The Defiant Heir

by Melissa Caruso

  I thought of Marcello, waiting patiently down the hill. And Ruven, winding his will deeper through his domain, considering his next course of action, stockpile of potion in hand. Not to mention my Falcon reform law, which I’d need every edge I could get to pass through the Assembly, especially if Lord Caulin was working against it.

  “I’m not so rash as to break things off on an impulse,” I said. “And a continued alliance against Ruven seems mutually beneficial.”

  Kathe’s mouth pulled into a wry smile. “How dazzlingly romantic.”

  Warmth flushed my cheeks. “Would you prefer we negotiated these matters by candlelight while boating under the Lovers’ Bridge with a bottle of wine?”

  “That sounds lovely. I accept your invitation.” He reached out and took my hand, bowing over it with amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’ll call on you when you’re back in Raverra.”

  I swallowed my protest and let him kiss my hand. The warm pressure of his lips sent a tingling jolt up my arm. “I look forward to it.”

  And curse him, despite everything, I did.

  I made my way down toward the cottage and spied Terika and Zaira through the window. They sat together by the glowing fireplace, leaning against each other and laughing as a tortoiseshell cat attempted to nibble Zaira’s hair. Terika’s grandmother rocked in a quilt-covered chair nearby, smiling indulgently and knitting. I swerved toward the road; they didn’t need me now.

  Marcello met me halfway, his green eyes soft and thoughtful. “Can we go for a walk?” he asked.

  Graces, he was just what I needed right now. Someone safe, someone comforting, whom I could talk to without worrying about what secrets we were hiding from each other. Someone with whom I could be myself, and not a Cornaro or a Lochaver or a descendant of the Lady of Eagles.

  We could always be that for each other. No matter what either of us decided about whom we courted or whom we married. I needed to stop worrying about what would happen in an unknown future and simply be his friend in the present.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d like that very much.”

  We strolled down the road together, away from our escort of soldiers, who huddled in conversation with their coats pulled close and their backs to the cold, and from the cottage where Zaira appeared to be hitting it off splendidly with Terika’s grandmother. For a while, we walked in agreeable silence, through the dry, frozen meadow under the bright sun. Then the road ducked into a stand of low pines, breaking our line of sight to the others, and Marcello stopped.

  “I can’t stop thinking about the Falcons,” he said in a low voice. Trouble weighed down his brows. “Emmand, who ran from us when we were trying to help him. Harrald, who didn’t want to come back. The captured Falcons who came back to us not because they wanted to, but because the other alternatives were even worse.” He swallowed. “I love the Falconers. The Mews saved Istrella and me; it’s our home. But it can’t be that way for everyone, no matter how hard I try to make it so. And I should have seen that a long time ago.”

  I rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then help me change things. I’m going to try to push this law through the Assembly when I get back to Raverra. If you can get me Colonel Vasante’s support, a lot more people will give it credence.”

  He nodded, resolve straightening his shoulders. “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks.” I sighed. “I hope I can manage it. I’m new at all this.”

  “You’ll do fine,” he assured me, smiling. “You’re La Contessa’s daughter, after all.”

  You are truly prepared to rule. My grandmother’s words blended together in my memory with Bree’s: Coldblooded monster. They might be the same thing. I winced.

  Marcello reached a hand toward my face, then checked it, his fingers curling in on themselves and hovering uncertainly in the air between us. “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid.” I took his hand and cradled it in both of mine, feeling its warmth and the hard sword calluses on his palm. I needed this now, the comfort of a warm and gentle human touch, and I had nowhere else to turn for it. “I’m afraid of what I might be becoming. I killed Roland. He was my cousin, and I loved him, and I killed him.”

  “You made the hard choice that needed to be made. It’s the same in the military.” By the shadows crossing his face, he’d had to come to terms with such choices himself. “Someone has to do it, Amalia.”

