Oh, Jules.

Cordelia guffawed on the inside, picturing her brother talking back at Antoine. A few nobles spoke of it a few days prior, and it reached the Solar earlier that day, though somehow avoiding the Dowager Queen's ears.

Cordelia said nothing. While others might have taken advantage of such a situation—catching a sibling in a shameful position—she wouldn't. Nor would she ask for favors in return for protecting Jules' secrets, or threaten to reveal his excursions to their mother, or chide him for raising his voice in the King's presence.

Others gallivanted about propelling embarrassing stories about her brother, but she added nothing. The reports of the day didn't affect her, and she preferred not to get involved. As a Princess, all eyes were already on her; so pushing such foul tales would show her in a gloomy light.

She had to shine.

Besides, she didn't care what her brothers did. They often abandoned her anyway, so why would she bother? King Antoine accorded her less time than he had in the past—which wasn't frequent to start with. Her middle brother had run off near two years ago, tail between his legs, and though she loved his letters with beautiful drawings of the places he saw, she was furious with him. Jules, closest to her in age, paraded about Torrinni with his shirt half-open, his breeches half-fastened, his insides half-rotting from vigorous drinking, proclaiming to all who would listen that he enjoyed acting in such crude manners.

His ways, and Antoine's, only gave her migraines. She was too young to succumb to that sort of agony.

Most days, she had no choice but to tune in to the tales. Forced to visit the Solar with her mother and the Queen, she sat between them and feigned interest in their slander. Both claimed to frown upon scandals at court, yet they encouraged them while sitting atop their high horses and scowling.

Cordelia's nose wrinkled.

Mother is one thing; but Queen Adelaide is wretched and does not deserve to be on that throne.

Glancing at her vanity littered in paint and accessories, Cordelia sighed. Her lady-in-waiting brushed through her dark brown curls, and she couldn't help but snarl at her thoughts.

Adelaide, Queen of nothing!

Mother warned her to play nice. To accept Adelaide, to encourage other ladies to chat with her, befriend her, share mundane conversations and harmless gossip. A few obeyed, but most faked their affiliations for good favors—and in any case, there was no such thing as harmless gossip. Especially when most of the whispers concerned her brother and his adventures, her mother sneaking about, and her King and his lack of authority. They stung when they reached her ears.

The Queen, the Queen, the Queen—it all came down to her. Perched pretty in her chair, disinterested in the noise when she spread more false knowledge than anyone else. She relished being at the center of it all, twirling her tresses around her fingers and batting her lashes as if innocent, as if pure.

Cordelia wasn't stupid; Adelaide was fake and flamboyant—what kind of hair was that, anyway?—and she did nothing but break the royal family apart, piece by piece, bit by bit. Starting with Marguerite. That was something all four siblings agreed on: that Maggie should have been there, she should have been Antoine's Queen.

Cordelia inhaled, stopping herself from sniffling. She couldn't; it would alert her lady, who'd rush off to her mother, who'd stomp over and set her hands on her hips and glower.

"Do not show your emotions! Not in front of anyone! Suck in your sorrow, grow up, and be a proper Princess!"

Cordelia didn't have the stomach for her mother's torture today.

Poor Maggie.

The stories said she was dead. Hurt herself while running, or got lost in the forest and starved, or a peasant stabbed her in search of gold and food. All sorts of nonsense Cordelia wished she'd never overheard, because it all rang in her skull today still, two years later. Dowager Clémentine had banned Marguerite's name, erased her from books and history, made it as though the Duchess had never existed—but she didn't realize one couldn't make a heart forget. Cordelia's never would.

Her feelings towards dearest Maggie, the woman she considered a sister, still bubbled on the surface. Anger, jealousy, sadness, envy, rage—she couldn't decide. They'd spent considerable time together—when she wasn't canoodling with Antoine—and not having her around was like missing a chunk of her soul. A section of her lungs. Her disappearance tore trenches between the royal siblings, drove Clémentine to take charge, and gave Adelaide power.

Now that Cordelia needed a sister most, now that her brothers vaulted off to their own activities, she was alone. Marguerite left, abandoned her, died.

Some nights, she lay awake wondering—was the former Duchess dead? Clémentine never held a funeral—to maintain her story about the girl never existing—and the guards never recovered a body. There was no coffin, no religious rites, nothing. Hate Marguerite as the Dowager might, she wouldn't deprive a deceased from the proper rituals to send them to Heaven.

Then again, there was much about Clémentine Cordelia had yet to discover.

