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Ophele was going to tell him the truth.

She just wasn’t sure when.

It felt cruel to thrust it upon him when he had only just got home and was still upset about what had happened to Nandre and Meinhem. He didn’t want to talk about it. She had made tentative offers both to talk and to listen, whichever he would like, but he had shut both down so thoroughly she couldn’t offer again. And she didn’t blame him; she could have no wisdom to offer on such a weighty matter. She just hated to see that look in his eyes.

He had so many weighty matters to worry about. So many burdens. Until she sat through the deluge Sir Bram, Sir Edemir, and Sir Juste had loosed on his head, she had never realized exactly how busy Remin was, and how many things waited on his word. The list of things requiring his personal attention went on for pages. Literally. There was a list, she had seen it.

But the matter of Lady Hurrell would not grow any less urgent, and she was already receiving some very pointed looks from Sir Justenin and Sir Edemir, reminding her that while she dithered, they were withholding crucial information from their liege lord.

“What are you doing today?” he asked over breakfast, putting away his food like he was filling in a pit. Even though he was busy from sunup to sundown—and, she suspected, sneaking out of bed at night to do paperwork—he was adamant about sharing his meals with her .

“I’m going into town to help Sir Edemir with accounts, and discussing the new devil with Sir Justenin, and a few other errands.” Her eyes shifted toward the fireplace. Actually, she was helping Sir Justenin experiment on the devil’s quills, which she really thought ought to involve Master Forgess, but Remin was still militant on the subject of the scholars and everyone agreed it was best to let things calm down for now. “What about you?”

“I’ll be in town and at the wall most of the day,” Remin replied, pausing between massive bites for a gulp of tea. “We’re discussing some improvements to the defenses around town. We’ll get the gatehouse done over winter if I have to use the masons for mortar, but I don’t want to rely solely on stone. Not after Nandre.”

“I want to talk to Amalie and her brother, if Sir Auber thinks it would be all right,” Ophele agreed, pouring him a fresh cup with just the amount of milk and sugar he liked. Remin had a surprising sweet tooth. “It sounded like the new devil went through the grilles rather than the stone, and I was thinking—it was big, but it didn’t try to climb, or jump to reach you, did it? If it was the same devil you heard. It might have been two devils, you know.”

“That is true,” Remin said thoughtfully, and bent down to kiss her forehead. “Never stop thinking, my wife.”

His praise still made her throat feel tight. After he was gone, Ophele lifted her hand to her forehead to feel the phantom sensation of his kiss and wondered how she could ever tell him the truth.

In a way, they were lucky he was so distracted; there was a great deal of clandestine activity underway all over Tresingale. Craftsmen hastily flung blankets over objects at his approach. Sousten Didion, who could not keep a secret, had been forbidden to speak to him until after his birthday. The soldiers at the barracks had been forced into a number of last-minute diversions to keep him from prematurely unveiling their gift.

Ophele herself had had a few narrow escapes. Only yesterday in the storehouse she had been helping Sir Edemir cache away some of Remin’s presents when the man himself had appeared in the doorway, wanting to discuss ordering more steel. There had been no choice but to fling herself at him and kiss him in full view of a half-dozen men while one of Sir Edemir’s secretaries belly-crawled down the aisle and around the corner, clutching Remin’s new saddlebags .

It was with this same air of secrecy and danger that she rode to the carpenters’ workshops on the east side of town, watching for Remin and feeling like a fugitive. She even went as far as hiding Brambles around the back of the shop, off the street, and coming through the back entrance. She arrived just in time.

“Your Grace. You asked me to come?”

Sir Jinmin had to crouch to get through the door of Master Sharrenot’s workshop, and straightened to his full, vast height. She had always felt a certain sense of awe for Remin’s biggest knight, and bizarrely, the feeling seemed to be mutual. Sir Jinmin had never once looked directly at her.

“Yes,” she said, trying to give him a charming smile. “It’s for His Grace’s birthday. Master Sharrenot, he’s here!”

“Coming, I’m coming, m’lady,” said the master carpenter, grunting as he brought forth the object. Ophele had never forgotten how everyone had come together to hand-make gifts for her birthday, and had attempted to do the same for Remin.

“A chair?” said Sir Jinmin, his small blue eyes narrowing. It was a truly gorgeous object, dark wood polished satiny smooth, with a leather seat and back. Ophele clasped her hands together and suppressed an undignified squeal of delight.

“A chair!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it is beautiful! Look at the carving on the arms…”

“Ironheart oak.” Master Sharrenot grunted as he deposited the chair on the floor. “Sousten showed me some of them Hora Vosi sketches, m’lady, to give me a feel for the shape of the thing. Isn’t often I get a chance to do this kind of work. Reckon it’s as good as anything you’ll see from some foreigner.”

