“Look at her, she’s just a deranged girl, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. We still haven’t found the remaining attackers, we don’t know where their weapons are.” The queen turned to Liana. “Did someone give you this blade, girl? Did they tell you what to say?”
A gray gaze, sharp as flint, drilled into Liana’s head. She nodded, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“Spare her and have someone question her. She might give us a clue.” The queen’s voice was soft, dispassionate, as if she were talking about the weather. Her eyes were glued to the king’s face, her hand holding his, her body blocking Roderi of Elmar from approaching him. It looked casual, unobtrusive, a little spousal discussion about life and death before half the city.
“Fine,” the king said. “Lock her up.”
Just like that, one moment she was dead, the next she was alive again.
The Black Lord scowled, but the king didn’t see it.
“Come, my lord,” the queen said. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
Oddly subdued, the royal procession moved, pelting Liana with curious gazes as the guards dragged her into the palace yard.
Chapter 16
Melia
Melia scrubbed herpalm with short, savage movements, but the dye from the marzipan had soaked into her clammy skin and now she had a red-stained hand, like a sloppy child. She savored the shame that went with the thought, the feeling of incompetence, because it blocked the memory of the savage humiliation she’d witnessed.
She found it hard to define Amron’s status at court. Admired by the guards and the clerks, well-liked by the ladies, respected by the nobles, and loved by the queen, he was nevertheless ignored or challenged by his brother and openly disliked by the king. Melia, who was no stranger to cold, demanding parents, found this unusual, for Amron was everything the king could have wanted in a son. As opposed to Amril, who frightened and disgusted Melia, but seemed to be regarded as the amusing, generous prince by the courtiers, and was clearly his father’s favorite.
Melia felt this injustice keenly, even though Amron refused to acknowledge it even existed. Drying her hands, she considered going to Amron, offering kindness, as he would have undoubtedly offered her if the roles had been reversed, but before she gathered the courage, it was already time to dress for the ceremonies and get on with the endless day. She should have followed the queen when she left the audience chamber, should have been helping her dress, but her father’s visit and the scene he’d caused had disrupted her morning schedule. She called the maids to help her dress, but only one girl came—in the chaos ofthe palace, it was almost impossible to find help.
“My hair is fine as it is,” Melia said, assessing the thick black braids pinned to her head with pearl and ivory combs. “Just help me change.”
Melia’s attire for the ceremony was blue. An underdress of the finest periwinkle silk, light as a breath and smooth as water, and a gown of heavy silk brocade in a vivid shade of ultramarine, with a delicate flower pattern, had all been chosen by Queen Orsiana; she had picked the designs, patterns, and colors. Melia, who had never worn blue, felt strangely cold when she put it on. It didn’t compliment her skin; the icy tones killed its natural warmth and made her look sallow. But the gown wasn’t there to make Melia look pretty, it was there to make her look regal, and that task it accomplished without a doubt. She had never worn—or seen—anything so fine. If she ignored her harried face in the mirror, if she squinted until it became a blur, she could almost discern a fine dusting of royal grace on her person.
There was a knock on the door, and a little page announced, “Her Royal Highness, Princess Amielle.”
Melia took a deep breath and clenched her teeth. She hadn’t met Amron’s sister yet—she’d left the court when she married—but they were of equal rank now and were supposed to stay together during the ceremony.
“Where is my brother’s wife? The queen is waiting for her.” An imposing blonde woman walked in, almost as tall as Amron and equally bony, with eyes of the same dark shade of blue-gray and a thick, heavy mass of golden hair. A closer look revealed a slightly finer, more delicate structure of her face and a barely visible hint of pregnancy under the layers of linen and silk. She was more outspoken than her brother, too. “I suppose that’s you,” she said, her gaze fixing on Melia.
Melia nodded. “Princess.”
“Call me Amielle,” the princess said curtly. “And I’ll call youMelia.”
It was a command, not a suggestion. The princess looked around the room, taking in the mess Melia could never force the maids to tidy: the strewn clothes and shoes, open chests, a myriad of bottles and perfume vials, boxes, clasps and pins, combs and brushes covering every flat surface.
“I apologize for the mess,” Melia said.
“My brother would hate it.”
“Excuse me?” Melia said, not quite sure she heard correctly.
“I said Amron would hate it.” The princess stated it flatly, as a simple fact, without mockery or judgment, but also without kindness. “Clutter makes him physically uncomfortable, he can’t help it. If he walked into this room, he’d feel the instant pressure to leave. Is that what you’re trying to do?”
“No, I—” Surely the princess was joking? “Amron never mentioned—”
A sharp glare pinned her down. “You’ve been married to my brother for months and you don’t knowthat? What do you know about Amron?”
Melia’s cheeks heated up. What did she know about Amron, really? He was diligent. He tried to be kind to her. He was intensely reserved. “I know what he shows me,” she said.
The princess looked down on her as if she were a slow child. “My brother is unhappy,” she said. “And he doesn’t deserve it.”
It struck Melia that this was the single most infuriatingly difficult morning of her life. So many people demanding more of her than she could give. “In what world do those who deserve happiness get it?” she asked.