  “I know. There was no way around the decision.” I drew in a shuddery breath. “But who am I to decide who lives and dies? The doge would have been willing to destroy an entire city and kill thousands of people to prove a point, last year. I don’t want to reckon lives as nothing more than pieces on a board. If I can kill my own cousin, how am I any different?”

  “Because you do care.” He held my gaze, his green eyes intense. “I know you, Amalia. You won’t stop caring, even if you have to make decisions that sacrifice lives. And that’s why you’re the one who should make them.”

  “Help me keep caring, Marcello.” I squeezed his hand tight. “Year after year, until I’m old and withered and jaded. Don’t let me harden my heart, no matter how much I want it to stop hurting. No matter what I have to do.”

  “I promise,” he whispered. “I will.”

  Above us, a crow called, its raucous laugh scraping at the sky.

  The story continues in …

  Book Three of the Swords and Fire series

  Coming in April 2019

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to make a book, but a really amazing badass village, like Themyscira. So I have some truly awesome people to thank.

  Warmest thanks to Naomi Davis, my agent and fairy godmother, without whom this series would never have seen the light of day. And my profound gratitude goes out to my incredible editors: Lindsey Hall, who edited the first draft of this book, and Sarah Guan, who carried it to the finish line, and Emily Byron, my wonderful UK editor. Thank you all for pushing me and guiding me to make this book the best it could possibly be.

  Thank you to the entire Orbit team for being supportive, fun, wonderful, and really good at what you do. I am so lucky to have the chance to work with you, and you all deserve cinnamon rolls and puppies and the magical powers of your choice.

  Love and deepest gratitude to my husband, Jesse King, and my daughters, Maya and Kyra, for your patience and support while I wrote this book. With all your help and hugs and understanding, I knew you had my back when writing swallowed my life, and it meant the world to me. And thank you to all my friends and family who cheered me on and helped me out—especially my parents, who in addition to nurturing my dream have had to put up with my shenanigans for decades.

  Thanks to my beta readers, who turned around feedback with impressive alacrity and insight: Natsuko Toyofuku, Deva Fagan, Lauren Austrian-Parke, Dan Parke, and Nicole Evans. You gave me sanity checks when I needed them, pointed me in the right direction, and caught my mistakes, all on a tight schedule, and I adore you.

  And thanks to you, my readers, for sticking with me. This story wouldn’t be complete without you, and I’m so excited to have you along for the ride.

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Erin Re Anderson

  MELISSA CARUSO graduated with honors in creative writing from Brown University and holds an MFA in Fiction from University of Massachusetts—Amherst.

  if you enjoyed

  THE DEFIANT HEIR

  look out for

  TORN

  Book One of the Unraveled Kingdom

  by

  Rowenna Miller

  In a time of revolution, everyone must take a side.

  Sophie is an ambitious young dressmaker who has managed to open her own shop and lift herself and her brother, Kristos, out of poverty. Her reputation for beautiful ball gowns and discreetly embroidered charms secures her a commission from the royal family itself, and a place in a world far beyond her station.

  But revolution is brewing, and Kristos rises to prominence in
the growing anti-monarchist movement. Their worlds collide when he is taken hostage by a supposed ally, drawing Sophie into a deadly plot.

  As the unrest erupts into violence, Sophie is torn—between her brother and the community of her birth, and the life and future she’s created for herself.

  1

  “Mr. Bursin,” I said, my hands constricting around the fine linen ruffles I was hemming, “I do not do that.”

  “But, miss, I would not ask if it were—if it were not the most pressing of circumstances. If it would not be best. For all concerned.”

  I understood. Mr. Bursin’s mother-in-law simply refused to die. She was old, infirm, and her mind was half-gone, but still she clung to life—and, as it turned out, bound the inheritance to her daughter and son-in-law in a legal tangle that would all go away once she was safely interred. Still.

  “I do not wish ill on anyone. Ever. I sew charms, never curses.” My words were final, but I thought of another avenue. “I could, of course, wish good fortune on you, Mr. Bursin. Or your wife.”

