But I’m not about to explain my encounter with Von Nevus. Alaric may not see eye to eye with Soren’s councilors, but he’d surely have to side with a high-ranking official over me, so I say, “To look for hidden memories, as you suggested. The courtiers and your father’s councilors seem like the most logical place to begin, but I’m a stranger—the enemy princess. They’ll never allow me to get close enough to properly search them.”
“And you think they’ll let me get close?” Alaric laughs bitterly. “You’ve been here long enough to know better. I might as well be the Tashiri captive for how little they respect me. My own mother can hardly bear to look at me. Half the time, I think she doesn’t even remember she has a second son.”
It’s exactly how I felt after Rowenna went to Vanzador, and I swallow hard against the lump of emotion that clogs my throat. “Your mother isn’t shutting you out on purpose. People deal with grief in different ways. And your people respect you far more than you think. I’ve seen how they watch you and call out with admiration. The only reason your father’s ministers don’t trust you is because they didn’t spend a lifetime grooming you, like they did your brother. They fear you because they can’t control you, not because you’re lacking in any way.”
“I will always be lacking because I’ll never be Besnik.” Alaric’s voice cracks on his brother’s name, and I bite my lower lip.
I’ve never had to deal with comparisons between me and Rowenna.We had separate identities and responsibilities in Tashir—me with the bagrava and her the throne. We each earned the respect of the people in our own right. If I ever did feel inadequate, it was due to my own insecurity and idol worship of my sister, not something our people said or did. I can’t imagine how it would feel if that judgment came from them—even if it was only a small number of them. Or if I didn’t have power of my own. If I had always been viewed as less than and excess. A shadow son or daughter, suddenly thrust into the light.
“Trust me, you’ll have better luck searching for memories if I’m not with you,” Alaric says, shutting the door with a decisive click.
I’m tempted to continue banging on the door until he opens up and sees the truth—until he sees himself the way the majority of Vanzadorians see him. The way his brother undoubtedly sees him, looking down with pride at how Alaric has stepped into this role. Alaric shouldn’t give a fig what a few worthless ministers think. But I know these assurances will mean nothing coming from me, so after several fruitless minutes of staring at the door, I give up and make my way toward Queen Tessa’s salon.
I tell myself it’s for the best. The less Alaric sees me searching for the gemstone triad, the less likely he’ll figure out what I’m up to. But the familiar churning in my stomach that always seems to plague me after an encounter with Alaric continues eating me from the inside out.
I hate that I added to his self-doubt by excluding him the day before, but what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t force Delphine to bring him into her home—especially when we couldn’t know how he’d react to Cloudia’s illness. While I suspect he’d approach it with concern and understanding, he has an entire country to consider. It would be perfectly understandable to quarantine one ill person to potentially protect thousands. Prudent, even.
I’m still stewing when I reach the queen’s salon and push into the crush of colors and finery. I quickly scan the crowd for Von Nevus, unable to breathe until I’m certain I don’t feel the weight of his hungry eyes.
Next, I look for Elodie’s intricate braids and bright smile, praying she’ll appear at my side like always, but before I can find her, I’m surrounded by a swarm of unfamiliar faces, whipping fans, and waves of competing perfume—lily, then lilac, then rose. It’s all so cloying and close, so demanding and loud. I want to pull out my trowel and cut the courtiers back like life-sucking weeds, but I force myself to take a deep breath, nod, and smile pleasantly.
I need to find the gemstone triad, and if there’s one thing the courtiers know, it’s jewels. Each of them is bedecked in sparkling finery, from the pins in their hair down to the polished buckles of their boots. So I plaster a smile on my face and reach for a gold and ruby chain clasped around the wrist of a copper-haired courtier.
“Your bracelet is breathtaking,” I say.
She blushes and brings it to her chest to better display it to the crowd. “Thank you. It was my mother’s and my grandmother’s before her.”
“Such a treasured family heirloom. Youallhave such beautiful pieces,” I say to the broader group. “Where do you store them for safekeeping? You’d each need a king-sized vault.”
Several of the men and women titter. Others shake their heads behind their fans.
“I know you’re used to a crude farming lifestyle,” the copper-haired girl says, “but we don’t have to worry about such poverty and lawlessness here. Even the lowliest miners make a livable wage, and gemstones are abundant and accessible to all. No one has to steal anything.”
“So you all keep your prized jewels in your homes? Lying about for all to see?”
“That’s the entire point,” a girl with soft curls and a square chin cuts in. “We want everyone to admire our collections. Some even make window arrangements with the pieces they’re not currently wearing. There’s an entire street in town that’s particularly festive around the holidays. Dazzling displays in every window.”
“So there are no vaults? No coffers or the likes in Vanzador?” I askwith astonishment and growing dismay. While this development might remove concerns about locks and guards, it also reduces the odds of me ever locating the triad gemstones. They could be anywhere on this mountain.
While I inwardly spiral, the courtiers giggle and whisper about how disorderly and dreadful Tashir must be. How tiresome it must be, constantly fighting off thieves and brigands.
“It isn’t like that,” I try to explain, but they’re not listening, and their opinion of my country doesn’t matter anyway.
“Where is that husband of yours?” the copper-haired girl asks, batting her eyes with innocence, though her question is anything but. She can barely contain her gleeful grin as she casts her gaze dramatically around the room. “You couldn’t convince him to accompany you? Pity.”
“Don’t feel bad,” another girl with garishly bright cheeks puts in. “He has never been willing to accompany any of us publicly. It would pull him away from his one true love.”
She eyes me expectantly, as if waiting for me to flush with outrage and jealousy, but I wanly ask, “And who is hisone true love?”
“Not who.What,” another girl whispers conspiratorially. “Alaric Alaverdi loves only his work.”
The swarm of ladies laugh and shake their heads, as if this is a bad thing.
“Shouldn’t the future king be devoted to his country?” I ask, feeling an odd swell of protectiveness.
The women share a meaningful look, as if I’m completely clueless. “Not if you’re his wife,” one of them says, and they all begin to snicker.
“If he’s so aloof and inattentive, why have you all been vying for his affection?” I ask.
