But Widow Morton leapt to her feet with a soft oath and called for servants.
Witnessing her clear surprise, Aria relaxed. Only an accident.
There was a flurry of movement around the princess: hands to whisk away the broken pieces, towels to sop the spilled liquid. At least one of the towels came away from Aria’s hand bloodied.
Clumsiness. Mark.
Not clumsiness. She’d not dropped the cup.Inattentiveness.
“It must have been cracked and failed beneath the heat,” Widow Morton said, giving word to Aria’s thoughts. She grimaced. “I’ll have someone bandage your hand while I deal with my kitchen staff.”
After issuing a few more orders, she left the room, and Aria retook her seat as a woman approached to dress her wound. The woman wore a dress with a deep V-shaped collar, her neck clear of any brand. Her blonde hair—mussed where strands had come free of her bun—was the palest wheat shade Aria had ever seen, wisping around her head in a halo of light. Aria tried to focus on studying that beauty rather than on her stinging hand as the servant applied an herbal paste to numb the wound before bandaging it.
The sharp pain faded to a low throbbing. “Thank you,” she managed, but the servant was already gone, ducking from the room.
Aria spent a moment reassuring her guards, who’d come to flank her at the incident, and they resumed their posts while she tried not to think about how terribly this meeting seemed to be going.
The widow returned and took her seat with a deep frown. “I’m sure you assume that was some kind of sabotage. I—”
“Accidents happen,” said Aria.
Too late, she realized her father would have used the moment to his advantage, pressuring the widow’s guilt for leverage.
Wasted opportunity. Mark.
After staring for a moment, Widow Morton nodded anacknowledgement. “I would hear what you have to say, Highness. What reparations are you prepared to make for my people? What is yourcompromise?”
“My father—”
“Not him. I would know whatyouoffer.”
Aria hesitated. She held no power of her own; she was only a representative. “My offer is His Majesty’s.”
“I see.” The widow seemed disappointed, so Aria rushed into details of a compromise she thought her father would approve, if only the widow accepted it first.
“In your letter, you requested freedom of magic, yet Casters are already permitted to practice magic freely so long as they submit to registration by branding. Therefore, it must be the branding you object to. As our compromise, we could do away with the witch’s mark.” Briefly, she outlined a new registration system that could be maintained by palace scribes, open to the public should they wish to consult the list of Casters in the kingdom. For everyone’s safety, it was still important that Casters be known entities, of course.
“Of course,” the widow agreed, her expression unreadable. “Safety of the public.” Her sharp eyes held Aria pinned. “And one question more—what reparations is His Majesty prepared to make forme?”
Without meaning to, Aria clenched her hands, sending a fresh jolt of pain through her injured finger.
“The incident with your son was most unfortunate. No one desired his death,” she finally said. Her father’s words.
“Surely His Majesty did, else he would have left his sword sheathed.”
Flinching. Mark.“Charles Morton was a spy within the palace, infiltrating a meeting of the king’s private council. His Majesty acted in accordance with the law.”
Though Aria knew the words to be truth, her soul shrank.An apology parted her lips, but she clenched her teeth, closing her mouth. Apologizing would indicate wrongdoing; it was her responsibility to stand steady in her father’s place, no matter how difficult the situation.The law is the law.
Widow Morton’s cold smile rattled Aria’s heart just as wind rattled the windows. In the silence, the countess angled her gaze away, considering something distant.
Aria allowed her a stretch of uninterrupted thought.
“One hundred days.” The widow clicked one fingernail lightly against the table between them, a steady countdown to some unknown.Tick, tick, tick. “One hundred days marks the traditional mourning season. Who do you think it was, Highness, who decided the death of a child could be erased in a mere three months?”
Aria felt something slipping beyond her reach.
In desperation, she said, “Widow Morton, I wish to avoid violence. You threatened blood in your letter, but my father commands an army. Even if you hoped to gather other Casters to your cause, you would always be outnumbered, and a rebellion will not avenge your son, nor will it bring about more favorable laws for Casters.”
