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B ina almost pounced the moment Iona passed through her bedroom door. “Where have you been? There’s a state dinner, and your father—”

“I know.” Iona slipped from her maid’s grasping hands to deposit her sketchbook on a desk in the corner. She should have detoured to her studio to stow it where it belonged, but a specter of anxiety sat upon her. Had Lisenn or one of her informants witnessed the younger princess coming and going from the diplomatic corridor? Would her own parents misconstrue such a report?

Normally, she kept away from state business and state functions by design, eager not to present any form of rivalry for the nation’s future queen. That her father commanded her presence tonight could only bode ill to come.

“There’s very little time,” Bina said, “and your hair’s going to take up most of it.” She ushered her to the vanity, chattering about possible styles and ornaments.

Iona cut her off before she could propose anything decorative. “No flowers and no jewels. ”

The woman swallowed and managed a feeble nod, although regret glimmered in her eyes. Only five years Iona’s senior, she’d cared for the princess since the girl was eight years old—a gap-toothed eight, waiting for her age to catch up with her sister’s malicious handiwork. When Lisenn lost her first upper tooth, she yanked three from Iona’s mouth as well. When she lost the second, out came three more. The king and queen sent their younger child to a country estate at that point, her mouth an eyesore, and there Bina had joined her roughly eighteen months into that solitary sojourn.

The maid and the princess had been together ever since. Bina, plain of face and keen of wit, gave the affection-starved child a safe haven her own family couldn’t. Caprian by birth, she had proved the perfect companion to escort the young princess across the channel into a second life. She had witnessed every injury, and she understood exactly why Iona never wrote home.

And she should have been a first line of defense against this morning’s foreign delegation.

“You knew there were Caprians coming,” Iona said, observing her maid’s reflection in the mirror.

Bina froze, her wary eyes wide. She blinked but did not deny the charge. “It’s been all over the servants’ quarters for a week. I didn’t want you to worry. You’re grown up now, and poised, and so beautiful—”

“You should have warned me. This whole day has caught me off my guard.”

Reluctantly she nodded. “I’m sorry, little dove. You so rarely deal with state matters. I hoped it could be settled and done, and you never the wiser.”

“And yet you dressed my hair so nicely.”

She accepted the implied rebuke, somberness settling upon her. “I should have warned you. I’m sorry.” She fixed her attention on the workings of a small braid then, as though it were the most interesting, engrossing process. In a light, curious tone she asked, “Did you recognize any of them? ”

Iona huffed a bitter laugh. “Five of them were students from the college. Jaoven of Deraval is their new crown prince.” Awareness flickered across her maid’s face, and the princess’s blood pressure spiked. “You knew ?”

The woman stooped to envelope her, quick to repent of the hurt she had caused. “Oh, Yanna,” she whispered in her charge’s ear, the nickname a gift that had once been a secret between them. “I’m so sorry. I wanted him to see you at your lovely, unbroken best. I wanted him to writhe, to sense his own mortality, that he once dared torment a princess of Wessett and now comes begging her family’s favor. You couldn’t set him in his place back then, and you suffered because of it. But you can slay that dragon now and never lose a wink of sleep.”

Iona accepted the speech in silence, and for a long breath afterward said nothing. Then, quietly, she spoke. “He apologized.”

Her maid drew back, brown eyes huge. “He did?”

“Yes. Sort of. It wasn’t sincere. They’re worried I might interfere with their precious treaty.”

“Will you?” Bina asked, an odd expression chasing across her face. Belatedly Iona recalled that although she and her parents had emigrated across the channel, the woman yet had family on the mainland, family that had fought and suffered in the bloody Caprian war.

“No. Why should I?”

Wistful disappointment pulled at the woman’s mouth. Iona leaned toward the mirror, engaging with her maid’s reflection rather than the flesh-and-blood human at her back.

“It’s a marriage alliance, Bina: Jaoven of Deraval and my sister. What more poetic combination could exist? And if he takes her away with him to Capria, I might have years of reprieve before she returns.”

