His extra emphasis onprivatedid not go unnoticed.
Aria moved to speak again, then paused. Though not as stubborn as her father, Philip was loyal to him. She would have to tread cautiously.
The quill in her mind raised, anticipating any number of mistakes.
She clenched her jaw.
“Tell me of your family, Lord Philip,” she said, as if seizing the reins of a carriage and driving it into the weeds. She winced.
Unable to employ subtle strategy. Mark.
Driving in weeds. Mark.
She sighed. Lord Philip didn’t seem to notice; if anything, he seized the change of topic with vigor. He boasted about his father’s service to the late queen and his grandfather’s service before that. Aria began nodding off but roused herself to ask if he had a wife, and his face softened. He described a girl too obsessed with daisies, a girl he teased in early years only to see her bloom in later ones. They had a son half Aria’s age.
“A good lad,” Philip said, glowing more than any lamp in the records room. “A credit to us both.”
Aria smiled, tired though it was. “And a lucky one, to have a father so proud.”
Her shoulders drooped. The ache in her joints increased. Just as she was about to excuse herself to some couch, Philip spoke.
“What was your hope in this, Highness?” He gestured to the records, his face creased in a perplexed frown.
As always, her tongue forbade talk of curses. She worked her jaw for a moment, then said, “Loegria is blessed to be a kingdom at peace, yet we have created a war within our own borders. A conflict born of misunderstanding rather than justice. Myhopeis to end it peaceably.”
Though that hope grew harder to grasp with each day closer to one hundred.
Philip’s frown deepened. “Widow Morton is the only source of this conflict. She withdrew from court with aggression. She has antagonized the Crown.”
“I ...” Aria faltered, glancing down at her shoes. “Are you skilled in embroidery?”
“I—no, I, er, it’s not a skill I ...”
Oh, well done, Aria. She’d twisted him in knots, but she’d already started.
“Perhaps your wife is?”
Clearly confused why they were discussing needlecraft, he nodded.
“If I asked you to instruct me in a featherstitch, would you be able?”
“No, Your Highness.”
“But your wife would.”
He nodded once more.
“Lord Philip, instruction is best given from understanding. So, too, are laws. I fear the Crown has made too many decrees without understanding. I fear, if you will, that the kingdom is being taught featherstitches by a hand that has never held an embroidery needle, that finds the very idea of a needle fearful. How can such a hand create reliable stitches?”
It was the best she could do, the best substitute she could manage in place ofMy father isn’t cursed. I am. He doesn’t understand it. I do. He hasn’t spent time around magic. I have.
Sometimes magic had a name like Baron or Corvin. And sometimes it had a name like Widow Morton. Without understanding such complex differences, how could anyone make laws to govern power with any measure of justice?
“This is my kingdom,” she said with certainty, “and I will save it with a featherstitch.”
Philip did not seem to understand her point. Instead, he gave her a look of mourning, like a physician come to announce a fatal diagnosis.
“Highness,” he said gently. “Charles Morton was a threat tothe safety of this kingdom, I can say that with certainty, and His Majesty’s hand has indeed held a needle.”