The Dowager had secrets. Classified correspondences, sending her handmaiden Mary on odd excursions in odd places for odd amounts of time. Letters with the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls seal on them, sitting unopened on the Dowager's desk. The name Johanna popping up in whispered conversations—a person Cordelia didn't know and wasn't sure she wanted to. There were late-night meetings in the Royal Reading Room, that Cordelia crept out to eavesdrop on; but she didn't comprehend the codes used in their communications. Not to forget the times the Dowager rushed out of the castle early in the morning and headed into Torrinni City for unknown purposes.

"Will you take your supper downstairs today, Your Highness?" The ladies' voice cut through Cordelia's thoughts.

"Excuse me?" Cordelia swiveled in her seat.

The young woman struggled not to stare. Her chin tipped down, her expression bursting with fear facing the fifteen-year-old, capricious Princess. "I asked if... Her Highness... would take supper downstairs, today."

Cordelia was only capricious because of her mother. If she wasn't, the woman would scorn her; if she was too nice, too gentle, Clémentine would remind her to be firm, fearful, and to never forgive.

I will not forgive, Mother. I will not.

Cordelia tossed her silky mane. "If I asked you to remove the pins from my hair, and have taken off my shoes, do you think I want to eat in the Dining Room, Clarisse?" She winced, aware she showed too much irritation, hearing her mother's tone in her own.

Clarisse whimpered, then shook her head, forcing Cordelia to squint at her.

"No, indeed. So, bring me up a tray. And my usual tisane*."

Clarisse hastened out.

Alone at last, Cordelia released a heavy sigh. She relaxed her stiffened posture, slouched in her chaise, blew out her cheeks. Fooling everyone into thinking she was brave and cruel like her mother was hard. She had to do it; to earn her favor, her trust, to prove she wouldn't falter at any obstacle sent her way.

Clémentine's speech, a month after Marguerite's announced death, never left Cordelia's mind. "I will never speak of her again, but I do not want you to break like that damn Duchess did, do you understand? You will build a strong exterior, while being the perfect daughter I always wanted. No leaping about the halls with your beloved." She'd snorted there. "No inappropriate snuggles in dark corridors. You are the Princess of Totresia, and my real daughter. I will not have you bring shame to us. To me."

Yet the more Clémentine drilled rules and behaviors into her head, the more Cordelia wanted to disobey her. To act as she pleased, to rebel like Jules, to leave like Sébastien. To disappear, but unlike Marguerite, she wouldn't let anyone catch her and harm her.

France and its vineyards. Italian territories and their fields of wheat and flowers and a sparkling blue sea.

She thought of Sébastien's notes describing mountainous landscapes in the east, the posh streets in the west. The beautiful accents on the tongues of exotic folk from all over the world. The food, so rich, so flavorful, so thick with smoke and spices and savors Totresians wouldn't dare.

And Giroma—oh, how a visit there would destroy the Dowager!

She peered into her silver-rimmed mirror, snickering at herself. At how identical her features were to her mother's—and how it disgusted her. They said she was beautiful; the same radiant complexion, the same breath-taking stare, the same rhythm in her strides. They meant it as a compliment, but Cordelia despised the comparison.

Something else caught her sight; the letters on the nightstand behind her. The ones she liked to read before bed, to fill her dreams with wonder and wild ideas. To help her avoid nightmares. The tales of her brother's life abroad; a life she envied, praying someday she'd experience it, too.

These were wishes she had to hide. To keep her honor and find a suitable match—Antoine had mentioned beginning his search for her husband the year prior—she had to copy Mother. Her nose up in the air at all times, her gaze narrowed and cold, her spine arched and her bosom out. Her speeches short, her voice curt, every word calculated and with deep meaning.

Every motion meant to inspire fear.

"I will inspire fear." She returned to her reflection, sneering. "Fear in those vipers who gossip with ease at that despicable woman's command."

How she yearned to express her disdain of most ladies at court; to speak out her woes about the Queen's followers, and the Dowager's. How she craved to reprimand them, instead of feigning ignorance while ruminating, sending discreet scowls at the prissies who giggled over card games as they sipped spiked tea. To stand, hike up her gown, and storm up to those who ruined her quiet afternoons of knitting.

And smack them.

They weren't the only ones who bothered her, though. Her mother and her constant complaints about this or that noble, about this or that situation Antoine hadn't handled the right way, often broke her tranquil silence. Or Master Martel, the tutor that would be the death of her with his endless ramblings, and the older women in charge of etiquette courses. And all the perverse noblemen who ogled her without scruple—they annoyed her too.

Everything about Torrinni Court irked her. Her mother's secrecy—no matter how much Cordelia tried to pry, she never had full access to whatever the woman hid—her brother's lack of a back-bone, her sister-in-law's fake courtesies while threading nasty rumors, Jules' partying habits; all of it repulsed her.

