The fog had lifted by morning.
Sheila woke to sunlight streaming through her window—pale, thin, the kind of light that came only in early spring, when the world was still shaking off winter's grip. She lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, the events of the previous night playing through her mind like a music box winding down.
The dress, still on its hanger, the red fabric dark in the dim light. The necklace, coiled on the nightstand, the mountain pendant cool against the wood. The shoes, scuffed at the toes, kicked off in the corner where she had left them.
She had not dreamed.
She had expected to dream—of the Prince, of the King, of Lady Veridian's sharp eyes and Lord Sterling's clumsy feet. But there had been nothing. Just darkness, and sleep, and the distant sound of the city settling into the early hours.
She sat up.
Her hair was still pinned, the pins digging into her scalp. She reached up and pulled them out, one by one, letting the strands fall around her shoulders. The mirror across the room showed a stranger—pale, tired, her eyes ringed with shadows.
I am not my mother, she thought. I am colder. Harder. More like my grandfather.
She didn't know if that was true. But she needed it to be.
Duke Karmis was waiting in the dining room.
The table was set for two—porcelain plates, silver cutlery, a pot of tea steaming in the center. He sat at the head, a newspaper open before him, his spectacles perched on his nose. He looked up when she entered.
"You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep."
"You slept. I checked on you."
Sheila sat across from him. A servant poured her tea, the liquid dark and fragrant, steam rising in thin curls.
"The banquet," she said. "How did I do?"
Karmis folded the newspaper and set it aside. He removed his spectacles, folded them, and placed them on the table.
"You did well. The nobles were impressed."
"Lady Veridian called me observant."
"Lady Veridian calls everyone observant. It's her way of saying she's watching you."
Sheila sipped her tea. It was hot, bitter, the kind of tea that woke you up whether you wanted to be awake or not.
"The King spoke to me. At the end of the night."
Karmis's face didn't change. "What did he say?"
"That he wants me to make the Prince happy. To bear his children. To stand by his side and smile for the cameras and never cause trouble."
Karmis was quiet for a long moment.
"That's what he wants from everyone."
"He said I'm not like my mother. He said I'm colder. Harder. More like you."
Karmis's jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough for Sheila to notice.
"He's not wrong."
Sheila set down her cup.
"Did you know? About the engagement? About what they wanted from her?"
Karmis was quiet for so long that Sheila thought he wasn't going to answer.
"I knew," he said finally. "I knew, and I let her go anyway."
"Why?"
"Because she was my daughter. Because she asked me to. Because I loved her more than I loved the Crown."
He stood.
"Eat your breakfast. You'll need your strength."
He left the room.
Sheila sat alone at the table, the tea growing cold, the toast untouched.
He let her go, she thought. He knew what the Crown wanted, and he let her go.
She thought of her mother. She thought of the journals, hidden in the drawer, the words that had kept her company through the long months at the Estate.
The King's Design requires a catalyst of pure intent. The banquet is not a celebration. It is an identification. They are choosing the lamb.
I am the lamb, she thought. I am the catalyst.
She picked up her cup and drank the cold tea.
The morning post arrived at ten.
Sheila sat in the study, a book open in her lap, not reading. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows on the walls. The portraits of her ancestors stared down at her— judging in silence.
A servant entered with a silver tray.
"Letters, my lady."
Sheila took the tray. Three envelopes.
The first was from Eleanor Claude.
Dear Sheila,
Last night was wonderful. I'm so glad we met. Father says we're to be friends, but I would have liked you even if he hadn't said so. Come visit me next week. I'll show you the garden.
Your friend,
Eleanor
Sheila smiled. She set the letter aside.
The second was from Lady Veridian.
Lady Karmis,
You conducted yourself well last night. Better than I expected. Do not let it go to your head. The Crown is patient, but it is not kind. Remember that.
Lady Veridian
Sheila read it twice. It was not a compliment. It was a warning.
The third was from the palace.
Lady Karmis,
The Prince requests your company for tea this afternoon. A carriage will be sent at three.
By order of the Crown
Sheila stared at the letter.
Tea, she thought. With the Prince.
She set the letter down and picked up her book.
She still wasn't reading.
The carriage arrived at three.
Sheila was waiting at the front gate, dressed in a simple blue gown—not the red of House Karmis, but something quieter, something that wouldn't draw too much attention. Her hair was down, her necklace hidden beneath her collar.
The driver helped her inside.
The carriage was smaller than the one from the night before, less ornate, the curtains drawn against the fog. She sat alone in the velvet dark, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight.
Tea, she thought again. With the Prince. No matter how she looked at it it seemed very odd.
The carriage moved.
The Prince's residence was the same townhouse in the merchant district, the same iron gate, the same overgrown garden. But the door opened before she could knock, and a servant in a dark coat led her inside.
The interior was different this time.
The curtains were open, the gas lamps turned low, and sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the dust motes that floated in the air. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the shelves filled with leather-bound volumes, their spines cracked with age.
The Prince was waiting in the drawing room.
He sat on a velvet sofa, a cup of tea in his hands, his posture relaxed. He wore a simple suit—grey, unadorned—and his hair was tousled, as if he had just woken up.
"Lady Karmis," he said. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for inviting me, Your Highness."
"Lumian," he said. "We're to be married can you drop the formalities how many times do I have to repeat myself, it is exhausting."
Sheila sat across from him. A servant poured her tea.
"The garden," Lumian said. "Would you like to see it? In the daylight, I mean."
Sheila nodded.
The garden was smaller than she anticipated.
The hedges were trimmed, the fountains drained, the statues still grey. But the sun was warm on her face, and the birds were singing, and the fog had burned away.
Lumian led her to a bench beneath an oversized oak tree that had already lost its leaves becoming bare.
"The leaves will come back," he said. "In a few weeks. It's prettier then."
"I'm sure it is."
They sat in silence.
"I didn't sleep last night," Lumian said.
"Neither did I."
"I kept thinking about what I said. About the truth."
Sheila looked at him. His face was different in the sunlight—softer, younger, less like a mask and more like a boy.
"I meant it," he said. "They want a fairytale and we have to give it to them. Whether we would like to or not."
"I know."
"Do you?" He turned to face her. "Do you really?"
Sheila met his eyes.
"I'm learning."