Page 28 of Witchshadow

He does not contradict her.

ELEVEN

Snow had fallen in the night, leaving the skies leaden and the ground white—not that any white remained on the paths Safi now followed. They had been carefully cleared away by an army of ever-invisible servants.

A terrible job, working in such temperatures for rich nobility whomightuse the sprawling courtyard gardens at the center of the imperial palace. Safi hoped the servants had thicker layers than she.

Svenja had been right: Safishouldhave worn her heavy cloak. But she had wanted to give the impression of a girl in love, and girls in love tended to favor fashion over practicality. So did men in love, for that matter, and all other genders too. As such, she’d donned a lighter, golden velvet cloak over her forest-green wool.

At least she’d had the sense to wear the ermine muff and matching hat, what little good they did. By the time she reached the Winter Garden, nestled between the evergreen maze and the Royal Greenhouses, her nose had gone numb and her ears were headed that way.

She strode, Hell-Bards in formation around her, through a lush archway designed for some empress almost a century ago. The paths and flowers were meticulously maintained year-round by an army of dedicated Plantwitches, and though there might be snow on the ground, there were also roses in bloom. Daffodils too, and crocuses and dahlias, hyacinth and tulips and hydrangeas with heads large as carriage wheels. There were varieties of flowers Safi had never seen before—much less blossoming in winter.

Like the stone paths, the stone benches had been cleared, and, of course, the flowers themselves had been carefully wiped, so that a thousand colors shone against the surrounding world of white.

Those poor, poor servants.

As Safi passed through a second archway, her eyes snagged on one bench in particular. Shaded by a blossoming lilac, it had lion paws for feet—and Safi knew those feet instantly. Just as she knew that lilac, though it had been smaller ten years before. A sapling newly added.

Henrick had spotted her playing here, her doll dressed in as many furs as she had been. The toy, newly acquired in a rare burst of generosity from Eron, had delighted her with its eyes of Hasstrel blue. Her uncle read on a separate bench nearby, already sipping from his flask though it was not yet noon.

He glimpsed Henrick right as Henrick glimpsed Safi, and in a move that now seemed much too graceful for a drunkard, Eron skated in front of the Emperor before he could address his niece. And Safi used that time to scrabble behind the bench, heart pounding.

“She looks so much like Laia,” Henrick murmured. Safi didn’t see his face, but she felt a frown bunching there. “Remarkable.”

“Yes,” Eron drawled, unscrewing his flask. It always squeaked. “Unfortunately, she lacks her mother’s wit. Or her refinement. Or”—he paused for a gulp—“her initiative. She is a candle to my sister’s bonfire. She ruins everything she touches. But come, my Imperial Majesty. Share a drink with me.”

At the time, those words had gouged. Fanged and serrated, each sentence had burrowed deep into Safi’s heart. Her eyes had burned; tears had fallen; and she’d scolded the doll again and again for being just a candle. For ruining all she touched.

“Safiya?” Light fingers hit Safi’s elbow. Her lungs clenched. She whirled about, arms rising. But it was only Leopold—of course it was only Leopold.

“Are you all right?” Genuine concern darkened his seafoam eyes.

And Safi nodded. “Of course.” She forced a smile. “I am perfection. As are you on this fine winter’s day.” Nothing she said was a lie.

Leopold wore soft silver beneath a cape of glistening mahogany. Unlike most days, he wore no extra ornamentations. No decorative weapons at his waist, no jewels upon his fingers or at his neck. It was as if his outfit was selected to highlight the colors of the garden, and Safi had to wonder, not for the first time in her life, ifhehad chosen his clothes or some well-paid attendant had.

Growing up, she had always assumed the latter, for even as children, he had dressed in a way that flattered while it also impressed. But in the last month, her judgment had changed. He might have given her the Truth-lens and a clever means of examining it, but in the end, he was as duplicitous as his uncle—and far more inclined to laugh while he watched his enemies fall.

“Thank you, my Empress.” He flourished a bow. “If it is acceptable to you, I will have the Hell-Bards leave us in solitude.”

Of course it was acceptable, but Safi found it hard to believe they wereallowed to lose sight of her. As if sensing her thoughts, Leopold added, “Oh yes, my own Bards are in position with spyglasses and crossbows fixed this way.” He motioned a lazy hand toward the ramparts that surrounded the outermost edges of the garden complex. “I expect no danger here.”

“In that case…” Safi turned to Lev. “Please wait for me outside the garden.”

A curt bow from Lev, face invisible inside her helm, and as one, the Hell-Bards marched stiffly out of sight.

“Now then.” Leopold offered Safi his arm, and once she’d accepted it, he murmured, lips unmoving, “We must pretend to be very much in love. Do you think you can manage?”

Safi bared her sweetest smile. Even cocked her head and cooed, “As I once told Captain fitz Grieg, I can smile at even the ugliest toad and flatter him on his perfectly placed warts. And you, Polly”—she reached up to gently touch his jaw—“are the ugliest of ugly toads.”

“Excellent.” He cupped his hand over hers before she could withdraw it. He wore no gloves; his fingers were cool against her fur-warmed ones. “We will provide a good show for the spies then.”

“Are there many?” Safi batted her lashes.

“Always.” His eyes flicked to her lips.

“Should we be worried?”