But Bina only shook her head. “It’s bad enough that she’ll rule this island one day. If you put her on the throne of Capria too, she’s that much more powerful. How many thousands of people will she torture? Oh, I’ll admit that their new crown prince deserves every ill she might visit upon him, and she deserves what punishments he might mete. They might be a pestilence upon each other. But Iona—” Her voice caught. She shook her head and regrouped, her words dropping so low that her charge had to strain to hear them. “What if they get along? What if they combine their evil ways into a reign of terror? Both Capria and Wessett will suffer under such an alliance as that.”

Iona’s skin crawled at the vision this ominous speech invoked. She assumed that Lisenn and Jaoven would persecute each other, not that they would combine forces. But Lisenn obviously wanted this union. Perhaps she sensed in Jaoven a kindred spirit rather than a fresh victim and a path to greater power.

Futility set into the younger sister’s bones. “There’s nothing I can do. She already told me to keep out of it. If I meddle, the whole of Wessett isn’t broad enough to hide me from her wrath.”

Bina dropped an impulsive kiss upon her head. “Poor dove, you’re right. Let’s hope he carries her away from here, then, and pray she dies in childbirth before a year has passed.”

“Bina!”

The maid met her startled gaze in the mirror. “I won’t apologize. Plenty of good and wholesome women succumb to that fate. She has the same chance as anyone else.”

“But to pray for it—!”

“Shush. I pray for justice, on your behalf and for anyone else she might have injured. It’s not wrong to hope her influence never extends as far as her ambitions. Now let’s get you dressed so you won’t draw your father’s wrath on top of that harpy’s.”

The maid, well aware of her charge’s boundaries for the night, selected two evening gowns from Iona’s wardrobe: one blue-gray and the other russet brown. Iona chose the second, much to Bina’s dismay.

“At least the tailoring is fine,” she said with a sigh. True enough, despite its dreary color, the fabric and cut were otherwise second to none.

“I like my neutral palette,” Iona said, checking her reflection in a long mirror. Only a small strand of pearls adorned her neck, and that because Lisenn despised the delicate gem. The elder princess always wore sunbursts of diamonds and rubies, priceless settings pulled from the royal family’s cache of crown jewels, but Iona contented herself with pearls alone, a string her mother gave her in welcome when she returned to Wessett’s shores. Bina glanced wistfully at the necklace, but before she could speak any regrets, a knock rapped upon the door.

Aedan stood in the hall. Dressed in his finest evening wear, he peered past the maid to Iona and bowed with a deep flourish. “I’ve come to collect you for the feast, milady.”

“Worried I might have a mishap along the way?” Iona asked.

“Worried you might hare off into the night and leave me to suffer it alone,” he replied with a lop-sided grin.

She kissed her maid on the cheek. Bina squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear, “Be careful, dove.”

“I will, I promise.” She gathered a russet shawl at her elbows and left the room.

“Was it a masquerade tonight?” Aedan asked as they fell in step beside each other. “You forgot the leaves in your hair.” To Iona’s questioning stare he added, “You are dressed as a tree, are you not? Maybe it’s a tree in winter, with no leaves at all.”

She swatted his arm but otherwise ignored the provocation. “Did you settle things with Besseta? Was she very upset?”

“I’m to go straight to her from here and croon my lamentations beneath her balcony,” he said.

Iona snorted an ungraceful laugh.

A smile tugged at the corners of her cousin’s mouth. “I’m serious, though. She might have been joking when she said it, but I have every intention of following the command, and seeing how deeply I can make her blush.”

“Ugh. You two are insufferable.”

Their branch of corridor intersected with a wider hallway. As they emerged, they almost collided with the Caprian delegation heading the same direction. Both parties stopped short, and the smile slipped from Iona’s face. She met Prince Jaoven’s gaze.

