You still need them.
She finally met Gil’s eyes. Something in her face made him step forward, but she held her hand up again.
“Invite him in,” she muttered. “Give him tea, and let him know it will be a while.”
Luca wouldn’t have said she felt better after having washed and dressed, but she could certainly pretend to be a better version of herself. She had spent so much time trying to look like she wasn’t grieving that she was surprised when she walked into her sitting room to see Bastien’s splotchy, red-eyed face. His hair was brushed back into a queue, but his jacket looked slept in—or perhaps not slept in at all.
“They took her,” he said, standing up from his seat as soon as Luca walked in.
Luca shook her head, searching for solid ground. The first “her” that came to mind was Touraine, because the rebels had taken her body. She blinked the thought away, but it was difficult to dredge up the compassion today to ask Bastien, “Who? Who took whom?”
“The sky-falling rebel bastards have Aliez. They have my sister!” At first, Bastien looked abashed at swearing in front of the princess, but he pushed on. “What are we doing about this?”
“We?” She blinked slowly at him. The edges of her temper crept back up, like bile.
Slowly, he backed himself away from his presumption, sitting back down in his seat and folding his hands across the table.
“Please, Luca. I’m asking as your friend. I’m asking as—as a potential ally. I know you want my father’s support in your bid for the throne.”
“I’m not making a bid for the throne. It is my throne.”
He sat back and laced his fingers together over his lap. “Of course it is, and that’s why you’re sitting on it now.”
Luca glared across the table at him, her fingers pressed against the smooth wood.
“I’m doing the best I can. General Cantic is doing all she can. What else do you want?”
You’re lying. You haven’t been doing the best at anything but moping like a jilted lover.
“I don’t know,” he said. The bitter taunt was gone from his voice, replaced with desperation. “You’re my queen. I need you to do something.”
He laid his bait well.
To ignore it was to ignore everything she’d been trying to prove—to her uncle, to the Balladairans. To herself. The throne was hers, and so was the weight of the crown. Already it threatened to bow her shoulders.
Without Touraine, she’d lost her emissary to the rebels. No one to explain to the rebels that she had nothing to do with the assault on the city. No one to explain to Luca why they had taken Balladairan citizens. Oh, yes. That was in Cantic’s note. Aliez must have been one of them.
That was only one front. A general who sees only one battlefront will find herself hamstrung by the end of the war. Was that from The Rule of Rule, too? She couldn’t remember.
Beau-Sang and the Balladairans in Qazāl represented the other front. And to keep that relationship from decaying any more than it already had—
“Bastien.” She put her hand on his. “Bastien? My soldiers will find her. I promise. I’ll personally oversee it.”
He turned his hand over to squeeze hers. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He ducked his head as if to kiss her knuckles but hesitated awkwardly, bumbling. The knot of his throat bobbed with emotion. “My father will be grateful. Aliez is his jewel.” He gave a rueful smile.
Of course she was.
“Also… I’m sorry about your soldier.” He squeezed her hand again.
She flinched away. His condolences sounded surprisingly sincere. It was an extra twist of the knife that made her lungs hitch, showing her a new depth to this pain, to the crushing loss of something she’d only just realized she had. And he could see it, her nakedness. She slammed down her court mask and nodded curtly. He reached his hand out again for hers but stopped halfway. He bowed instead and allowed himself to be led away.
She stared hard at her hand where he’d held it, the touch echoing. She rubbed her fingers together, as if Bastien’s hand had left a tangible film. A stack of letters she’d left unanswered this week waited for her. One of them from Cantic. She called for pen and paper.
“Who are you writing to?” Gil asked, sliding into Bastien’s seat.
“Cantic. And Beau-Sang. I’m going to let Cantic disband the Qazāli magistrates.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” No. “They can’t be trusted. None of them can.” The part of her that wanted—hoped—for Qazāli allies rebelled at this. If they wanted allies, they would behave better. The part of her that would be queen began to write.