  He wavered. “Would … would a kerchief be sufficient?” He glanced at the rows of ruffled neckerchiefs lining my windows, modeled by stuffed linen busts.

  “Oh, most certainly, Mr. Bursin. The ruffled style is very fashionable this season. Would you like to place the order now, or do you need to consult with your wife regarding style and fabric?”

  He didn’t need to consult with his wife. She would wear the commission he bought from me, whether she liked the ruffles or not. He chose the cheapest fabric I offered—a coarser linen than was fashionable—and no decorative embroidery.

  My markup for the charm still ensured a hefty sum would be leaving Mr. Bursin’s wallet and entering my cipher book.

  “Add cutting another ruffled kerchief to your to-do list this morning, Penny,” I called to one of my assistants. I didn’t employ apprentices—apprentices learn one’s trade. The art of charm casting wasn’t one I could pass on to the women I hired. Several assistants had already come and gone from my shop, gaining practice draping, cutting, fitting—but never charm casting. Alice and Penny, both sixteen and as wide-eyed at the prospect of learning their trade as I had been at their age, were perhaps my most promising employees yet.

  “Another?” Penny’s voice was muffled. I poked my head around the corner. She was on her back under a mannequin, hidden inside the voluminous skirts of a court gown.

  “And what, pray tell, are you doing?” I stifled a laugh. Penny was a good seamstress with the potential to be a great one, but only when she resisted the impulse to cut corners.

  Penny scooted out from under the gown, her pleated jacket bunching around her armpits. “Marking the hem,” she replied with a vivid crimson blush.

  “Is that how I showed you to do it?” I asked, a stubborn smile forcing its way onto my face.

  “No,” she replied meekly, and continued with her work.

  I returned to the front of the shop. Three packages, wrapped in brown paper, awaiting delivery. One was a new riding habit with a protective cast, the second a pelisse for an old woman with a good health charm, and the third a pleated caraco jacket.

  A plain, simple caraco. No magic, no spells. Just my own beautiful draping and my assistant Alice’s neat stitching.

  Sometimes I wished I had earned my prominence as a dressmaker on that draping and stitching alone, but I knew my popularity had far more to do with my charms, the fact that they had a reputation for working, and my distinction as the only couture charm caster in Galitha City. Though there were other charm casters in the city, the way that I stitched charms into fashionable clothing made the foreign practice palatable to the city’s elite. The other casters, all hailing from the far-off island nation of Pellia by either birth or, like me, ancestry, etched charms into clay tablets and infused sachets of herbs with good luck or health, but I was the only charm caster in the city—the only one I knew of at all—who translated charms into lines of functional stitching and decorative embroidery.

  Even among charm casters I was different, selling to Galatines, and the Galatine elite, who didn’t frequent the Pellian market or any other Pellian businesses. I had managed to infuse the practice with enough cachet and intrigue that the wealthy could forget it was a bumpkin superstition from a backwater nation. Long before I owned my shop, I had attempted charming and selling simple thread buttons on the street. Incredibly, Galatines bought them—maybe it was the lack of pungent herb scents and ugly clay pendants that marked Pellian charms, or maybe it was the appeal of wearing a charm no one could see. Maybe it was merely novelty. In either case, I had made the valuable discovery that, with some modifications, Galatines would buy charms. When I finally landed a permanent assistant’s job in a small atelier with a clientele of merchants’ wives and lesser nobility, I wheedled a few into trying a charm, and, when the charms worked, I swiftly gathered a cult following of women seeking my particular skill. After a couple of years, I had enough clients that I was able to prove myself and open my own shop. Galatines were neither particularly superstitious nor religious, but the novelty of a charm stitched into their finery captivated their interest, and I in turn had a market for my work.

  “When you finish the hem, start the trim for Madame Pliny’s court gown,” I told Penny. The commission wasn’t due until spring, but the elaborate court gowns required so much work that I was starting early. It was our first court gown commission—a sign, I hoped, that we were establishing a reputation for the quality of our work as well as for the charms. “And I’m late to go file for the license already—the Lord of Coin’s offices have been open for an hour.”

