The Heir and the Spare

by Kate Stradling

  Aedan trotted at her heels. “I’m not talking about your clothes. I’m talking about your demeanor. You look as though someone you love is on their deathbed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and she kept walking.

  “Iona.” He caught her shoulder, forcing her to stop, to look at him. “I know the past week has been awful for you. I’m so sorry. But after tomorrow—”

  “Yes, after tomorrow,” she interrupted. “After tomorrow, I can pretend my life’s work wasn’t destroyed, and wear pretty dresses, and paint and play music wherever I please without worrying about drawing undue attention to myself.”

  He stepped back a pace, a cloud darkening his expression. “Why do you make it sound like a prison sentence?”

  “Because it is one, just not for me. What is she going to do when she gets to Capria, hmm? Am I supposed to hope that her ruthlessness applies only to me, that she’ll be the picture of perfect behavior for the rest of her life?”

  The marquess clasped her hand, squeezing it as though to reassure her. Before he could respond, however, a new voice called out. They both turned to the entrance of the hedge walk, where Jaoven of Capria appeared.

  The very last person she wanted to see today.

  “No no no,” Iona muttered. She would have fled but Aedan caught her elbow.

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.”

  Jaoven had outright dismissed her warning last night. Surely he wasn’t second-guessing himself. But the closer he drew, the deeper her stomach dropped. She averted her gaze, watching his approach from her periphery, feeling sick.

  His baritone voice struck against her ears, too familiar, too welcome to her racing heart. “Your Highness, I need a word with you. Alone, preferably.”

  Aedan’s brows arched. He looked to Iona as though waiting for her decree.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sure you have nothing to say that my cousin cannot overhear.”

  “I wonder.” Jaoven surveyed the marquess with open dislike and received a reciprocal scrutiny. He squared his shoulders, as though determined to ignore the extra set of ears. “All right then. Where did you move your studio?”

  Her gaze jerked from their examination of the nearest hedge, a blush rising on her cheeks. “I—” Words failed her. If she revealed the truth, would he accuse her of sabotage again? But he stared at her with an intensity that spoke of concern, not suspicion. She couldn’t bear the weight of that emotion, so she looked to Aedan instead.

  “What business is it of yours?” the marquess asked.

  Jaoven bucked his head, exasperated at having to communicate through a third party. “Perhaps it’s not, but when I went there this morning and the royal guard was clearing everything out, it seemed wrong.”

  “They were—?” Iona started forward but caught herself. Her blush redoubled, burning bright at what she had revealed with that foolish reaction.

  The prince’s mouth flattened. “You didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t know when,” she said quickly, covering her mistake.

  “I thought it strange that you weren’t there to oversee the process, if it was truly what you wished for.”

  “What were you doing there?” Aedan asked, a thorn of suspicion in his voice.

  “Perhaps I wanted to beg one of her paintings for Lisenn, as a wedding gift,” Jaoven replied, vaguely sarcastic.

  Aedan scoffed and had to turn away to hide his further derision.

  “She wouldn’t want one,” said Iona.

  “Not even a landscape of her beloved Wessett?” he asked, meeting her gaze as though peering into her soul.

  Why did he have to be so earnest? Why couldn’t he be arrogant and mean-spirited instead? Jaoven of Deraval had been infinitely easier to hate than Crown Prince Jaoven of Capria.

  “Lisenn is not known for her love of the arts,” said Aedan, controlling his instinctive contempt. “If you’re looking for a wedding gift, I can recommend any number of shops in the merchant district. You can buy her a pretty hair ornament, or a silk sash of exquisite quality. I’ll escort you there myself, if you want some company.”

  Jaoven only spared him a brief, irritated glance before returning his attention to Iona.

  “She wouldn’t want one of my paintings,” the princess said. “And anyway, I don’t have any to give you for her. You’d be better served to take Aedan’s advice.”

  He shook his head, his brows furrowing. When he opened his mouth, he shut it again almost immediately, as though rethinking his words. After a sidelong glance toward her cousin, he schooled away any signs of frustration. “I suppose all your landscapes were already spoken for.”

