Page 47

The day after her visit to Saint Elstrid’s Sororia, can’t put her conversation with Sister Heloise out of her mind. What the woman said about her mother—and even more surprising in some ways, her father—nags at ’s thoughts. And when she isn’t thinking about that, she’s dreading her lesson with Nigellus tonight, terrified of what he will tell her, what she fears she already knows.

Pasquale hasn’t been of much help, though she’d never tell him as much. He’s trying, but his instinct is to see the good in the situation.

“The stars gave you a gift, Triz,” he said that morning over breakfast when confessed her fears to him. “They would never be so cruel as to make that gift a poison. What happened was a…misunderstanding. Or, perhaps, a coincidence.”

“A coincidence?” asked skeptically.

He raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of his coffee. “I can think of several people in this palace who have more reason to want you dead than the stars. We can’t rule out the possibility that your sudden illness wasn’t caused by your wish at all.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to , but it doesn’t hold water. If her mother wanted her dead, she would be, and even if Gisella had the power to poison her from her cell, she’s smart enough to know that is her best shot at freedom. She didn’t tell Pasquale that, though. It was kinder to let him keep his comforting story until they had a real answer.

But Pasquale wasn’t finished speaking. He set his coffee cup down on its saucer and leaned toward her across the small table in her sitting room. “Even in Cellaria, they will revere you as a saint when they find out. The girl who can birth stars,” he said, his voice low.

The words sent a shiver of excitement or horror through her—she wasn’t sure which—and they lingered with her for the rest of the day. Even now, as they climb the stairs toward Nigellus’s laboratory together, doesn’t think she wants to be a saint. She wonders if the girl who can birth stars can do anything else.

Besides, saints die, don’t they? It’s an integral part of the role, and not one is keen on.

More than anything, she wishes she could talk to Daphne. She knows she can’t—not only because she doesn’t know how Daphne managed to forge the connection between them in the first place and she isn’t fool enough to put such words down on paper, but also because she doesn’t trust Daphne. And judging by her sister’s silence since Sophronia’s death, Daphne doesn’t trust her, either.

A shiver races down ’s spine.

As they approach Nigellus’s door, she pauses, looking back at Pasquale. “Thank you for coming with me. I don’t…” She trails off, unable to give voice to the riot of emotions running through her, namely the fear. To admit fear is to admit weakness, she thinks. She doesn’t know if her mother ever said those exact words, but she hears them in her voice all the same.

But Pasquale is not her mother. He offers her a small smile. “I won’t leave your side,” he promises her.

nods and opens the door, stepping into Nigellus’s laboratory to find him hunched over the telescope near the window. He must hear them come in, but he doesn’t straighten up right away. As minutes pass, clears her throat, but he doesn’t move. Finally, he straightens and turns toward them, looking annoyed at their very presence.

“You’re late,” he says. His eyes flicker to Pasquale briefly, but he doesn’t question his presence.

“If you don’t expect that by now, you really only have yourself to blame,” tells him. “Pas is here in case I die.”

Nigellus blinks, glancing at Pasquale again before looking back at . “I don’t see how his presence would help in that circumstance.”

clicks her tongue. “The correct answer, Nigellus, is Of course you aren’t going to die, , ” she tells him. “But his presence will help me to not die alone, at least, and he will witness what happens to me.”

That causes Nigellus to raise his eyebrows. “Do you not trust me yet, ? Even after everything we’ve gone through?” It’s difficult to tell with Nigellus, but she thinks he’s being sarcastic.

“No,” she says simply. “Shall we begin?”

Nigellus doesn’t reply, instead gesturing her forward, toward the telescope.

“If I am going to die for this,” says, “or if my creating a new star or returning it to the sky doesn’t work, I’d like my wish to count for something.”

Nigellus’s brow creases. “It sounds like you’ve decided what you’d like to wish for already, but I’d recommend caution if you’re considering using the wish to hurt your mother. You can’t, for example, wish a person dead.”

blinks. She’s considered that, but there is no use wasting a wish on what poison could accomplish. Still, that is new information.

