Awkward silence reigned. Aria picked at the bones of her chicken.
“I take it you haven’t succeeded yet,” Eliza said at last.
“It withstands attacks better than any knight’s armor.” Henry kept his eyes on his plate as he spoke, though he stole one glanceacross the table at Eliza, barely a heartbeat long. “To be honest, perhaps I’m blunting some of my efforts.”
Aria had suspected as much, but she couldn’t blame him.
“This is madness,” she whispered.
At least they all agreed.
Eliza set her jaw. “You have to give it your best effort, because my father doesn’t hold back on punishments.”
Ingrained instinct urged Aria to defend her father’s sense of mercy, but she only swallowed.
“If I do succeed,” Henry said, “would any of us be happy? I mean no offense, Aria, truly.”
“Oh, Aria has her own striking hero she’s longing to be with,” Eliza said before Aria could respond. “Father’s taking that from her too. That’s what he does best. Take away what everyone else cares about and replace it with whathewants.”
“He’s only ...” Aria couldn’t finish. With a sigh, she reached for her cup.
“Is it Baron?” Henry asked.
Aria nearly spit her wine across the table. Despite the gloom of the situation, Eliza gave a gasp of utter betrayal, her eyes darting between Henry and Aria, jaw gaping.
“Baron?” Eliza demanded of Henry. “Baronwho?”
“Baron Reeves. That’s his nickname, but I always liked it. I think his real name is something hard to pronounce.” Watching Aria swipe her napkin across her wine-splattered chin, Henry chuckled. “I just wondered. There was some gossip about you two after the joust, and you mentioned a trustworthy Caster earlier. I’m not judging—I like the whole Reeves family. The twins are hysterical, and Baron always puts my brother Hugh in his place when they duel, which is great, because Hugh is insufferable.”
Aria felt Eliza’s pointed gaze, felt the betrayal sinking deeper,becoming real. She should have told her sister the truth from the start.
The least she could do was tell it now.
“He’s the one Father removed a title from,” Eliza said. “Isn’t he? The Caster.”
“Yes,” said Aria softly. “But he’s much more than that.”
“Obviously, or you wouldn’t like him.” Eliza sighed. “You could have told me. I know Father would draw swords over the Casting and everything else, butI’msmart enough to know that after Widow Morton, you wouldn’t be ten feet from a Caster unless he was the most spectacular man who ever lived. So he must be.”
“Sorry, Henry,” Aria said wryly.
Henry smiled, tossing his hair. “I’ll settle for second place in this tournament.”
“You’re first place in mine,” Eliza whispered, her gaze falling to her plate.
The earlier gloom, banished for a few precious minutes, returned, and they finished the meal in silence. Aria wanted to thank Eliza but couldn’t find the words. She reached out and squeezed her sister’s hand instead.
She spent so much of her life worrying about mistakes—dreading the making, obsessing once made—yet that very obsession seemed to drive her to make some of her worst decisions, like keeping secrets from her sister. She should haveknownEliza wouldn’t criticize her relationship with Baron, should have known Eliza would see the truth even before Aria did.
Baron wasn’t a mistake.
In reconsidering her sister’s opinion, she began to reconsider someone else’s.
After lunch, Henry and Eliza headed to the castle armorer for additional tools, and Aria sought out her mother.
The queen was in the music room, of course, and she smiled brightly at Aria’s appearance, gesturing her over to the harpsichord.
Though Aria was in no mood for music, she plunked a few keys while her mother sang. After only a handful of measures, the queen laughed.