  She said nothing. Aedan held his peace as well.

  The prince shut his eyes, hands at his hips and shoulders tight. Iona, wary of what might come out of his mouth next, edged away as though she might escape if he held that position long enough.

  As it turned out, she had good reason to fear.

  “You said last night that your sister was a monster.” Jaoven opened his eyes to pin her with an earnest stare. “What did you mean?”

  Self-consciously she looked to Aedan, who regarded her with a muted sense of betrayal in his eyes. “Oh, Io.”

  She couldn’t handle the guilt, from either of them. If she had to choose where to anchor her loyalties, she would choose her cousin and her people and her homeland. “I was being petty. She and I don’t get along. You know that already. But I shouldn’t have called her a monster.”

  “I see. Would your answer be different if we were speaking in private?” Jaoven slid a significant glance toward the third member of their party.

  Iona’s breath caught, her insides roiling. She’d spoken contrary to Aedan’s plans once already. Would she do it again if he weren’t here to influence her?

  “You heard her, Capria,” said the marquess. “The two sisters don’t get along. They were raised separately. They have different interests and different goals. You’re marrying Lisenn. You need to leave Iona alone.”

  Jaoven looked to her for confirmation.

  Her heart seemed to wring into a wasted pulp. “He’s right,” she quietly said.

  A light died in the prince’s eyes. Or maybe it only seemed that way because she felt it die within her. After what seemed an interminable silence, he favored her with a short bow and said only, “I apologize for having taken your time this afternoon.”

  Without waiting for a response, he left, his back straight and his shoulders square.

  As she watched him go, she couldn’t shake a smothering sense of wrongdoing. Instinct told her to call him back, to explain the whole and gory truth: the threats, the abuse, the ruthless destruction of everything she loved. Even after he disappeared beyond her sight, the inclination only intensified.

  “Oh, no,” said Aedan, startling her. He wore an expression of tragedy incarnate. “You are in love with him.”

  She recoiled. “I’m not—!”

  “But if you marry into the crown of Capria, that leaves the rest of us saddled with Lisenn as our next queen,” he continued, as though she had spoken no denial.

  Her panic escalated. A dozen ears could be listening from beyond the hedges. “I’m not marrying into the crown of Capria, you idiot! The treaty is set. He’s marrying Lisenn, and he’s welcome to her.”

  Aedan only shook his head, despair and pity mingling upon him. “What made you warn him about her?”

  She cast her eyes up and down the hedge walk, her ears perked for movement beyond the high rows on either side of them. Haltingly she recounted the conversation by the lake, lingering on Jaoven’s view of what the future held. “Can you imagine,” she concluded, “that they will have any success in unifying the divides that remain in Capria while Lisenn is their queen?”

  “Yes. I can imagine them unifying against her,” said Aedan. He ran frustrated fingers through his hair, pacing three steps away and back again. “I sh
ouldn’t have put such a burden on you by telling you our hopes. But Iona, if Lisenn tries to rule with an iron hand in Capria, they are infinitely better equipped to deal with her. They won’t turn a blind eye like your father does.”

  “They’ll be just as vulnerable to her ways or else risk starting a war between Capria and Wessett,” she said.

  “Really? If you think they’re playing by the same rules as the rest of us, you’re deluded. They’ve been spying from the moment they first contacted us, working every hour of the day to collect as much information on Wessett as they could to leverage this treaty in their favor. I’ve had a bear of a time keeping any word of Lisenn’s depravity from reaching their ears. If and when they realize they’ve been tricked, it will be thanks to her own actions, and they will mete an appropriate punishment. I just didn’t plan on you falling in love with their prince.”

  Her lungs cinched tight. She caught his lapel, the better to glare at him. “I am not in love with Jaoven.”

  A heavy sigh escaped him. He caught her wrist, loosening her grip and clasping her hand instead. “You are too tender-hearted by far. I’m sorry I’ve made you suffer like this.”

