Even the people of Castellane seemed a little stunned. After years of pleasing speculation as to who might be their next queen, it seemed to them that things had been decided with a disappointing lack of fanfare. They had gathered behind the barriers separating them from the central square—where a sable carpet had been spread over the flagstones, and a curtained pavilion draped with asphodel erected as a temporary shelter in which the Crown Prince might, unseen, wait for his bride to arrive—but they seemed more curious than enthusiastic. They had the general air of a traveler who, after a night of drinking, wakes with the strong suspicion that he has been robbed of something, but is not sure what.
It did not help that Sarthe was widely regarded with the contempt with which countries generally regarded their nearest neighbors, rather as Shenzhou despised Geumjoseon and Malgasi loathed Marakand. Across the square, near the steps of the Justicia, stood a group of agitators dressed in makeshift ensembles cobbled together from old military uniforms—ragged jackets and shako caps with tarnished badges, even a ratty but voluminous admiral’s coat—chanting, “Death before union with Sarthe!” One, a tall fellow with ginger hair, called out: “The only good Sarthian is a dead one! String ’em up outside the Tully!” as he swept before him a handmade banner showing the lion of Castellane pouncing upon the eagle of Sarthe.
Charlon Roverge, half asleep in the bright sunlight, cheered faintly.
“Charlon,” said Kel, “we are not on their side. We are on Conor’s side, and thus in support of a union with Sarthe.”
“I can’t help it.” Charlon yawned. “I am easily persuaded by enthusiasm.”
Falconet threw a glove at him just as there was a slight commotion among the guards surrounding the steps up to the Charter platform. A moment later, the platform swayed and Antonetta Alleyne appeared, looking around anxiously.
Kel felt a tight heat in his chest, as if he’d swallowed a burning ember. Gone were Antonetta’s soft pastels and yards of lace. Her dress was silk, a deep-violet color, inset with black lace through which tantalizing flashes of skin could be glimpsed. It clung to her body before flaring out at her hips in a trumpet shape; the neckline plunged, creating a startling V of white skin against the black of the fabric. Her hair was loose, a river of dark gold, needing no ornament but its color.
Around her throat gleamed her locket, the carved heart dangling between her breasts. Kel glanced away—he didn’t want to think of Prosper Beck right now, nor did he want to stare openly at Antonetta. （Well, part of him did, but it was not a part that he usually allowed to rule his will.）
“Someone,” muttered Montfaucon, leaning over the back of Falconet’s chair, “wants to show Conor what he’ll be missing.”
Antonetta lifted her chin. She was alone; Lady Alleyne was nowhere to be seen. Antonetta strode down the platform’s central aisle and, to Kel’s surprise, sat down beside him. Her skirts spread out around her, spilling onto his lap in heavy, weighted folds of silk.
Joss, on the other side of Kel, grinned at Antonetta. “I see Lady Alleyne’s tastes have undergone something of a change.”
Antonetta simpered. Perhaps that was an unkind characterization, Kel thought, but no—Antonetta was gazing at Joss with a meant-to-be-adorable little smile playing around her mouth. Definitely a simper. “Why thank you for noticing, Joss,” she said. “You’re too kind.”
Falconet grinned before turning to start up a conversation with Montfaucon. Behind them, Kel could see Charlon, staring at Antonetta with hungry dark eyes.
“Kel,” Antonetta muttered. The simper was gone; her hands were clenched in her lap. “You don’t mind me sitting beside you, do you? I can trust you not to leer.”
Kel felt instantly ashamed. He wanted to look at Antonetta, wanted to fill up his eyes with the sight of her. A wayward curl of her hair had become caught in the chain of her necklace; he wanted badly to reach over and free the silky strands from their imprisonment.
He felt hot, itchy, and foolish, as if he were fifteen years old again, offering her a ring made of grass in the cool shade of the Night Garden. He had lost himself in fantasy then; he had not realized how little it was he really had to offer. He recalled the night of her debut ball, after it was over, lying awake in the room he shared with Conor.
Do you think you’ll marry Antonetta? he’d asked, his voice tight. Her mother wants you to.
Conor had scoffed. Of course not. She’s like a sister to me, Antonetta.
Kel had been unguarded in that moment. Conor had been kind to him, but that was Conor; Kel did not plan to be unguarded like that again.
“I know your mother,” he said, glancing at her. “I know she didn’t pick out that dress.”
“My mother,” Antonetta said, twirling her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. “She had something of an episode when she heard Conor was marrying the Sarthian Princess. She threw several vases and a carved bust of Marcus Carus. Then she told me she was tired of dressing me and I could wear whatever I wanted since it no longer mattered.” Something like a glint of real amusement flashed in her eyes. “Mariam made this. She seemed delighted to be free of my mother’s . . . instructions.”
“I assume that’s why Lady Alleyne is not in attendance today,” Kel said. “She does know she’s courting controversy with the royal House?”
“She does. She is at home lying in a darkened room; she sent me out to save face for House Alleyne. No one can say we did not attend the welcoming of the Princess—not when I am here to represent us.”
Kel lowered his voice. “That seems cruel,” he said. “Whatever your mother’s schemes, did she not know you cared for Conor?”
Antonetta looked up at him. The posy-drops in her eyes had turned the pupils to the shape of tears. Kel recalled Lin saying to him in her matter-of-fact way, Antonetta fancies you. He’d had a hard time hiding his reaction from Lin: the tension in his muscles, the speed of his heartbeat. It had stayed with him until he kissed Lin, which had forcibly wrenched his mind back to the present.
And now here was Antonetta, sitting beside him, smelling of lavender oil. It felt familiar, as if he had stepped back in time to one of the many parties where they had sat together on the staircase above, watching the goings-on and gossiping about the adults. It was strange: She seemed back in his life, but it was nothing he could trust to last. And though she might not have changed as much as she pretended, she had become someone other than the person she had been at fifteen. They all had. And he was not sure he knew the person she was now.
“Caring was only my mistake,” Antonetta said. She put a hand up to her throat and for a moment toyed with her locket. It seemed a deeper gold against the rose tint of her skin. “Not hers.”
Kel resolved to tell Lin she was an idiot next time he saw her.
A servant in pale-green livery came up onto the dais and whispered something to Montfaucon, who announced: “The carriage from Aquila has been spotted coming through the Narrow Pass. It won’t be long now.”
A stir went through the Charter Families. Antonetta frowned and said to Kel, “Do you know why the Prince made this decision so suddenly? He seemed so reluctant to marry. And now”—she gestured toward the flower-strewn square, the flags of Sarthe and Castellane draping the lions in front of the Justicia—“this?”