“I am sure it is,” she agreed instantly. “And it looks just the right size. Sir Jinmin, I was hoping you’d try it and see if it’s comfortable? His Grace is always saying the chairs are too low for him.”

The huge knight promptly thumped down into the chair, his broad bull face thoughtful.

“Seems all right,” he said, resting his platter-sized hands on the armrests. “Arms feel good.”

“And it’s high enough? Do you think His Grace will like it?”

Sir Jinmin actually gave an experimental wiggle .

“Yes,” he pronounced gravely. “Might want one myself. It’s good.”

There was a limited market in the valley for vastly oversized armchairs, but Ophele was so pleased, she asked Master Sharrenot to make another, certain that Remin would want one for the solar as well. He loved things that were made in the valley. Even the leather of this chair had come from an Andelin elk.

There were similar gifts under construction at the blacksmith’s, the weaver’s, the chandler’s, and the furrier’s, who had been painstakingly working on a shaggy black bearskin cloak. Ophele was excited to see how long it would take Remin to get the joke.

Was it too much, to wait until after his birthday to tell him? Or would he feel doubly betrayed, knowing that she had been deceiving him even when she had given him such a celebration? She didn’t know. Even when she tried to put herself in his place, all she could think was how important the truth was to him, and that look on his face, that night in Granholme.

“My lady?” Davi looked at her questioningly, one hand extended to boost her up onto Brambles. Ophele shook herself.

“Yes, sorry,” she said, trying to smile as her two guards mounted up on either side of her.

“We were wondering when we might speak with His Grace,” Leonin added, nudging his handsome gray even with Brambles. It was hard to describe how Leonin had changed since their talk; he was still as politely blank as ever, but somehow he seemed to see her in a way he hadn’t before. “There are some arrangements we ought to make sooner rather than later, my lady.”

“I know,” she said guiltily. Remin would make time for her whenever she asked, but she couldn’t shake the idea that maybe he wouldn’t want her to have hallows anymore, once she had told him the truth. “I will speak to him about it. He has been very busy since he got home.”

Leonin nodded, but there was an assessing weight in his blue eyes that reminded her she had asked for him to be her judge, as if her every word and deed would now be measured against whether it made her more deserving of a hallow.

That was how she spent the afternoon: going from one artisan to another, checking to be sure that all of Remin’s gifts were ready and were being moved carefully into place for his birthday festivities. To her inexperienced eyes, every one of them was a wonder, the product of talented hands with decades of experience, each one more beautiful than the last.

And then she went home, waved away the maids and Lady Verr, and brought out her own pitiful offering.

It was the one thing she had tried to do by herself.

Spreading the scrap of silk over her hand, Ophele examined it again with a sinking stomach, as if it might have miraculously repaired itself overnight. There were so many small mistakes, puckered places where she had pulled the thread too tight, crooked stitches she only noticed after it was too late to fix them. But worst of all was the small but unmistakable hole by the corner of the R, where she had unpicked the same stitch so many times, she had torn the silk. There was no way to hide it.

It was ruined.

And the more she looked, the worse it looked, lumps and bumps and uneven lines, a message of failure at even the simplest task. She had pinned all her hopes on this silly thing. She had wanted to give it as a promise, rather than a plea for forgiveness.

“Wife?”

Ophele started and turned to find Remin in the doorway, more stealthy than a man his size had any right to be. Automatically, she snapped the embroidery box shut and crumpled the evidence in her hand, but it was already too late.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, crossing the room quickly at the sight of her tears. “Why are you crying?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Her tongue was rooted in sudden terror, and her ears filled with a vast, distant roaring. But slowly, she forced her hand out, prying her wooden fingers apart to show him the scrap of silk.

“It’s f-for you,” she whispered. Her mouth was dry. She was really going to do this. The worry in his black eyes made her chest tighten, squeezed and suffocating at the thought of seeing his love bleed away, gone forever, but the time had come. “I was trying to make it. For your birthday. But Lady Hurrell never taught me how.”

* * *

“You don’t know how to…sew?” Remin asked, looking from her to the handkerchief with some confusion.

“No.” Ophele drew a quivering breath and took his hands, steering him toward a chair. “While you were gone, Sir Miche sent a message,” she began. “House Hurrell isn’t at Aldeburke. They left in August, and no one knows where they went. Sir Justenin said they were communicating with the Emperor, and since Lady Hurrell hates me, I’m afraid they will make trouble—”

“Let them,” Remin said, puzzled. “I already know she schemed against you, wife. What’s really wrong?”

“It’s not just that,” Ophele said wretchedly. “Lady Hurrell always said that my mother ruined House Hurrell, but…Remin, it was my mother that destroyed your House.”

His breath caught. Her hand slipped from his fingers.

