Aria sat at her writing desk while Eliza flopped across the bed. Though Aria was meant to be reviewing a list of potential suitors—at her father’s urging—that parchment sat forgotten on the desk corner. She had instead pulled her journal out again, frowning down at the pages.
She couldn’t chase Lord Philip’s voice from her mind.The countess did lose her son.
As a Fluid Caster, the countess could have poisoned the royal water supply or performed some equally malicious magic. Instead, she’d sent the king a letter. Words instead of action. Surely that meant something. Surely it meant she wanted totalk.
Eliza pushed herself up from the bed. “Why isn’t it that simple?You’reright andthey’rewrong. An attempt at peace is always better than waiting for a problem to explode or exploding it yourself.”
Truthfully, Aria shouldn’t have relayed the meeting to her younger sister. Since she wasn’t the royal heir, Eliza wasn’t a member of the Upper Court. Yet Aria felt vindicated to have her support. It pushed back the scratching voice of the quill that kept Aria in check.
“I think I could do this,” Aria said quietly. “I think I could mend the situation.”
What would her father say if she managed to broker peace with a powerful, estranged member of court? When she’d given her input on the trade agreements with Pravusat, her father had called her insightful, and yet he was still reluctant to let her conduct meetings or run affairs of court. She was eighteen now, ready for additional responsibilities.
Perhaps she could prove she deserved them. A good ruler could resolve conflict. If Aria negotiated with Dowager Countess Morton, if she reached a successful agreement and avoided what might be a growing rebellion, her father would have to admit she could do more for the kingdom.
Just as she opened her mouth to share her reasoning, she remembered her father’s voice.You must know when to abandon an idea.
“I’m being foolish,” she whispered. Decisively, she closed her journal and pushed it aside, turning her attention to suitors, though she couldn’t seem to focus on the names.
“You always do that!” Eliza huffed. She stalked over and stood directly beside Aria’s chair, arms folded across her chest.
“What do you think of Lord Kendall?” Aria turned the parchment over to see if anything was written on the back, then wondered what she was looking for. It was not as if the list her father had given her came with individual sketches or information about each candidate. It included only the prestige of their lineage. Lord Kendall was the son of Duke Crampton, and Aria generally appreciated the duke’s comments in court meetings.
“Aria,” Eliza said sternly, snatching the parchment away. “You always come up with a great idea and then talk yourself out of it.”
“It’s not a great idea to disobey Father.”
“Did he say you couldn’t speak to Dowager Countess Morton?”
“He said she would not agree—”
“Did he say you couldn’t speak to Dowager Countess Morton?”
Aria sighed. “You’re splitting hairs. Father rejected the idea of a compromise, and he made his intentions clear.”
“Father hardly listens to anyone besides himself! Did he even give you a chance to explain your full idea?”
“Not the full idea, I suppose.” Aria poked at her journal. “Based on what I know of Patriamere’s system for registering Casters, I think we could imitate their country, making a simple adjustment that would still offer protection for non-Casters.”
“See? How could he say there’s no chance when he didn’t even know the offer?” Eliza shook her head. “Don’t talk yourself out of it just because Father moved on. You’re the crown princess, and that means something.”
There was danger in that line of thinking. It tempted her to believe she had real power, that she coulddosomething to help her father. A crown princess could protect her kingdom.
A crown princess could prove herself.
“There’s no harm in offering to meet,” Aria said slowly. “Right?”
With a devious smile, Eliza slid Aria’s inkwell closer on the desk.
Baron looked up from his desk as someone tapped on the open door.
“My Lord Baron,” the man said with a bow. Despite his advancing years, marked by a trimmed white beard and balding head, Martin moved with the same spry step and crisp formality he’d always possessed.
Baron tensed. After a moment, he forced himself to relax, saying quietly, “I still look for him when you say that.”
For the majority of his life, Guillaume Reeves had gone by the moniker “Baron”—his father’s idea. Inheriting the title had only been a matter of time, and Guillaume had always thought the burden associated with it would be the responsibilities of a landholding nobleman: caring for the estate and neighboring hamlet, managing the lemon orchard, and attending court functions.
The true burden, he now realized, was that in order to fill a space, it first had to be emptied. And twenty years was far too short a time to learn everything he needed from his father.