“You can’t?” she asks.

Nigellus shakes his head. “One of a select few things a wish can’t do. It also can’t force love, bring anyone back from the dead. But tell me your wish and I’ll tell you if it can be done.”

“All right, then,” says, meeting Nigellus’s gaze and lifting her chin. “I’m going to wish to heal someone.”

Nigellus pauses, as if waiting for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. “Who?” he asks.

smiles. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

According to Violie, Nigellus was supposed to heal her mother’s Vexis with stardust, but Ambrose has confirmed that the woman is still ill, and close to dying. Pasquale confirmed this afternoon that she is still hanging on to life, but only just. isn’t sure if her illness is because of Violie’s betrayal of the empress or if there was never any intention of saving her in the first place, but she knows she can right that mistake now. She knows it’s what Sophronia would do, in her position.

For a moment, Nigellus holds her gaze, as if debating whether or not to push her. His eyes narrow. “Is the person sick, or injured?” he asks.

“Does it make a difference?” counters. “Healing is healing, and we’re talking about pulling a star from the sky. I can’t imagine it wouldn’t be strong enough to accomplish this.”

“And you won’t tell me any more?” Nigellus asks.

shakes her head.

Nigellus appears annoyed at that, but after a quick glance over his shoulder at the telescope, he sighs, shoulders sagging. “Very well, wish whatever you like. You know how to do it by now. The real mystery is what will happen after.”

And just like that, the small victory she won by keeping a secret from Nigellus shrivels, overshadowed by her fear.

“Right,” she says, struggling not to show it. “I’ll just get on with it, then.”

Pasquale gives ’s hand a squeeze before she leaves his side, starting toward the telescope and waving Nigellus back to stand at the other side of the room. Aware of both Pasquale and Nigellus watching her, she leans over, placing her eye against the eyepiece and looking up at the magnified sky. She finds the Lost Voyager, the Clouded Sky, the Dancing Bear, but none of those constellations feel quite right for her wish. There’s no sign of the Stinging Bee, either, but she looks for it all the same, wondering if the star she wished on the other night has reappeared yet. If Nigellus had seen it, he would have told her, she thinks. She moves the telescope toward the eastern edge of the sky, just as the Glittering Diamond edges into sight.

The Glittering Diamond signifies wealth, but also strength. Violie’s mother can use all of the strength she can get, if she’s going to heal.

focuses on the constellation, twirling the gears on the side of the telescope until the stars making up the diamond come into focus. She should take a small star, one barely visible, like she has before, but she needs to be sure. Instead, she focuses on a large star toward the center of the diamond, making up the point of one of its facets.

There, she thinks. That’s my star.

closes her eyes, keeping the star in her mind, as she whispers her wish, knowing she will have to be as specific as she can be to ensure that it works.

“I wish Avalise Blanchette, at the Crimson Petal, were cured of Vexis.” She thinks the words more than says them, though she gives them just enough breath that they are said aloud— not enough that they reach Nigellus’s ears.

She feels the tug of magic go through her—a subtle thing, gentle as a summer breeze, but it leaves goose bumps in its wake. Though the room was quiet before, it’s suddenly so quiet can’t hear anything at all—not her heartbeat, or her breathing, or the sound of Pasquale fidgeting behind her. All that exists is herself, and the stars above. And then it is only the stars, and ceases to exist altogether.

—

The first thing is aware of is the cold stone floor beneath her and a pair of familiar arms around her shoulders. Distantly, she hears someone calling her name—Pasquale, she thinks, but he’s so far away.

“,” she hears again. He sounds frightened. “Open your eyes. Please.”

feels as if she could sooner lift the world onto her shoulders than open her eyes, but for Pasquale, she tries. It takes every bit of effort she can muster, but she manages to get her eyes open just enough to see the dim shadows of Nigellus’s laboratory, Nigellus himself standing in front of her, and Pasquale’s face looming over his, brow furrowed.

