But Sebastian wasn’t going to adopt out of his family, no matter what he said about wishing he wasn’t a North—that was just his anger at his mother speaking. And maybe Fiona could eventually claw her way to a position within the nobility, but even if she could, she didn’t think it would make her happy, even if it meant marrying Sebastian. Which meant every moment she spent with him, letting him go on believing there was a chance for them, was a huge mistake. She needed a middle ground, and nothing like that existed.
She opened her eyes and resolutely began her nightly ritual, though she knew from experience it would be several weeks before another accident was possible. It was two weeks until the end of the Election. Two weeks in which she would pretend to be Sebastian’s wife and help him find a way to neutralize Gizane and, she hoped, make amends to Hien. If there was a middle ground, however impossible that seemed, maybe she would find it during that time.
Her ritual finished, she closed her eyes and turned away from the charred spot on the sheet. Or maybe nothing would change, and at the end of two weeks she would leave Sebastian forever. The thought made her heart hurt. It’s for the best, she told that traitorous organ, that pain won’t last forever, but she fell asleep feeling she’d already betrayed them both.
26
Haizea hadn’t changed in the weeks since Fiona had been there last, but it still looked different, more elegant and less welcoming. Some of that was Fiona’s residual guilt over lying to the Irantzen Temple priestesses, no doubt, but most of it was the carriage she and Sebastian traveled in, surrounded by their entourage. Where before they had blended in despite being visibly foreign, now they drew every eye. In the carriage painted with North colors, dark blue and silver, with armed guards on horseback fore and aft and followed by a second carriage bearing their personal servants and luggage, they were clearly foreign nobility.
Fiona had asked Sebastian, on their first day of travel, whether so many aggressively armed men and women in their train didn’t send the wrong impression. “Veriboldans, the upper class ones, respect shows of power,” Sebastian had said. “Tremontane is a greater military power, but within Veribold, the Veriboldans hold the upper hand. Our bringing guards is a way of saying we believe them strong enough that we need a powerful defense. Though of course nobody’s going to attack us and start a war Veribold would almost certainly lose.”
That sounded complex and political, and Fiona was just as happy she didn’t need to worry about it. That was Sebastian’s world, not hers.
Sebastian. He hadn’t made any more attempts at intimacy, hadn’t tried to kiss her or get her alone. He’d even arranged for them to have separate bedrooms on the road, ignoring the speculative glances their servants gave him and each other. He’d assured her back in Aurilien that it was common for noble married couples not to share a bedroom, but Fiona guessed from what the servants didn’t say that newlyweds ought not to care about that custom.
But she’d caught him looking at her when he thought she didn’t notice, and the depth of emotion in his gaze made her tremble with mingled longing and pain. When he offered her his arm to escort her from the carriage, or to their rooms in whatever inn they were staying at that night, he would sometimes touch her hand where it rested on his sleeve, the briefest touch, but filled with such tenderness it made tears well up. If he was trying to convince her to change her mind, he’d settled on a damned effective way of doing it.
Every night after her ritual, she tried to convince herself that all her objections, all her rational reasons why love wasn’t enough, were foolish. And every night she remembered that terrible, awkward dinner with his family and knew that was only the surface of what she would face as an outsider at court. She wanted a life unconstrained by the demands of a social class she didn’t care about, not a constant struggle against others and herself. So far, reason was winning.
Now she looked out the carriage window and asked, “Will we stay in the Jaixante?”
“We’re outsiders, and therefore we’re not holy enough,” Sebastian said. “We’ll stay in the Tremontanan embassy. Great-Uncle Sebastian said it’s very comfortable. It’s close to the Jaixante, on the far side of the Kepa.”
“It must be elegant.” Fiona leaned against the window frame and admired the marketplace they were passing through. Fragments of words drifted through the window, nothing she could string into meaningful sentences, so she let the sounds wash over her like pebbles clattering down a stony hill.