  “The line is going to be awful,” Alice said from the workroom. “Can’t you go tomorrow?”

  “I don’t want to put it off,” I answered. The process was never sure; if I didn’t get through the line today, or if I was missing something the clerk demanded, I wanted several days to make it up.

  “Fair enough,” Alice answered. “Wait—two messages came while you were with Mr. Bursin. Did you want—”

  “Yes, quickly.” I tore open the two notes. One was an invoice for two bolts of linen I had bought. I set it aside. And the other—

  “Damn,” I muttered. A canceled order. Mrs. Penneray, a merchant’s wife, had ordered an elaborate dinner gown that would, single-handedly, pay a week’s wages for both of my assistants. We hadn’t begun it yet, and so, per my own contract, I would have to agree to cancel it.

  I glanced at our order board. We were still busy enough, but this was a major blow. Most of the orders on our slate were small charmed pieces—kerchiefs, caps. Even with my upcharge for charms, they didn’t profit us nearly as much as a gown. Early winter usually meant a lull in business, but this year was going to be worse than usual.

  “Anything amiss?” Penny’s brow wrinkled in concern, and I realized that I was fretting the paper with my fingers.

  “No, just a canceled order. Frankly, I didn’t care for the orange shot silk Mrs. Penneray chose anyway, did you?” I asked, wiping her order from the board with the flat of my hand. “And I really do need to go now.”

  Alice’s prediction was right; the line to submit papers to the Lord of Coin was interminable. It snaked from the offices of the bureau into the corridors of the drafty stone building and into the street, where a cold rain pelted the petitioners. Puddles congregated in the low-lying areas of the flagstone floor, making the whole shabby establishment even damper and less welcoming than usual.

  I held my leather portfolio under my fine wool cloak, only slightly dampened from the rain. Inside were the year’s records for my shop, invoices and payment dates, lists of inventory, dossiers on my assistants and my ability to pay them. Proof that I was a successful business and worthy of granting another year’s license. I traced my name inscribed on the front, tooled delicately into the pale calfskin by the leatherworker whose shop was four doors down from mine. I had indulged in the pretty piece after years of juggling papers bound with li
nen tape and mashed between layers of pasteboard. I had a feeling the ladylike, costly presentation, combined with the fashionable silk gown I wore like an advertisement of my skills and merchandise, couldn’t hurt my chances at a swift approval from the Lord of Coin’s clerk.

  I was among a rare set of young women, not widows, with their own shop fronts when I opened almost ten years ago, and remained so. My business survived and even grew, if slowly, and I loved my trade—and I couldn’t complain about the profits that elevated my brother, Kristos, and me from common day laborers to a small but somewhat prosperous class of business owners.

  “No pushing!” a stout voice behind me complained. I stiffened. We didn’t need any disruptions in the queue—any rowdiness and the soldiers posted around the building were likely to send us all home.

  “I didn’t touch you!” another voice answered.

  “Foot’s not attached to you, eh? Because how else did I get this muddy shoeprint on my leg?”

  “Probably there when you hiked in from the parsnip farm or wherever you came from!”

  I hazarded a look behind me. Two bareheaded men wearing poorly fitted linsey-woolsey suits jostled one another. One had the sun-leathered skin of a fisherman or dockworker; the other had the pale shock of flaxen hair common in the mountains of northeastern Galitha. Neither had seemed to think that the occasion warranted a fresh shave or a bath.

  I suppressed a disapproving sigh. New petitioners, no doubt, with little hope of getting approval to open their businesses, and much more chance of disrupting everyone else. I glanced again; neither seemed to carry anything like enough paperwork to prove themselves. And their appearance—I tried not to wrinkle my nose, but they looked more like field hands than business owners. Fair or not, that wouldn’t help their cases.