Silence follows for what feels like eternity.
Then—
The staff falls from Queen Petunis’s hand.
“A singer?” she says. And then she laughs. It builds quickly, bright and unrestrained, her head tipping back as the sound fills the chamber. “A singer has arrived in Alarna’s court!”
I blink, unsure whether I have misunderstood something. She steps forward and takes Nyara’s hands in her own, her expression transformed entirely. “My dear,” she says warmly, “have you ever seen the great Alarnan Theater of Aurelin?”
Of course she hasn’t. We just fucking got here.
The woman in lavender steps forward again, though her tone has shifted, measured now, likely the friendliest tone she is capable of. “I would like to see our newest singer cleaned and properly dressed. Perhaps she might perform for us at dinner.”
A courtier rises immediately. “Majesty, I would be honored to attend.”
“I as well.” A man in bright golden robes stands.
“And I," another says. More voices follow, building quickly, the tone of the room shifting with startling speed.
In Veynar, singers are dismissed as low-born and lascivious. Here, they are wanted. Celebrated, even, it seems. I glance at Nyara and see the faint warmth rising in her cheeks, the way her expression softens in a way I have not seen before, and something in my chest responds to it before I can stop it.
“A scouring must be done.” Balkton’s voice cuts through the rising chatter, cold and insistent.
I have already decided I do not like him.
The room quiets again. Queen Petunis turns back toward the dais, reclaiming her staff as though it had never left her hand. “Yes,” she says. “There must be a scouring. For both of you. Then we may dine.”
“What is a scouring?” I ask.
The woman in lavender turns her stare toward me, cool and assessing. “Do our practices displease you?”
Before I can answer, Nyara steps in again. “The Queen Heir has suffered greatly,” she says, her tone shifting just enough to carryweight. “While her husband, Prince Colsar, bravely fought the undead, she was assaulted. She is with child. If your scouring risks harm?—”
I shoot her a look sharp enough to cut.
Really, Nyara? Announcing my pregnancy to the entire fucking court?
A small, tight feeling presses in my chest. I know she does not mean harm. She does not know. She does not know that I may have already lost it.
“A child,” a warm voice says.
“And a singer.”
It somehow seems as though my friend and my pregnancy are more interesting than me alone. I am unbothered.
It is then that a round-faced woman steps forward, her expression open, her eyes bright with something that feels gentle compared to everything else in this room. “How delightful,” she says.
She looks at me with unmistakable kindness. “I am Princess Jularin, your mother’s youngest sister. I would like to check your pregnancy, if you do not mind.” A finer arrangement of gold traced her face, the design lighter, the stones fewer, but no less intentional. She rests her hand lightly on my abdomen.
“I would prefer you not,” I say calmly.
“Rude,” Balkton mutters. “Just like the former Queen Heir.Ryaran.” He says the name like it is poison.
Was Ryaran my mother?
I look toward the dais. “So my mother was queen?”
“Your mother was Queen Heir. Ryaran. My older sister.” Queen Petunis exhales, the sound edged with something tired. “She was meant to inherit this burdensome role, but abandoned it for…disappointment.”