He stepped slightly backward and motioned her to proceed. Aedan didn’t second-guess the gesture, sweeping Iona ahead of the foreigners with a grim set to his jaw. She resisted the impulse to glance back over her shoulder, but her ears fixed on the footfalls that echoed her own. If she entered the gathering hall with the Caprians almost at her heels, Lisenn would assume they came together. Self-consciously she increased her pace.

Aedan matched her stride with a worried glance. The footsteps behind her actually slowed. When she rounded the corner with the gathering room doors wide open before her, the second party was far enough behind that she could breathe a sigh of relief.

She and Aedan crossed the threshold with little fanfare, into a crowd of court officials who mingled in their finest clothing. Lisenn’s keen eyes homed in on her from afar. Resplendent in ruby red, she sparkled with diamonds at her throat and the tiara that marked her as the next in line for the throne. For all this refined beauty, a dangerous atmosphere shimmered around her.

Did she know about her sister’s brief meeting with the Caprians? Would she somehow exact her revenge tonight? Iona practically bolted for the corner farthest from her, eager to put as many people between them as she could.

The foreign delegation’s arrival shifted the mood of the room, conversations dropping to a hush. Ambassadors and diplomats stepped forward to fill the gap, greeting the newcomers with bows and introductions. Jaoven’s attention briefly flicked to the corner where Iona stood, but he moved further into the crowd.

Her sister, when they met, was all graciousness, truly a beauty fit for a crown. She held her hand aloft for the prince of Capria to kiss, and dazzled his entourage with a winning smile. Iona shifted her attention elsewhere, unable to stomach the congenial exchange.

“There must be fifty people here,” Aedan said, scanning the room. “ With any luck, they’ll have you and your sister at opposite ends of the table and you can pass the night in peace.”

“If they’re going by rank, not likely.” The scant few times she had attended such functions, her father sat at the head of the table with Lisenn to his right and Queen Marget to his left. Iona either ended up beside her sister or her mother, depending on the rank of the visiting heads of state. In this instance, Crown Prince Jaoven shared Lisenn’s rank and would likely receive the seat beside her. And what better means to orchestrate a marriage than to seat the two parties together?

The arrival of King Gawen and Queen Marget put this speculation to rest. Her father’s sweeping glance found her in her obscure corner, and he tipped his head for her to join them. Her anxiety spiked as she fell in step beside Lisenn, but her sister always behaved where an audience might observe.

A bell signaled the procession into the dining hall. The double doors opened, and the ruling family led the way. Her mother and father wore complementary clothing, the red coat and gold sash of her father’s suit reflected in the gold dress and red sash of her mother’s ensemble. Lisenn’s gown matched them to a shade. Only Iona looked out of place, a misfit among them like always. Still, she walked with poise and grace, and when she found her place at the table beside her mother rather than her sister, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Until she looked directly across from her, where Prince Jaoven sat.

He noticed her as well, but immediately turned his attention to Lisenn, who was all demure smiles and light touches.

The queen ate in silence, and the nobleman to Iona’s left engaged in conversation with the Caprian, Elouan, on his other side. From further down the opposite side of the table—as a mere marquess until his father the duke passed that higher title—Aedan lifted his soup spoon in wry salute to Iona when their eyes met, but the conversation around him soon drew him in.

Jaoven’s voice stirred her from her introspection. “You’re very well versed in Capria’s history, Your Royal Highness. ”

“Lisenn, please,” her sister said, brushing her fingers feather-light against his wrist.

He shifted his attention to the king as though to ask permission to use her given name, and Gawen made no sign of objection. Jaoven smiled, a hint of a dimple appearing in his cheek. “Princess Lisenn, then. You have studied our country?”

“Your history is intertwined with our own,” Lisenn replied. “As crown princess of Wessett, it is my honor to learn of our neighboring lands.”