“Thank the stars,” he mutters. “Are you all right?”

“No.” It takes a moment to realize she’s spoken the word aloud. Her voice doesn’t feel like her own—her body doesn’t feel like her own, even. Part of her still feels as if she is somewhere above, floating among the stars. But already there is a dull ache working its way through her muscles, reminding her just how human she is.

Nigellus says nothing but holds toward her a vial full of shale-green liquid with an opalescent shimmer. takes it but doesn’t move to drink it, instead looking at Nigellus with what she hopes is a skeptical expression. She wants to raise an eyebrow, but even that small movement feels like too much work.

“An herbal blend, mixed with stardust,” he explains, words crisp. He doesn’t appear bothered by her current state, not like Pasquale, who is staring at her with panicked wide eyes. “It should dull the pain from using magic. I didn’t realize you would take such a large star, but as you can see, the larger the star, the worse the aftereffects.”

Her mother would surely call her a fool for taking a potion when she doesn’t know the exact contents, but is desperate for relief. If her previous bouts of postmagic pain and fatigue are anything to go by, it will only get worse over the next few hours, and doesn’t know how she will survive that. She tosses the potion back, sputtering at its acrid taste, but she swallows it down.

“Did it work?” she asks, her voice coming out a croak. She forces herself to sit up, ignoring the pain slicing through her head. Pasquale helps her stay upright, keeping his arm braced around her shoulders.

“Difficult to say,” Nigellus says, glancing behind him at the telescope a few feet away, and the pile of stardust gathered beside it, right where was standing before she fainted. “You took the star down and you aren’t dead, but that’s all I can say at this moment. We’ll have to wait for the Glittering Diamond to appear, and in the meantime, I’ll need to take a sample of your blood before you go, and check your vitals.”

nods, moving to stand up, and Pasquale steadies her with an arm around her shoulders. As the world lurches beneath her feet, she is grateful that Pasquale is anchoring her, otherwise she would surely fall right back to the floor.

She coughs, and Nigellus passes her a handkerchief. The cough burns her throat and makes her chest ache, and she knows even before she lowers the handkerchief what she will find, but still it makes her stomach turn.

Spots of red against the stark white fabric—more blood even than before.

—

awakes the morning after the experiment with a headache, though the potion Nigellus gave her seems to have helped somewhat. The curtains are drawn tight to block out the sunlight and servants instructed not to intrude unless the castle catches fire. By noon, though, the pain has passed and manages to climb out of bed and ring for her maid to help her dress.

As the maid laces up the back of her gown, she clears her throat.

“Prince Pasquale asked to be alerted when you were feeling better, Your Highness,” she says.

nods, having expected as much, and she has plenty of questions for him, though she fears she won’t like the answers. She must have passed out in Nigellus’s laboratory. The last thing she remembers is coughing blood again, more than before. She’s sure Pasquale is worried, but she hopes he has some answers from Nigellus as well.

“Have lunch brought to my sitting room, please,” she says, affecting a weak smile. “I’m not feeling up for anything more than that, I’m afraid.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” the maid says, tying ’s laces in a neat bow and dipping into a small curtsy before leaving the room.

Moments later, the door to ’s room opens again and she turns, expecting Pasquale, but instead it’s Nigellus standing in the doorway, dressed in his usual black cloak, his eyes somber as ever.

“How did you get in here?” she asks, stepping back in surprise.

“You aren’t the only one who knows how to sneak around the palace,” he says.

lets out a long exhale. “Well?” she says. She assumes he’s finished studying the blood he took from her last night after she passed out. “Am I dying?”

Nigellus doesn’t answer right away, but just when is about to snap at him to stop being so stars-cursed mysterious, he speaks, his voice surprisingly soft.

“Not today,” he says.

“What is that supposed to mean?” asks, struggling to keep her voice calm.