“We’ll have plenty to keep us busy,” Sebastian went on. “We’re nominally respected auditors of the Election, though if we tried to challenge them I’m sure we’d learn just how nominal that respect is. Mostly we’re supposed to watch the proceedings and look impressed at how civilized Veribold is.”
Fiona turned away from the window. “And how will we stop Gizane? Do we have a plan?”
Sebastian grimaced. “Not yet. I was hoping once we got here, something would happen to suggest a plan. But nothing’s coming to mind. Mostly I’m thinking about how I don’t even know what she looks like.”
“That’s a problem.” Fiona fingered the bag of ceramic tokens, the Jaoine Stones, where it fit deeply into her pocket. “Another problem is what to do about these.”
“That might be easier. Holt could sneak into the Irantzen Temple and leave them somewhere conspicuous.”
“I thought we weren’t allowed in the Jaixante.”
“Not allowed to stay there. All the contests in the Election are held there, and we’re allowed to visit.” Sebastian sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s a possibility, anyway.”
“It could work.” It didn’t satisfy Fiona, though. While it would make things up to Hien, it wouldn’t let Fiona apologize or make things right in person. Though maybe that was a stupid desire, given that she couldn’t hand over the Jaoine Stones without getting herself killed. Still, she wanted—needed—something to ease her guilt.
The carriage left the market behind and rattled across one of the white bridges. It wasn’t the one Fiona had jumped from, but one farther south that didn’t connect to the island of the Jaixante. The white paint adorning the lacy ironwork between the bridge’s pillars was chipped in places, making Fiona feel like less of an outsider. Veriboldans were as human as anyone if their constructions could be flawed.
She watched the green-glass flow of the Kepa ambling slowly beneath them until they left the bridge and made a sharp right turn onto the wide boulevard flanking the river. Tall houses with tiered roofs like the customs house, painted light blue or pale green or stark white, lined the inner side of the boulevard, giving their owners a beautiful view of the Kepa, the Jaixante, and the houses clustered on the far side of the river. Fiona had never been on the west side of Haizea, where the wealthy lived, and the view took her breath away.
Soon the carriage took another turn, this one to the left, and proceeded up a wide, curving driveway that reminded Fiona of a scaled-down version of the drive going up to the palace in Aurilien. Rhododendrons in full bloom lined the driveway, filling the air with their scent. Fiona leaned out the window, drew back when it occurred to her that might not be appropriate behavior, then leaned out again. She wasn’t noble and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise when it came to perfectly reasonable curiosity.
The mansion the driveway led to was three stories tall, with the strangely curved tiered roofs tiled in dark blue making it seem wider than it was. Small round windows pierced its sides, making the upper stories look like eyelet lace. The whole thing was as delicate as a spun-sugar confection and more fragile than the stone mansions of Aurilien, built to withstand much harsher winters.
The carriage came to a stop at the foot of the shallow steps leading up to the front door, which was, in contrast to the rest of the house, heavy and stained nearly black. Sebastian waited for the footman to hop down and open the carriage door, then stepped down and offered Fiona his hand. She took it, concealing how her heart sped up at his touch. Sebastian didn’t re
lease her, but tucked her hand around his arm and led the way to the stairs.
An army of neatly-dressed people, most of them wearing Tremontane colors of forest green and walnut brown, lined the steps. A woman whose short gray hair trembled in the breeze coming off the Kepa stepped forward. “Prince Sebastian,” she said. “I’m Marion Emory, ambassador to Veribold. Welcome to the embassy.”
“Thank you, Mistress Emory,” Sebastian said. “Lady North and I are pleased to be here.”
Emory shot Fiona a glance that, to Fiona’s surprise, was more curious than critical. “We hope your stay here will be pleasant. My staff has been instructed to provide you with anything you might need during your stay. The Election begins tomorrow evening, and tonight I’ve arranged for a banquet in your honor and that of your lady wife.”