“You’ll find my daughter well-versed in geography and history,” said King Gawen. “She has studied politics and lawmaking, strategy, alliances and treaties, resources and commodities. The future of Wessett lies in good hands.” He smiled fondly at his eldest, who batted her eyelashes and feigned shyness at his praise.

Iona dropped her attention to her lap, crumpling her napkin in her hands beneath the table.

“And your younger daughter? Does she study these subjects as well?”

Her attention jerked up, but Jaoven carefully wasn’t looking at her.

Lisenn’s tinkling laugh split the air. “Iona? And politics? She doesn’t have the temperament for it. Forgive me, sister,” she added with a glance across the table, in the voice of an indulgent owner speaking to a favored pet.

“Iona’s talents lie in the arts,” King Gawen said, his baritone voice smooth. “She studies the humanities: music, literature, painting.”

“Beautiful hobbies, albeit frivolous in the grand scheme of the world,” Lisenn added, as though to apologize. “After the calamities you’ve seen in Capria, battles and terrible struggles to survive, art and music must seem like trivial, unnecessary pursuits.”

She slid a speaking look toward her younger sister, and her message could not be clearer: Iona herself was trivial and unnecessary.

“On the contrary,” Jaoven said. An electric shock rippled down Iona’s spine at the quiet, fervent timbre of his voice. “In our darkest hours, in the worst of our conflicts, we looked to the artists and musicians for hope. Forgive me for contradicting you, Princess Lisenn, but disdain for the arts comes easily to those who have such things in abundance. When the world is soaked in blood and beauty is trampled to dust, those who can create it anew become the most valuable commodity of all.” He glanced across the table, awkwardly cleared his throat, and focused again on the king. “Or such has been my experience.”

“And very well spoken,” said Queen Marget, lifting her glass in toast. “If we wish to surround ourselves with beauty, it behooves us to honor those who can create it.”

Lisenn looked as though she had swallowed a bug. King Gawen, more guarded in his reactions, murmured an agreement and lifted his glass as well.

“And Iona is accomplished in her arts,” he said, much to his younger child’s horror. “She paints portraits and landscapes. She’s working now on a commission of the Duke of Gleddistane’s son, seated there.” He gestured to Aedan several places to Jaoven’s right. “They have sessions every morning in her studio, so the lighting can be just right.”

Iona, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears, contemplated how gracefully she might slide down her chair and out of sight beneath the table.

“And of course she plays beautifully: the lute and the pipe, and the keyed instruments: the clavichord, the virginals, the harpsichord. She is exceptional upon the harpsichord.”

Never in her life had her father heaped such praise on her. She didn’t even realize he knew how she spent her time, let alone which specific instruments she practiced.

And Lisenn’s glittering eyes communicated future retribution for this dire offense.

“I’m not that accomplished,” Iona said, averting her gaze.

“I’ve heard nothing sweeter than your voice,” her father said. “You must play for us tonight, and sing, after dinner. ”

She stiffened. “No, please—”

He ignored her protest, saying to the Caprian prince, “We have an excellent harpsichord in the greater drawing room. You’re in for a treat, if such a concert would please you.”

“My countrymen and I would be delighted,” Jaoven said, while Lisenn silently seethed beside him.

When he looked to her for a supporting vote, she faked a brilliant smile and said, “Oh, yes. Iona must play. She is a wonder to hear.”

The situation was fast spinning beyond Iona’s control. “Please, I don’t—”

“I insist,” said King Gawen, and though his voice held its customary velvet warmth, his eyes glinted hard and cold. He would not accept a refusal, and if she continued to resist, she would dearly regret it.

So, she capitulated. “Of course, Father, if you so desire.”

The rest of the meal passed in a blur, plates exchanged, courses that she never ate more than two or three bites of. She didn’t hear any further conversation, and her only awareness centered on Lisenn’s brittle, pleasant facade, a sugar-coated veneer that hid simmering wrath beneath.

And sure enough, when they rose to leave the table and the royal family fell in step together, her older sister leaned close to her ear and whispered, “If you so much as touch those keys, I will break every single one of your fingers.”