“My mother knew your family was innocent,” Ophele went on, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “And she betrayed them. It was her fault they were all killed. Only I don’t know why, but Lady Hurrell does, she knows everything, she knows things and waits until just the right moment—”

“It’s not your fault,” Remin said stubbornly. His eyes were huge. “Ophele. You know I don’t blame you for anything your parents—”

“I lied to you!” she cried, jerking away from his consoling hands. “I’ve been lying to you all this time! I didn’t want you to know what I am, why Lady Hurrell hated me, why my father…all of you are counting on me, you think I’ll be safe because I’m a Daughter of the Stars, and so our children will be too, but I’m not, I’m not! I’m not a princess at all, I’m only the Emperor’s bastard.”

There. She had said it.

“No one cared. Because I’m not the Emperor’s trueborn daughter, they said I wasn’t a real princess, and they never worried—they…they weren’t afraid to…and the Emperor, I don’t think he would care, either. Not if it meant he could get you. I mean, I don’t think anyone would fuss about hurting me, they never cared before, and I’m sorry, I should have told you, but I didn’t think…I thought, I could at least do this much…”

Somehow, she got it all out. Sobs escaped in solitary, staccato bursts as she told him all of it, everything, all the things she did not know, the things she could not do. The things she could not be, neither shield for him nor foundation for his House.

“You were right,” she finished, her voice squeaking. “My father gave me to you to hurt you. Lady Hurrell will find a way to use me against you. And I’m not fit to be your wife, I’ll only embarrass you. A poisoned sweet. And I knew it, but all this time I thought if I tried, I tried…I did try, so hard. I wanted to be…a lady. Your lady. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I…I lied.”

And that was it. That was everything. Her heart jerked in her chest and her hands were so cold, she had to knot them together, her shoulders braced as if for a blow. On one level, she knew he would never strike her, but she almost wished he would. It would be better than his hate. Anything would be better than that. He could hit her all he liked, if that was what he needed, if only he would hold her and love her again afterward.

“Ophele.” His voice was more furious than she had ever heard it, and she was so scared, she was very nearly sick. “What do you mean, they never fussed over hurting you? Did someone lay their hands on you?”

“N-No,” she said automatically. Heat rose to her face, hot and sticky and prickling. He knew she was lying.

“More than once?” he snarled.

“It was because…what my mother did, she ruined H-House Hurrell…” Ophele did not want to talk about this.

“Who?” he demanded.

“Lady Hurrell,” she whispered, as a scalding wave of anger and shame and fear washed over her. Because if she had deserved it from the Hurrells, surely she must deserve so much worse from Remin. “Lord Hurrell. And Leise. And N-Nenot…”

“Your maids. Look at me.” His fingers caught her chin, pushing it upward. His teeth flashed, bared like he meant to bite. “I remember them. Did they do it while I was there?”

She couldn’t answer. The sob tore from her throat, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to silence the terrible sound as all of it finally ripped loose inside her, all the knots tied up in her belly and her chest and head, sick and twisting for so long. Tears blinded her.

“Oh, Ophele, no,” she heard him say in quite a different tone, and then he swiftly moved them both to his own chair, pulling her into him. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry, wife, don’t cry… ”

That was impossible. The best she could do was muffle it in his chest as it poured forth, all the grief and hurt and betrayal that she had never been permitted to speak. It wasn’t fair that she grew up despised, while Lisabe got to have toys and dresses and teachers and learned all about the world. It wasn’t fair that her mother had done something so terrible, Ophele had been a prisoner for it from the day she was born, and then her mother died and left her behind, to bear it all alone. It wasn’t fair that her father had never cared enough to lay eyes on her, then betrayed her to her abusers.

And how could she even begin to tell him about Lady Hurrell? Ophele would hate and fear that woman until she died. Lady Hurrell, who had starved her and slapped her, who only showed her love to better feed her poison. Ophele would never be free of the voice in her head that whispered and jeered, ugly girl, stupid girl, plain as a sparrow. A mouse. A bastard. A shame.

She cried and cried, because it was true.

“I miss my mother,” she wept. “I know sh-she did something terrible, but I loved her. She was kind, and gentle, and everyone said she was the perfect lady, and I tried to be like you need me to be…but I couldn’t learn it alone, I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“You are.” It was the first time he had spoken in a long time. His hand stroked her hair, pushing it gently back from her face, making her look up at him, and she saw that he didn’t look angry anymore. “Ophele. You are everything I need. So this was what was bothering you, all this time. I wish you had told me.”

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t apologize. Stars and ancestors. Here. That’s enough crying, little owl.” He produced a handkerchief and Ophele straightened to blow her nose, too wrung out even to be embarrassed.

“You aren’t angry?” she asked, squinting up at him through swollen eyes. “I lied to you.”

“No, I’m not. Come here.” Gently, he nudged her back against him, his fingers running through her hair, and Ophele closed her eyes and drifted. Her head was muzzy from crying. All she wanted was to lean against him and listen to the fire crackling, low and constant in the hearth .