  “You haven’t—!”

  “You’re choosing my hopes over Prince Jaoven’s, dooming one kingdom so the other can survive. And I’m the one who put you in that position. If not for me—”

  “I choose Wessett, Aedan,” she said, her voice like flint. “I choose it. What happens to Capria is none of my concern.”

  He rested his palm atop her head, as though comforting a child. “I’m sorry, Io. I’m so sorry.”

  She blinked, and tears tumbled from her eyes. The loss of control happened too quick for her to suppress it, her efforts as effective as trying to contain a river in a jewelry box. As she sniffled, fighting the overflow to no avail, her cousin gathered her in his arms.

  That action shattered her all the more.

  “I’m worse than all of them, Aedan. They picked on people weaker than them because they didn’t know any different. I do know different. I’m letting a whole kingdom fall to ensure my own comfort. They’re the weak ones now, and they don’t even realize what danger awaits them. Will she be as awful in Capria as she is here? Will she be worse?”

  He had no answers, and she expected none. The simple act of voicing her fears aloud helped her accept them. Relief did not come, but rightly so. This was a grief she would carry to her grave.

  After the flood of tears, a dress fitting was the last thing Iona wanted to attend. She had promised Bina she wouldn’t evade the appointment, however, and her sobs had long subsided by the time she reported to her maid.

  They trekked together to the royal tailor’s workroom, a flurry of butterflies multiplying in her stomach the closer they got. What kind of dress awaited her? Surely it couldn’t be worse than the scarlet frock she had already worn, and so far she had escaped any retribution from her sister for that offense. Maybe Lisenn had outgrown her need to control that particular facet of Iona’s life.

  The sisters weren’t in competition with one another, after all.

  When she and Bina arrived, the workroom was already occupied. Iona stopped short on the threshold, her stomach dropping like a lead ball. Lisenn, gorgeous in an elaborate gown of cream-colored silk, spared her sister an arch glance. The tailor, who knelt at her feet to pin the final stretch of hem, motioned the newcomers to a couple of chairs to wait.

  “We can come back,” Iona said faintly.

  “I’m nearly finished,” he replied around the straight pins in his mouth.

  And so she sat, rigid, forcing her gaze to remain unfocused. Every time she glanced toward her sister, she caught Lisenn’s reflection staring at her, silent and controlled.

  That control worked her nerves into a thousand knots. She almost preferred an openly vicious Lisenn to the flat contemplation that confronted her now.

  Should she compliment her sister or the dress? Of course the crown princess looked stunning and the workmanship was exquisite, but to speak was to invite unwanted attention and possibly harm. Would remaining silent invoke the same degree of wrath?

  Or perhaps Lisenn had exorcised that particular demon when she destroyed Iona’s artwork.

  “All finished, Your Royal Highness,” said the tailor, and he leaned back on his haunches. “I’ll have the alterations complete and the dress at your door by nightfall.”

  Lisenn stepped off the low pedestal. The tailor’s assistant materialized from the attached supply room and crossed behind a dressing screen to help remove the garment. The crown princess changed into her own vibrant pink gown and left without so much as a glance at her sister in the corner. Not until her footsteps had faded into oblivion did the tailor acknowledge Iona.

  “I apologize for making you wait, Your Highness. Your sister’s fitting went longer than anticipated.”

  His assistant disappeared into the supply room again and emerged with a bundle of pale blue fabric.

  Iona’s breath caught in her throat. “Did my mother choose this?”

  “Yes. The same color runs in her gown and your father’s doublet. The royal family shall make a matching set.”

  Bina tugged her toward the dressing screen, heedless of her misgivings. As with the red ballgown, she could not protest.

  Even so, wearing two such dresses within days of each other seemed as smart as taunting a wild boar.