Iona stopped short. Lisenn smiled and continued onward, her skirts rustling. Several guests passed the younger princess in their trek up the wide hall that led to their destination. The Caprians, clustered together once more, spared her an odd sideways glance. Aedan, coming on their heels, caught her by the arm and pulled her to one side.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and he glanced further up the hall. The company was congregating at the drawing room door while, within, her father ordered servants to rearrange the furniture for the impromptu concert .

“He’s making me play,” Iona said, short of breath.

“So? You play beautifully. You practiced for a solid hour this afternoon.”

She searched his face for understanding, pitching her voice low. “Lisenn says if I do, she’ll break my fingers afterward.”

Aedan cursed under his breath, but he quickly regrouped. “Pretend you’re sick, whatever you need to do. Stick your finger down your throat. There’s a vase over here you can use to catch whatever comes up.”

“And embarrass my father?” Iona replied, tears stinging her eyes. “You didn’t see his expression. If I don’t perform, he’ll take it as a personal offense.”

“Would his punishment be worse than your sister’s?”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. Her father’s punishments usually involved acting as if she didn’t exist, and when she didn’t exist in his eyes, Lisenn had free rein to deal with Iona as she pleased. The scant protection the younger sister had from the elder’s machinations came only if she remained in her parents’ good graces.

The crowd around the drawing room doorway parted, and King Gawen strode back into sight, one arm raised in invitation. “Iona, come.”

She spared Aedan a terrified look and started forward on trembling legs. Dignitaries and statesmen stared, some neutral and others encouraging. She crossed the threshold into the drawing room and more bodies there, with furniture arranged around an exquisite harpsichord opened and ready for a concert. Among the sea of faces, she registered only Lisenn’s glower and the confused furrow between Jaoven’s brows. Fleetingly she looked to her father in hopes of a last minute reprieve, but he guided her without so much as glancing her direction.

The harpsichord loomed, its bench holding all the appeal of an executioner’s block. King Gawen paused beside the instrument and motioned her to sit. Her hands had gone numb, her fingers in a cold sweat.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. ”

A hush fell across the room. Everyone’s attention swiveled to Prince Jaoven, Iona the most startled of them all. He stepped forward, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I am ashamed to admit, but I and my party are more fatigued than anticipated from our travels. We are in no condition to give justice to your daughter’s performance tonight. We must beg your forgiveness and ask for permission to retire.”

A ray of hope shot into the shadows that enveloped Iona’s mind.

Her father, ever the diplomat, left her side to join the foreign prince. “Of course. How thoughtless of me. Retire to your chambers with my blessing, and we will save such entertainment for another night.”

The foreign delegation moved toward the exit without a backward glance, the prince professing his apologies to his host the whole way. King Gawen saw them to the door and beyond. Lisenn followed in their wake along with her mother. The Wessettan diplomats trickled behind, their evening at an unmistakable end.

Iona sank onto the harpsichord bench, her legs like jelly beneath her. Tears spilled from her eyes, an overflow of stress and bewildered relief. Aedan knelt at her feet, catching her hands and peering up into her face.

“What just happened?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He glanced back over his shoulder as the last of the crown’s guests vacated the room. “Well, you look like the very picture of devastation, so that’ll make your sister happy, at the very least.”

She swiped quickly at her cheeks. “I’m not devastated! I’m—!”

“Shh, shh.” Aedan straightened on his knees and pulled her in a hug. “I know you’re not, but it’s fine if you look that way, for now. Let’s get you back to your room where you can celebrate a night without broken fingers.”

She laughed and allowed him to help her stand. “I can get there on my own. You have an important tryst awaiting, if I’m not mistaken. ”

Even so, he escorted her all the way back to her room. When they parted ways at the door, she said, “Give Besseta my thanks for loaning you. Sing it to her, if you like.”

He squeezed her hand and left her to the care of her maid.