speaks again, her voice has softened. “You’re so young,” she says, shaking her head. “And there is so much you don’t understand.”

That raises ’s hackles more than anything else the woman has said. “I understand enough. She murdered my sister, and if someone doesn’t stop her, she’ll murder the other one too. And if I run she won’t simply give up. She’ll do whatever she can—hurt whoever she can—to reach me, to kill me.”

That renders Sister Heloise silent, and Pasquale’s grip on ’s arm tightens. continues, speaking through gritted teeth.

“My mother is a monster. If that is all you sought to tell me, I can assure you, I’ve known as much my entire life.” turns to go, shrugging off Pasquale’s arm, but she doesn’t take three steps before Sister Heloise’s voice stops her.

“Wait,” she says, and though the word is quiet, feels it wrap around her, forcing her to heed it.

“Do you intend to kill her?”

In the silence of the chapel, the words seem loud, and can’t help but cast a wary eye around, as if expecting someone to overhear, but it is only her, Pasquale, and Sister Heloise.

“If I did,” she says carefully, “I’d hardly say as much to you, in a chapel of all places.” She casts a meaningful gaze at the stars watching overhead. She notes the presence of the Swan’s Flight, the Ship in a Storm, the Worm in the Apple.

“If you were,” Sister Heloise says, matching ’s tone, “the stars would hardly fault you for it. Nor would I.”

“I’ll rest easy, knowing that,” says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, but that doesn’t seem to affect Sister Heloise. She’s quiet for a moment, but sees her thoughts turning. She crosses toward and Pasquale, stopping mere inches away and dropping her voice to a whisper.

“There is an escape tunnel from the emperor’s chambers—I’d imagine that is where your mother has taken up residence?”

frowns and gives a quick nod. “I wasn’t aware of an escape tunnel,” she says. She knows about plenty of other secret passages in the castle, but not that one.

“I daresay the number of people in the world who do can be counted on one hand with fingers to spare,” Sister Heloise says. “It’s there in case the palace ever comes under siege—the tunnel leads to a safe house in the woods outside Hapantoile.”

’s mind is a whirl of possibilities. “Tell me everything you know about this tunnel,” she says.