At eight years old, Aria began recording her mistakes. She took a crisp sheet of parchment from her writing desk and dipped her quill in ink before making a slow, neat stroke to indicate each of the day’s faults—one mark for raising her voice at dinner, which had earned her a glare from her father; one mark for incorrectly answering her tutor; one mark for yawning at Father’s adviser, who’d told her the daughter of a king should have better manners.
Her father had said everyone should be accountable for their mistakes.
So Aria made them countable.
And after counting, she didn’t like what she saw. The liquid ink looked slimy, the three black marks like worms crawling across her skin, making her squirm.
There was only one logical thing to do: Aria resolved to never make a mistake again.
The very next day, she was back at her desk, adding three new marks to the page. Inone day, she’d already forgotten her promise, so as punishment, she had to feel the sliminess again. She would have to do better, become a perfect princess, then a perfect monarch. Just like her father.
Never did she imagine passingone hundredmarks. The one-hundred-and-first spurred her from her chair, parchmentcrinkling in her sweaty fingers. She threw both parchment and quill into the fireplace, her empty hands trembling, and she sighed in relief as a crackling tongue gobbled up the evidence. Perhaps she shouldn’t record her mistakes after all; what if someone found her parchment andrealized?
Realized what a terrible crown princess she was.
The parchment blackened and smoked. The frills of the beautiful peacock quill curled up like dying spider legs.
Aria watched the fire. Then, in her mind, she picked up a new quill, an invisible one, a hidden one, and she made a stroke for burning quality writing materials, which her father would never do.
Wasteful. Mark.
For the next ten years, she mentally recorded every mistake. Then—soon after her eighteenth birthday—she made the worst mistake of all, a single mistake worth a thousand marks.
She trusted a Caster.
Aria arrived first for the meeting. She always arrived first to any council of the Upper Court because she loved the feeling of the empty throne room, so much like a chapel with its vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows above a polished granite floor. The guards nodded to her but didn’t speak, didn’t break the sacred quiet, and she ascended the dais alone before settling into her throne. High-backed though it was, her seat appeared insignificant beside her father’s.
After drawing in the hallowed air, she pulled a leatherbound journal from her satchel and reviewed her notes for the meeting.
As she read, other members of the Upper Court trickled in. Duke Crampton and Earl Wycliff held a hushed conversation, murmuring about trade possibilities with countries across the ocean. Both of them bowed to Aria before taking their seatsin the dais wings. Marquess Haskett tried to engage her in conversation, but he wanted only to know if she had considered his eldest son as a suitor. Aria smiled thinly and promised consideration yet again. Thankfully, he was forced to move along as her father’s two advisers arrived, followed by the king himself.
Aria stood and curtsied to her father. The king wore his standard white uniform with red edging at the hems, the royal crest sewn beneath his left shoulder. Though his crown was only a gold circlet, he needed nothing extra to exude authority when it was simply in the way he stood. The way he breathed. Just as no one would question if a mountain knew the clouds, no one would question if King Peregrine knew his business as king.
With a subdued smile, he tilted his head, regarding the journal in Aria’s hand. “Dutiful as always, I see.”
Then he took his seat, leaving Aria glowing under the praise.
Settling in her own chair again, she tilted forward. “Father, I ... I thought I might lead the meeting today. If you’ll let me.”
“Today’s matter is a sensitive one. I’ll conduct it myself.” He must have caught her disappointment in his glance because he added, “In a month, we’ll hold Eliza’s birthday celebration with the entire court in attendance, Upper and Lower. I trust you could act as host to such an event?”
Restraining her eagerness, Aria gave a dutiful nod.
“I’ll expect it, then. Keep your welcoming speech brief, and be sure to remind the court she’s now of age to entertain suitors.”
As if Eliza would let anyone forget. She’d been dreaming of suitors since the moment she’d learned to dance. Aria smiled, and she made a note in her journal to host her sister’s celebration. Without intending it, her penmanship grew extra loopy across the wordhost.
The final members of the council arrived—minus the queen, an absence no one mentioned—and the king called the meeting to order.
“Today’s matter,” he said gravely, “is once again regarding Morton.”
Aria’s nails pressed into the leather of her journal. The faces of the court turned grim.
Five months earlier, Charles Morton, heir to the Morton estate, had been executed for crimes against the kingdom. His mother had withdrawn from court for the traditional three-month mourning season. They were now two months past that.
The king went on, “Dowager Countess Morton has not only refused summons and rejected messengers, but as of yesterday afternoon, she has sent a declaration of aggression against the Crown.”
At the king’s gesture, his senior adviser stood and unfolded a sheet of parchment, the seal already broken. Lord Philip stood below average height with a rounded face that managed to look worried even when he smiled, but his voice carried strongly through the throne room as he read.