A banquet. Fiona’s heart froze over. So much for keeping the respect of these people once they saw Fiona didn’t belong.
“That’s very generous of you,” Sebastian said. “We would like to settle our things and rest from our journey now.”
“Right this way,” Emory said. “My majordomo, Charles Carris, will see to your needs. Anything you require, just ask him.” She indicated a young man, blond and with wire-rimmed spectacles that gave him the look of a snowy owl. Carris stood at attention, making Fiona wonder if he was a soldier out of uniform. Tensions between Tremontane and Veribold were high enough that the government might think a secret fighting force would be reasonable.
“Please allow me to show you to your rooms,” Carris said. Fiona kept hold of Sebastian’s sleeve as they proceeded through the door into the dimly-lit hall beyond. Spots of light here and there marked where the little round windows let in just enough sunlight to keep the darkness from being total. Fiona remembered the heat of Veriboldan summers and reflected on how comfortable this house would be during the hottest part of the year.
Stairs with treads as dark as the door and risers a brilliant white contrast stood just opposite the entrance. Carris led the way up to a long, wide hall with several doors opening off it. “The embassy’s business is conducted on the ground floor,” he said. His voice was soft but penetrating, the voice of someone confident in his job. “The second floor is the residence. We have made the guest suite available to you, of course.”
“We will require two bedrooms,” Sebastian said.
Carris shot him a glance considerably more inquisitive than Emory’s had been. “The suite has two bedrooms,” he said, his voice suddenly more neutral in tone. Fiona held her head high and dared him to say anything further, but Carris was silent as he opened the door.
The sitting room was nearly perfectly round, a motif echoed in the arrangement of round windows in the far wall. Six small circles of glass surrounded a much larger one, making an abstract flower pattern that made Fiona feel even more alien than she already did. Low couches that would be difficult to rise from surrounded a round table, also low, painted white to match the furniture. A carpet woven in an intricate pattern of blues and reds covered the floor from wall to wall, making Fiona wonder how they had possibly known how large to weave it. Or, for that matter, how they’d woven a perfect circle.
A lamp glowed on the little table next to the sofa, its flame dim against the still-brilliant sky. Soft, gauzy drapes hung from every wall, giving the impression that the room was larger than it was and hushing conversations to a near-whisper. Three doors at irregular intervals around the room, two open, one closed, added to the alien appearance of the room. That it was functionally no different from Sebastian’s rooms in the palace didn’t ease Fiona’s mind at all. It was an entirely Veriboldan room, and could not have been calculated to make Fiona feel more of an outsider.
Carris walked to the nearest open door and bowed. “Lady North,” he said. Fiona swept past him into the room, pretending she was the lady he’d named her. To her relief, the room was an ordinary oblong one, with proper corners and right angles, and was filled with Tremontanan furniture rather than a Veriboldan pallet on the floor. There was a single round window above the bed, true, but Tremontanans had round windows sometimes. It surprised Fiona to discover how comforting this taste of home was, given that she’d spent many years staying in Veriboldan inns on Veriboldan beds. Maybe she was more discomfited by her unnatural elevation in status than she’d thought.
Carris had already moved on, so Fiona explored the room further. In addition to the elegantly carved four-poster bed, there were bedside tables with lamp Devices, an armchair upholstered in gold brocade drawn up to a small round table, and a door that proved to lead to a dressing room. She left that door open and returned to the sitting room, where a quick peek confirmed that the single closed door was the water closet. She used it and felt more comfortable.
When she emerged, the sitting room teemed with servants bearing trunks and boxes they carried into the bedrooms. Sebastian sat on one of the low sofas, regarding the furor with amusement. He patted the cushion next to him in invitation. Fiona sat. The sofa was low enough that her knees bent awkwardly high, and she was sure she would need both hands to get up again.
“Sorry about the banquet,” Sebastian said in a low voice. “I know you don’t like formal affairs.”
