“Iwould mind,” Caris said tartly. It was one thing to have a chat on her own terms, quite another to have one engineered by her mother.
Portia shot her a sharp look. “Into the motor carriage with you, my dear. It’s time we’re off. We’re late enough for the fitting as it is.”
Nathaniel stepped forward and offered his hand to Portia, and she took it with a prim smile, allowing herself to be guided into the motor carriage. When he offered Caris his hand, she thought about ignoring him and climbing inside on her own. It wasn’t as if she was in a gown that would get caught underfoot. The warning look from her mother made Caris huff out an irritated sigh before thrusting out her hand for Nathaniel to take.
“I look forward to your opinion on engines,” Nathaniel said with a smile as he guided her into the motor carriage.
“Thank you for your assistance,” Portia said.
“I’m at your disposal, Lady Dhemlan.”
Nathaniel closed the door, and Caris buckled the lap belt into place as the driver started the engine. She refused to look out the window as the driver pulled out of the parking spot, though her mother gave a polite wave as they departed.
“He seemed nice,” Portia said as they headed for the street.
“Mother,” Caris groaned.
“One could do worse than having the heir to such an important business asking permission to come call on you.”
“Does this mean I can stay home tomorrow night if he’s coming over the day after so you and Papa can discuss business with him on the side?”
“Absolutely not.”
Caris scowled out the window, not looking forward to the next few days at all.
Six
BLAINE
When the Inferno ravaged half of Amari, many buildings couldn’t be saved despite the efforts of the fire crews. The people of Ashion were resilient, though, and rebuilding had happened almost immediately.
The new parliament was one of the first structures to go up, as the old one in the western part of the city was far too cramped for long-term use. Eventually, a new palace was built as well, situated a block from the ruins of the old one, which had been converted into a public park. The new palace lacked Ashionen touches in favor of Daijal architectural lines, as if wanting to erase the memory of what came before.
Blaine only vaguely remembered how the palace once looked, though it didn’t matter what his memory could and could not dredge up. The old queen was dead, and along with her, any hope of Ashion surviving the encroachment of Daijal rule and culture. That was what the Daijal court wanted everyone to believe.
Blaine knew differently, had known since he escaped the Inferno on that desperate airship flight east. The Clockwork Brigade shared his belief, but all they had to go by were rumors and hope, none of which could sustain them for much longer if they wanted to keep recruiting. Of the many cogs that kept the rebellion running, he could count on one hand those who knew Blaine had once been a Westergard. Even less knew about the child the star gods had deemed worthy of saving.
But Blaine had known what he’d seen earlier that day at the Aether School of Engineering. He’d recognized those wide gray eyes in a face growing thinner from the onset of adulthood. He might not remember the old palace, but he remembered what Queen Ophelia had once looked like, even without the help of tintype photographs. The girl who’d sneaked into his classroom had the same eyes as Ophelia, the same look about her of a family only survived by Princess Eimarille in the west.
She had the same name the Dusk Star had affirmed to him before taking her off the airship in Cosian.
He’d never seen the child again—until now.
Blaine reached up and touched his bare throat, missing the weight of the marriage torc even after a year spent in Amari. He missed it the same way he missed his husband, but he rather thought Honovi would understand the weight of determination that settled on him as he stared at the burning starfire throne across the public park.
While the new palace was walled off from the rest of the city, the old throne room was not. The throne itself had not burned amidst the Inferno by the command of the North Star, but it burned now, day and night, every inch covered in starfire.
Iron pillars held up a glass cupola, the space between them empty and open to the elements. The charred remnants of the old marble floor expanded outward past the pillars for several feet, their broken edges buried in grass. Beneath the cupola, the space around the throne itself overflowed with the bones and ashes of people who had tried to sit upon it once and claim the right to rule.
No one ever removed the remains, and there was no risk of ashes rising as revenants, driven by spores. Starfire cleansed the way nothing else could.
Blaine stood on the pathway winding around the heart of the public park, staring at what true Ashionens considered a shrine, while others viewed it as a grave. The starfire was a flicker of white-gold fire between the iron pillars, a shimmering, molten beacon even in the afternoon sunlight.
He stayed only long enough to whisper a clan prayer to the Dusk Star before moving on, feeling as if the eyes of the damned followed him. His skin prickled in a way it never did anywhere else.
The public gardens were filled with people who promenaded through all seasons. Picnics happened in the spring and summer, and there were plenty out today enjoying a garden meal. How anyone could eat near such a thing was beyond him, but then, Ashionen culture still made no sense to him some days.
Meleri despaired of him ever integrating fully, and Blaine didn’t have the heart to tell her he had no plans to. The Westergard bloodline was gone, stricken from the genealogies. Blaine wasn’t sure he wanted it back, not when he claimed Clan Storm as family through marriage. Still, he stayed because he was needed.