  The gown fit beautifully. Its skirt was not so full as the red one had been, but the attention to detail—embroidery on the sleeves and along the hemline, the cut of the bodice, the delicate scoop of the neckline—showed the full extent of craftsmanship. Most of the work left involved pinning the hem to its proper length, followed by an inventory of underthings required to show the frock to its best advantage. The tailor’s assistant remained present through the whole appointment, and it only occurred to Iona afterward that the girl might have been afraid of Lisenn.

  When she said as much to Bina in the corridor, the maid huffed a laugh. “Of course she is. All of the servants are. We avoid contact with her as much as possible. But after tomorrow, she’s Capria’s problem.”

  That final remark catapulted Iona’s mood into the dust. Her shoulders sagged, and she bit her bottom lip, as though she could ward off the resurgence of guilt that clawed up her throat. If Bina noticed her change of demeanor, she did not acknowledge it.

  Her bedroom door was open. She could see it from halfway down the hall, the gap between the wood and the jamb. Wary, she stopped in her tracks.

  Bina saw the problem a split-second later. “I know I shut that when we left.” She hurried forward, ready to confront whatever had disrupted the sanctity of her charge’s quarters. Iona followed on her heels, shaking, imagining Lisenn lying in wait.

  The maid paused in front of the door and tipped it further open with her foot. A gasp escaped her, and she cupped her hands over her mouth.

  Iona caught a glimpse of red through the opening. Bina, protective, snapped back to her senses and tried to usher her away, but to no avail. The princess skirted from those frantic hands and into her bedroom.

  Red covered the floor, the bed, everything: puddles of crimson, like a massacre had taken place during their absence.

  Only, instead of blood it was fabric.

  Her scarlet ballgown lay shredded and mangled, the bodice torn and the skirt in pieces.

  “That awful, evil witch,” Bina murmured, her eyes shimmering.

  Iona, who had suffered this indignity in too many incarnations over the course of her life, said with dull resignation, “It was only a dress.”

  Her maid enveloped her in a tight embrace, crying tears that would not come to Iona herself.

  It was only a dress. It wasn’t a lifetime of art and supplies. It wasn’t the canary she had once kept in a cage, or the dozens of toys Lisenn had destroyed in her childhood. It wasn’t even the first of her dresses to suffer this fate.

  And yet, it felt like a death sentence. The wedding
was tomorrow, and Lisenn would travel to foreign shores in its aftermath. Somehow, Iona still wouldn’t be safe. Her sister would always lurk among the shadows, ready to lash out when she least expected it.

  Chapter 21

  The king hosted a state dinner that night, with all the nobility of Wessett in attendance to honor the morrow’s wedding. Iona, seated across from Jaoven yet again, steadily ignored his presence, though she could feel his attention upon her throughout the evening.

  Halfway through the main course, he asked her father, “Will your younger daughter favor us with a performance tonight?”

  Iona, alarmed, looked to the king, who stared at the Caprian prince through half-lidded eyes.

  “I feel as though we caused insult by withdrawing on our first evening here,” Jaoven said. “Such was not our intent, but you did promise she might play for us some other time.” His gaze flitted her direction and away again.

  “So I did,” King Gawen murmured. On his right, Lisenn sat ramrod straight, her face an affectation of pleasantness as she waited on her father’s decree. He exchanged a glance with her—a challenge of some sort?—and Iona’s insides knotted.

  The king relaxed back into his chair, perfectly at ease as he commanded the undivided attention of everyone within hearing range. “Unfortunately, ever since her encounter with the Awinrea, my daughter has not been in a temperament for music. I don’t believe she’s practiced even once since her return. Is that not correct, Iona?”

  He pinned her with an arch stare, as though daring her to contradict him.

  She had no cause for such defiance. It was true enough. “You are correct, sire,” she said, focusing on her hands in her lap.

  “And though she is accomplished and could easily provide us with superb entertainment despite the lack of practice,” the king continued, “I feel it would be uncharitable to spring such a request upon her when her heart is not in it.”

  “Of course,” Jaoven said. “It was not my intention to distress her.”

  She glanced up and then away from him. Lisenn, to his left, observed her with mocking indigo eyes.