“I don’t mind,” Fiona said. It wasn’t precisely true, but she’d committed to this ruse, and she wasn’t going to pitch a fit. “But I’ll need to finish fitting my gowns. There wasn’t time before we left.”
Sebastian smiled. “The intimidating Georgette laying down the law again?”
“I chose her because she was the only one of the maids who met my eyes when I spoke to her,” Fiona said with a matching smile, “but I didn’t know how opinionated she was. I understand now how you were never able to get Holt to eat with us.”
“It’s true, personal servants tend to care more about their masters’ status and reputation than we do.” Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. “And now Georgette is looking at me as if I’m monopolizing your time, so maybe you should go for those fittings now.” He stood with ease and offered his hand to Fiona. She let him pull her up and kept hold of his hand when she teetered a bit upon rising. Laughing at her awkwardness, she turned to face him and was caught off-guard by his still, somber expression.
“What…” she said, and let her words trail into nothingness.
Sebastian shook his head, the tiniest movement. Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Until later,” he said, releasing her. He walked to his room and shut the door, leaving her standing like a statue, frozen by his kiss, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She closed her eyes, capturing the way he’d looked in her memory.
He loved her.
It didn’t matter.
But what if it did? her inner voice cried. She took two steps toward his door and stopped herself. That was how it had started with Roderick. She’d been in love and hadn’t thought any further than that. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
She turned and walked to her bedroom. The intimidating Georgette stood in the doorway, assessing Fiona. Fiona had no idea what she’d made of that interaction and didn’t care. “Let’s get this over with,” Fiona said.
Georgette had already laid out the three gowns that still required fitting on Fiona’s bed. “It will not take long, milady,” she said in the stern schoolmistress voice Fiona had to work at not bowing to. “Must I remind you of your obligation to the Crown? You are its representative in Veribold and must dress accordingly.”
“I know, Georgette.” Fiona stripped off her clothes and let Georgette help her into the first gown. It was true, Georgette was bold and hadn’t…well, “groveled” was still the best word for how the other maids had behaved around her. They’d made Fiona feel like an utter fraud—which she was, granted, but she didn’t like being reminded of that fact. Georgette was proud and tough and knew everything about high society, and Fiona was grateful for her guidance.
The dressing room had a full-length mirror on a stand in the corner,
and Fiona stood with her arms held away from her body as Georgette tucked and pinned the fabric. She couldn’t look anywhere else but her reflection without earning a reproving hiss from Georgette. “This dress is lovely,” she said, wanting to break the silence.
“It suits milady well,” Georgette said around a mouthful of pins. “You will outshine all the other women, as is proper.”
This was the other thing Fiona wished she had known about Georgette before taking her on. The woman made no secret of her disdain for everything Veriboldan, which she apostrophized as being “foreign,” an adjective equivalent to “heathen” in her vocabulary. To her, Tremontane was the pinnacle of civilization. Heaven only knew what she thought of the Ruskalder, who didn’t even share their religious faith.
“Isn’t it rather…old-fashioned?” The gown was of gold silk the color of evening sunlight, embroidered with creamy pearls around the neckline and in a starburst pattern over her hips.
Georgette sniffed. “I am told,” she said in a way that suggested she resented whoever had passed on the information, “for the opening ceremony of the Election, each observer is to dress in their national costume, which in Tremontane’s case is interpreted to mean the style of Queen Willow North’s court.”
“I see.” How unfortunate that they hadn’t interpreted it to mean the style Willow North had dressed in before becoming Queen, which would have meant trousers and linen shirts, far more comfortable and less likely to be ruined by an accidental spill.
“There we are, milady,” Georgette said, sticking unused pins into the pincushion strapped to her left wrist. “Take care stepping out of it.”
Fiona eased her way out of the gown and waited for Georgette to bring the next one. This was the sort of boring thing fashionable women did all the time. She was so grateful not to be a fashionable woman. The thought If you married Sebastian began to cross her mind, and ruthlessly she snuffed it.
Ally of the Crown Page 23