“I’ve never really thought of myself as a nobleman,” Remin said after a while, low. “I was born one, but I don’t remember that much of it, when I was a boy. Duke Ereguil did his best to teach me, and the duchess, but it’s hard to feel yourself an aristocrat when people spit when you walk by.”

She looked up at him in surprise and he gave her a squeeze, unsmiling.

“I am saying I am probably not a proper duke, whatever that means in the Empire. But this isn’t the Empire,” he said pointedly. “I told you, I don’t want that Segoile nonsense here. Duchess Ereguil once said that a lady’s task is to invite people in and make them comfortable. But it seemed to me, in the capital, all those rules are about keeping people out. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” she said. “My mother said something like that, too.”

“That’s what I want from you.” He shifted, nudging her a little more upright. “From both of us. I like the niceties as much as anyone else, and I like to see things done well, but I don’t ever want to be so fine that my folk will be afraid to ask for help. And if someone needs me to pick up an axe or help them move something, I’ll do it, whatever Juste and Edemir say. I want to set a fine table, but I’d rather my guests enjoyed the food than counted its cost. The conversation is more important to me than the cutlery. And the stars know you’ve begun some fascinating discussions at my table, wife.”

She gave him a weak smile, remembering Remin and his knights arguing over how to best obliterate Barnabe Town with trebuchets.

“I’ve thought about it a bit,” he said, relaxing. “What I liked about Segoile, and what I didn’t like, and why I didn’t like it. That’s what I mean when I say I don’t want that foolishness here. I don’t see why we need to import a lot of aristocrats from the Empire if you and I want to have a ball this winter. Maybe we should just do it and invite whoever we like.”

“I would like that,” she agreed, though she was mostly just listening to his voice, warm and thoughtful and comforting. This was better than she had ever dared to hope.

“It’s our valley,” he mused. “I don’t mean to do anything here because that’s how the Empire does it. You and I will have to learn their manners, just so we don’t embarrass ourselves when we go to the capital,” he added. “There’s no getting away from it. Noble etiquette is like the Imperial Code, you have to know it just so it can’t be used against you. But we’ll pick and choose the parts we keep in our home. ”

“I can learn it,” she said, rousing a little. She would learn the Imperial Code too, if that was what he wanted. She had never imagined that he was thinking about these things, that his vision included even the manners of the civilization he was building. It was exciting and fascinating and none of this was anything like what she had expected him to say.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, brushing a kiss on top of her head, and he sighed. “I can’t forgive your parents,” he said quietly. “I never will. I don’t really know what to…think about them, and you. Except that nothing they did is your fault. And I love you. You are not a poisoned sweet, don’t ever say that again. Don’t even think it. Juste said once I should write the Emperor and thank him for the peerless jewel he gave me. He’d be kicking himself if he knew how much I love you.”

Her lips trembled, and Ophele pressed them together.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, and his head bent and his lips moved over hers in a slow kiss that said so many things, a tender magic that melted away the last of her fear.

“I will find teachers for you,” he murmured. “If you want to learn to play music, or sing, or write symphonies. You can take up flower arranging or import exotic teas. I don’t expect anything from you beyond what you already do. Except…”

He hesitated.

“…dancing,” he said, the back of his neck reddening. “It would please me if you learned that. I want to dance with you.”

“I will,” she said, after a startled moment. “I will, of course I will. I did like it, that time we danced before. And everything else, I want to think about what you said about manners, but it sounds lovely, and I’ll learn whatever you want me to learn, only…I did mean it. About my blood not being any protection. I know you were…counting on it.”

“I am,” he said, with a flash of his black eyes. “And I don’t doubt you’re right. I never imagined I would be called to defend the divinity of the House of Agnephus, but by the stars, I will do it. I will see that the insults to you are paid for. I imagine Juste will have a few things to say about an Emperor that devalues his own sacred blood. But that’s not your fault and I won’t have you blaming yourself. You’re only in danger in the first place because you’re with me. ”

“Because of the Emperor,” she corrected, and saw the quick flicker of triumph in his face. Oh, he was so clever, to make her defend herself by defending him. Because then it must logically follow that she was not at fault if it was the Emperor himself who disregarded the sanctity of her blood. “You are so sneaky.”

“I have to be, to keep up with you.” His thumb slid gently along her jaw. “Feel better?”

“Yes,” she admitted, even though her voice quivered and tears filled her eyes again. But this time it was relief, relief so great that she had to stop and gather herself and breathe into his shirtfront for a moment, to convince herself it was real. “I thought you’d be angry,” she admitted. She still wasn’t entirely over it. “I thought you would…”

“I am angry,” he said, bending to knock his forehead lightly against hers. There was a hard light in his eyes. “But not with you, wife. Be sure of that.”

* * *