“Magic always has a cost, Princess,” he says. “Yours doesn’t kill stars, but it is killing you. Not immediately, though. I would have to run more tests to know the exact cost each wish takes from you, but—”

“But using my gift so many times would kill me all the quicker,” finishes, struggling to hold on to her composure, not to give in to the panic eating at her, the desperation for him to laugh, to tell her he’s only joking, that of course magic isn’t killing her. But she doubts Nigellus has ever made a joke in his life and he isn’t going to start now.

crosses her arms over her chest. “Is this the part where you tell me you told me so?”

“I don’t believe I have to,” he says. “But you know the truth now. I trust you won’t be foolish enough to use magic again.”

opens her mouth to say of course she won’t, but no words come out. She thinks about the things she’s wished for so far—some of them downright foolish, certainly, but others weren’t. If she could go back, knowing what she does now, she wouldn’t waste wishes on Nicolo, or selfish emotions like homesickness. But she would make a wish to save her life and Pasquale’s, like she did from the Sororia. And she would make the same wish she did last night, to heal Violie’s mother—though in the future, she might try stardust first before resorting to such drastic measures.

“I’ll certainly be more cautious in the future,” she says finally.

Nigellus’s dark eyebrows arch up. “You mean you would still use your magic, even knowing what it does?”

“It depends on the circumstances,” she says. “But I’m glad to know what the cost is now, at least. Thank you for helping me discover it.”

Nigellus only stares at her. “You’ve always been a reckless child,” he says, shaking his head.

The words rankle. “Perhaps,” she says. “But I’m going to die someday—sooner rather than later if my mother has her way. Pardon me if I don’t see the value in hoarding scraps of a life I’m still lucky to have. I won’t waste wishes on frivolous things, but if it means saving myself, or Pasquale, or Daphne—”

“No,” Nigellus says, the word coming out harsh as a slap. “It’s too dangerous.”

“To me,” says. “And thanks to you, I fully understand just how dangerous it is.”

“And if it isn’t only to you?” he asks.

blinks. “What do you mean by that?”

Nigellus shakes his head. “I’ve been consulting with other empyreas,” he says after a moment.

“About me?” she asks, alarmed. “Nigellus, no one is supposed to know about my magic. My mother has ears everywhere—”

“I’m aware,” he interrupts. “But this is bigger than your mother.”

The idea is laughable—nothing is bigger than ’s mother.

“One replied,” he says finally. “An empyrea with a gift for prophecies—she believes that your mother’s wish and your gift are a sign from the stars, an omen of a fate she’s seen coming for decades.”

“And what fate is that?” she asks.

He holds her gaze, and while doesn’t think she’s ever seen Nigellus anything but solemn, sullen, or frustrated, just now he can only be described as frightened. Despite herself, fear tugs at her as well.

“As the letter read: the stars will turn dark, ” he says.

’s stomach twists, but she struggles not to show how much the words unnerve her. “I don’t see what that has to do with me or my magic.”

“In this prophecy, Princess, you are the one who causes it.”

can’t hold back a laugh. “Flattered as I am to have that sort of power, I believe your empyrea friend has perhaps been drinking too much.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Nigellus snaps.

knows that. The gravity of everything Nigellus has told her weighs heavily on her, an unbearable burden. If she thinks about it, she suspects it will break her, so she does what she’s always done when someone has tried to lay problems on her shoulders—she shrugs.

“You’re giving me abstract, long-term problems,” she tells him. “And at the moment, I have far too many concrete ones before me.”

Nigellus’s pale face reddens and she braces herself for shouting, but instead a knock at the door sounds and Pasquale enters, his gaze darting between and Nigellus.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

No, thinks. Magic is destroying me, and if some empyrea is correct, I’m going to destroy it right back. Nothing is all right.

“Fine,” she says, offering him a bright smile that feels hollow. “Nigellus was just leaving.”

Nigellus holds her gaze, his eyes furious. “Your lessons are done,” he tells her. “But we aren’t.”

doesn’t respond, watching Nigellus brush past Pasquale and out the door, closing it firmly behind him. When he’s gone, Pasquale looks back to her, his face creased in worry.

“I take it that wasn’t good news,” he says.

swallows, quickly deciding just how much she should tell him.

