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He glances over his shoulder, surveying the empty stacks and shut doors. “I don’t approve of your, ah, less-substantiated prophecies either. If that’s how you’re planning tohelphim.”
I scrunch my nose. “I bet if you had a crown on the line, you’d let me make one.” I only glimpse the edge of a grin before Dante turns back around.
“It’s not that dire.”
“Are you sure? He just pretends everything’s okay. Look: it’s in Cyrus’s interest to become king, it’s in my interest to get Cyrus to trust me, and it’s in your interest to have us get along. Win-win-win.”
“It is in my interest to better this world, for the sake of us all living in it,” Dante says lightly as he assembles a tall column of books. Before I can warn him about throwing out his back, he lifts the whole thing with relative ease;archivists moving library stacks are in better shape than our soldiers. “And my first course of action will be finding the princess, so that she can have a proper history lesson on Auvenese-Balican treaties.”
Not wanting to be left alone, I join him in scouring the palace for Camilla. We check through the courtyards and training grounds she frequents. I go upstairs to her bedroom and wonder if I’ll find her dead asleep, blinds drawn, sleep mask on, a girl in both arms. Even with the ladies, Camilla outmatches Cyrus—pining for the Lidinesis a seasonal euphemism in the Sun Capital—but since she won’t be sovereign, no one pays her any mind except gossips.
But she’s not in her quarters either. My ankles are on the verge of giving up when, finally, Camilla’s frustrated shout echoes from the ballroom:
“Bread, bread, bread, bread, I’msickof bread!”
The behemoth space has been cleared out, chandeliers brought down for dusting, the floors waxed. White-coated servants bustle past with trays of desserts all bound for Camilla, the only occupant of a table that could entertain fifty. She has a breadstick in both hands and is gesturing wildly at what appears to be a replica of the palace done entirely in baked goods.
“If I seeanotherbread sculpture, I’m going to strap it to the next passing toad-brain and lock them in an aviary. The Masked Menagerie is the event of the decade. We can at least have a fruit arrangement! An ice sculpture!”
“In summer, Your Highness?” Next to her, her lady-in-waiting jots rapidly in a journal.
“If we can have heat in winter, why can’t we have icein summer? Forget the ice, then—a piece made of spun sugar?Chocolate?”
As I sidle up to Camilla, I’m careful to not trip over the princess’s inky-blue cat, Catastrophe, who twines around my legs. She’s apparently dessert-tasting as well, if the crumbs along her whiskers are any indication. “Have you considered bread?” I ask.
A breadstick smacks my cheek as Camilla swings around. “Not funny, Violet.”
There’s a joke among farmers that Auveny would turn into a sea of alcohol if the fields were left to rot, for all we sow besides fayflowers are grain and grapes. Most of our produce is imported from Balica, where the soil is richer and hasn’t been exhausted by fayflower farming. Over-ground transport to the Sun Capital takes weeks, though, and sometimes you still end up opening the cold wagons to a bunch of spoiled fruit, which means spoiled celebrations.
“There you are,” Dante pants as he catches up to me. He drops his stack of books on the table in front of Camilla, sending a bouquet of used skewers clinking over the silverware. “Is this where you’ve been all week, Princess? Eating?”
“Planning.I’ve taken on the task of deciding the Masked Menagerie’s desserts. The first step is, obviously, sampling all of them.” Camilla offers him a plate of caramel-doused cakes, each no bigger than a coin and with a stick poking out of it.
“You know, your lessons are foryourbenefit.”
“And yet, I sense no benefit. I don’t plan to dabble in politics.”
“Anything that comes out of your mouthispolitics,” hesputters, yanking his bow tie loose for breath. “Just because you aren’t on the throne doesn’t mean—”
Camilla yawns loudly, tipping herself out of the seat. She scoops up Catastrophe, who yowls. “I have a few errands in the city. If you want to keep arguing, you’re welcome to come with. Company always makes the trip better.”
Dante and Camilla squabble the whole way to the stables. I tag along, still hoping they can clear my head of other noise.
We take a white-horse carriage instead of opting for any discreet transport. As we ride out of the grounds, I glimpse Cyrus in the plaza—at least, Ithinkit’s him. His frame is barely visible amid the swarming ladies, many of whom I recognize from my readings. His guards stand nearby. Part of the royal twins’ popularity is due to their approachability; when you can walk right up to them, it’s easy to believe that anyone could grace their arms.
I bet Cyrus is preening like a peacock.
The plaza disappears from view. I lean against the glass windows to watch the Palace District roll past. The jewel of the city’s seven districts, it’s the oldest and best-kept part of the city, flaunting centuries of architectural styles. Stark white marble apartments nest between newer buildings painted in pastel. Lacy awnings and swirling iron fixtures outfit storefronts. Along the walkways, magnolia trees are blooming.
The carriage shakes as Dante and Camilla insist on gesticulating like an orchestra to make their points.
“As terrible as it sounds, what if something happened to Cyrus?” Dante’s finished going through the logicalarguments and has now moved on to emotional appeals. “You should be ready to take over.”
“What if!” Camilla crows from the seat across from me. “What good is a ‘what if’?”
More likely than you think.“Itshouldbe you on that throne,” I say, playing with the tail end of my braid. Camilla is a firstborn, after all, if only by half an hour. “Even if Cyrus wasn’t cursed.”
Camilla smiles. We’ve discussed this before. “Power is nice, but responsibility is not, and I would not like to see this kingdom burning from dragonfire because I provoked someone. Which, stars know I will. Right now, I have no meetings to attend, no feet to kiss, I can ride through the countryside at my whim—why would I want to rule?”
