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Ambrose sat a little taller in her chair. “Not awkward at all.”
“Good. Good.” Ophelia tutted, satisfied with herself.
A plate appeared in front of Burke. He did not move to eat.
“You’re looking a little…” Ophelia tapped her fork against her plate as if she was in thought. “Well, you’ve got these terrible bags under your eyes. Are you not sleeping well? I could have fresh cucumbers sent to your room to help with those.”
Ophelia knew quite well that Ambrose didn’t need something to help with the dark circles under her eyes. Had she not let herself get so caught up with Burke she might have remembered to look in a mirror. Magic would have done the rest. Now that she’d made her appearance with her ‘terrible bags’ she was too proud to get rid of them. Best not to let Ophelia know she’d made any sort of mistake, no matter how small.
“That won’t be necessary. It must just be residual effects. You know, from our sisters’ passing.”
Every clink of china, every subtle shift in a chair, or slight raise of an eyebrow, were all pieces moved in some sort of complex board game. Ambrose had long since played for the sport of it just so Ophelia couldn’t turn her into some sort of doll. Ophelia though, she played to win.
Not this time.
“There is no need to talk about such dreary subjects at the table so early in the morning.” Ophelia shook her head, her perfectly pinned curls not even so much as bouncing with the movement.
Burke leaned back into his chair. Ambrose wondered if he noted the way her sister swept death under the rug as if Sienna, Farah, had only been but fallen flies.
“What would you like to discuss then?”
There had to be something. She wouldn’t have fussed over her joining her for breakfast if it wasn’t for a reason. Though Ambrose wouldn’t put it past her to set this up for the sole purpose of saving face in front of her servants. It was a known fact that servants were gossips and if the two sisters appeared to be feuding… well that information would spread like wildfire.
Ophelia glanced to Burke. “You may eat.” She waved her fork in the air.
On her command, he sat forward again and cut into the pancakes. He avoided Ambrose’s attention as he lifted a bite to his lips.
How well she’s trained him.
“I have arranged for a party.”
Ambrose picked up her wine glass. Another move to show as much indifference as possible. “Hmmm? Another? Whatever for?”
Shouldn’t they be putting their sisters to rest first? At least let the dirt settle on their graves.
“For our kings.” The flutter of lashes. A carefree chuckle.
All of it grated against Ambrose’s very last nerve. She swirled her drink slowly, bringing it to her nose to inhale before taking a slow sip.
“And you think it’s appropriate?” She turned to give her sister her full attention. This was the final round. Soon they’d have a victor and a loser sitting at this very breakfast table.
“More so than ever.” Ophelia dared to place a hand to her chest. In one perfectly poised movement, Ophelia pushed her chair back and stepped to Ambrose’s side. Sheer straps hung off her shoulders like fine jewelry and glittered as she moved. The hem of the scarlet dress pooled on the floor as she lowered herself to Ambrose’s level.
“Dearest sister, my only sister, we must remain united for our country. Securing our place on these thrones is the most important thing right now. Who else is going to protect this country against Fae? We need husbands. We need heirs.”
It took everything within her not to scoff at the false sincerity. One thing was true, Ophelia did believe that saving face was the most important thing. Across the table, Burke ate in silence, a single well-manicured brow lifting as he listened.
He knew how to see right through this act between them.
“How shall we explain this to our people? Certainly, they haven’t both run off for a vacation in the woods. I’m sure by now Farah’s death has already had its fair share of whispers across the country.”
Ophelia took Ambrose’s hand in hers. Her chilly touch rose the hairs on Ambrose’s arms.
Choose wisely. Choose. Choose sides.
Oph—eel—lia. Run. Run. Run.
“Ambrose, did you hear me?” Purple darkened the skin of her fingertips where Ophelia’s grip had tightened. Ambrose didn’t pull her hand away.