“Magic is having a negative effect on me,” she says carefully. “Nigellus suspects it will get worse the more I use it and so I shouldn’t use it at all. I believe it’s best saved for emergencies.”

Pasquale’s eyes widen. “I’m inclined to agree with Nigellus,” he says. “If your life is on the line—”

“If I hadn’t used magic to get us out of Cellaria, we’d be good as dead by now,” she points out. “And if I hadn’t used magic yesterday, Violie’s mother…” She trails off. “How is she?”

“The Crimson Petal was celebrating when I arrived,” he says. “Avalise’s recovery from her deathbed to the picture of health is being heralded as no less than a miracle.”

lets out a long breath. A woman will live because she willed it. The power of that floods through her veins, chased with something else, something warm and lovely. She realizes it’s the first time she’s used her power unselfishly, to benefit another person, and a stranger at that. It might be killing her, but it’s given life to someone else.

And if Nigellus is right? a voice in her head whispers. If there is a far higher cost to pay?

She ignores it. The prophecy he shared was ridiculous, and won’t give it any more consideration than it deserves.

“,” Pasquale says. “What Nigellus told you—”

interrupts him with a smile, coming toward him to take his hands in hers. “I promise, Pasquale. I won’t use magic again unless it is truly an emergency and there is no other way through it.”

Pasquale looks like he wants to argue that point, but they’re interrupted by another knock at the door before a parade of servants enters, laying the small table with six covered plates and two glasses of lemonade.

“We’ll have water instead,” tells the servant who sets down the glasses of lemonade. She nods and hurries off to replace them with fresh glasses and a ceramic pitcher. When and Pasquale take their seats and the servants leave them alone, Pasquale speaks again.

“Not a fan of lemonade?” he asks.

“Oh, I adore lemonade,” she says, reaching for the pitcher to pour water into their glasses. “But the tartness can hide more poisons than I can count.”

Pasquale, who has lifted his water glass to his lips, freezes and sets it back down again, looking unnerved. “Is that…a concern?” he asks warily.

is tempted to lie to him, but she doesn’t. “My mother always seems to be one step ahead of me,” she says instead. “What with our plans to poison her, I can’t help but fear that she’s already decided to do the same to me. Logically, though, I know it wouldn’t serve her goals. She needs us dead on Cellarian soil, by Cellarian hands.”

Pasquale nods, considering this as he takes a small sip of water.

“You’re more alike than I think you want to admit,” he says finally. Before can protest, he speaks again. “I don’t mean it as an insult, Triz. But from what I’ve seen of your mother, you are both stubborn, both conniving, both ruthless. They aren’t bad traits on their own, it’s how they’re used.”

still wants to protest. She hates the idea of being anything like her mother, of sharing any more than blood, but she knows she is stubborn, and conniving, and ruthless, and she knows where those traits come from.

“I hate her,” she says after a moment. She can’t remember a time she liked her mother—even as a child, she would rebel against everything the empress said—but it has been a long journey from childhood rebellion to outright hate.

Or not so long, perhaps. As long as it took the guillotine to fall on Sophronia’s neck. There is no coming back from that, knows. No maternal love to redeem them, no blood to bind them. Just hate, and yes, a few shared traits, for better or worse.

“But if your mother were in your position,” Pasquale says when she stays silent, his voice gentle, “if she could save a stranger at the risk of hurting herself? When there is nothing in it for her but lingering pain and another step toward death? I don’t know her well, but I don’t believe she would consider that for a moment. You aren’t like her in the ways that matter.”

nods, pressing her lips together. She doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to think about her mother or her magic or her death. She takes another sip of water to hide her unease. “What did they say, when Prince Pasquale of Cellaria arrived at a brothel, inquiring after the health of one of its workers?” she asks, changing the subject.

Pasquale’s cheeks flush red. “No one tried to seduce me, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. “Apparently Ambrose had told Avalise and a few of her friends as much as he dared and they pieced together the rest when they heard word of his arrest.”

frowns, reaching across the table for one of the delicate tea sandwiches arranged in a tower—too many of them for her and Pasquale to possibly eat themselves.

“Is it safe, to have so many people know so much?” she asks.

Pasquale considers his next words carefully. “Ambrose is good at reading people,” he says after a moment. “And it was my impression that Violie was very much loved by all of the women there. Most of them had known her since she was born, had a hand in raising her. Last they heard of her, she was in Temarin, so they were grateful when Ambrose assured them that she was safe and well. And now that you’ve healed Violie’s mother—”

“They don’t know I did that, though,” says.

Pasquale looks at her for a moment. “They don’t know how you healed her,” he corrects. “But my showing up hours after the woman’s miraculous recovery, asking after her—”

“It could have been you,” points out.

“I’m Cellarian,” he says, shrugging. “And so is Ambrose. But they know of our association, and when I left today, the madam took me aside. Her exact words were ‘Tell Princess that the Crimson Petal is hers.’?”

frowns, trying to wrap her mind around that.

“I know it’s nothing,” Pasquale says, misinterpreting ’s silence. “Though they won’t turn on us, I’m sure of it.”

“No, I don’t believe they will,” says, shaking her head as if to clear it. “But you’re wrong—it isn’t nothing.”

Pasquale frowns. “How? A handful of women—”

“A handful of courtesans,” clarifies. “And the Crimson Petal is frequented by powerful patrons. It isn’t nothing at all. It’s a tool; we just need to figure out how to use it.”

—

That night, dreams of stars turning dark, the sky around them lightening until they shift into droplets of blood splattered against a white handkerchief, and wakes up coughing. This time, though, blood doesn’t accompany it, and when her cough stops, she looks toward the clock in the corner. It’s nearly three in the morning, but she suspects she won’t be able to find sleep again anytime soon, so she slips out of her bed, bundles herself up in her servant’s cloak, and tiptoes out of her rooms and down to the dungeon once more, her feet knowing the way to Gisella’s cell. This time, Gisella is waiting for her.

“Etheldaisy root powder,” Gisella says with no preamble, her dark brown eyes almost glowing in the dim light.

“Pardon?” asks.

“Etheldaisy,” Gisella repeats. “It’s native to the Alder Mountains, but I believe they’re available elsewhere—”

“I know what etheldaisies are,” interrupts. “And yes, I can get it dried. I wasn’t aware it was poisonous.”

“It isn’t,” Gisella says, stretching out her legs in front of her before standing up from her cot. “But I’ve heard that when mixed with stardust, it can be poisonous if it reaches the bloodstream. I’ve never used it myself, obviously, but I assume you can access stardust easily enough.”

“Stardust, yes. It’s the bloodstream that will be the issue.” isn’t sure she’s ever seen her mother bleed. If were to stab her, she half expects the blade would bend before it dared pierce the empress’s skin. “I told you it needed to be absorbed through touch.”

“What you asked was impossible. But that ring I borrowed when we helped Lord Savelle escape—the one with the well of poison and the needle. You could use something like that,” she offers.

snorts at Gisella taking any credit at all for helping rescue Lord Savelle. “The second the needle pierced the victim’s skin, they would know,” she says. “Besides, if I were going to use the poison ring, I could fill it with a far more common poison and be done with it. Which is why I asked for something transmissible through touch.”

Gisella purses her lips. “If they inhale enough of it, it could reach their bloodstream,” she says. “The death won’t be instant, but it wouldn’t take as long as King Cesare’s did if they inhale it daily. Might this person, for example, use face powder?”

doesn’t answer, but she considers it, a plan beginning to take shape. It means she won’t see her mother die, but isn’t sure whether that’s a good or bad thing.

“You’ll be ready to go when it’s time,” she says instead of admitting that.

Gisella raises her eyebrows. “It isn’t as though I have other plans,” she says. “Though I’m assuming you won’t tell me anything more specific?”

Rather than answer, turns and walks away from Gisella and out of the dungeon.