Yet all she could do was laugh. More so as she imagined Jules, inebriated with some dull bimbo at his arm, stumbling into the Ballroom to his mother's shock. Or bumping into her in the shady back-alleys of Torrinni while both attempted to conceal their less-than-discreet outings from one another.

"Oh!" She clapped her hands, entertained at the idea. "That might be the best scenario I have come up with yet."

She enjoyed composing stories, drawing inspiration from her brother's letters, from snippets of Antoine's court speeches, and from Adelaide's pretentious rigidity when marching about as if owning the castle. Without forgetting her mother's under-the-breath insults at idiots who frequented the Solar and Music Room.

She warped all she observed at court into poems, short dramas, theatrical comedies, and entertained herself by perusing them before bed.

She'd never show those tales to anyone. A woman wasn't to write, not like she did. Less so a Princess of her stature, with the promising future she had ahead of her—though it was a future she didn't want.

"If only Séb came home..."

She wouldn't finish the sentence out loud, but she knew; he'd get all the attention were he to return home. Mother would hover over him, angry at how he departed and gave his place to Jules. To the younger, more frivolous brother who wasn't ready for such responsibilities. Yes, Clémentine did have a slight preference for her last son, but she'd still wish for her middle boy to succeed.

Yet if Sébastien returned, Cordelia's life would be complete again. Of all her siblings, he was her favorite. Reserved, but bold and creative. Observant and strong, a skilled swordsman, a master gunman, she always felt safe with him nearby. She would show him her writings; he wouldn't judge them or her. Knowing him as she did, she believed he'd encourage her to share them.

He'd once mentioned something similar, without having seen her words. She'd read him a short passage of a poem she concocted, and in response, he beamed. "I am impressed, sister. You should send your notes to the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls. Give them something to aspire to; God knows they need it."

She was only thirteen at that point, but she understood his meaning. He loathed the frilly, mouthy girls that came from Academies and bustled into court desperate for a spouse, hungry for royalty. The ones who preyed on him and fawned in his presence, much like ladies used to when near Antoine.

She'd never dare be so bold; that would be like lifting her skirts too high and revealing her ankles or allowing her breasts to spill too far out of her bustier. She'd rather shelter her passion and never admit to it. If she did, Mother would find out. She always did. All the ladies-in-waiting worked for her, and Cordelia's wouldn't hesitate to snoop while she ate or slept, and report to the Dowager at once. Servants would find her work under pillows. The nobles at court would see it on her face, and they'd have no issue muttering about it as she walked by them. Which would concern Clémentine.

Mother would lose her mind if they mocked me, gossiped about me.

Maybe one day, when she was married and bored and sad, she'd let a real author read her ideas. Laugh at her audacity, and her verbiage, and the invented words and awful depictions she put on paper.

In the meantime, her ravenous jokes and distasteful poetry would stay tucked under her sheets, in hidden diaries her mother would never find. In locked cavities only she had the key to.

Her thoughts reverted to Sébastien.

"If he were to come back, I could leave in his place! Never hide who I am again; never force myself to act, to bluff about being happy—"

Her door creaked, signaling her to fix her position and pretend to be admiring her pouty lips in the mirror.

"I bring your supper, Highness," said Clarisse, slipping in, carrying a tray with a steaming hot plate of a meaty-scented potage, a scorching mug of tea, and, to Cordelia's joy, a small platter of croissants.

My favorite!

A basic French treat, she preferred them to the over-flavored, over-sugared macarons that most of Totresia seemed to idolize. She even favored them to chocolate, which surprised most women when they found out. Because of course, everyone knew what she liked. They learned she loved shades of aubergine and gray. That she adored peach-hued flowers and fruity tea blends. That she'd rather nestle alone in the shade of a tree to pursue her needle-work in peace, away from the chatting girls indoors.

She was the Princess of Totresia; her life was on display for all to watch. And she hated every second of it.

When Clarisse pivoted and scurried to the armoire to extract Cordelia's night-gown, the Princess snuck a few nibbles of the flaky pastry before touching her soup. She let each savory bite glide down her throat and warm her soul; what little she had left of it, at least.

She ate, brushed her hair once more, and at the stroke of nine, she eased into her night-wear and dismissed Clarisse.

By candlelight, she re-read Sébastien's latest letter.

"Dearest Cordelia," she said aloud, smiling, imagining his milky voice as he batted his lashes over his cocoa-colored eyes. "I hope you are well and miss you more than I dare admit."

She settled her head against the pillow, but she wouldn't rest for long, she never did. Clarisse, in the sitting-room area, hummed as she tidied up, and the sound distracted Cordelia from her sibling's adventures.

One day it will be my turn to travel and get away from all this.

*tisane: herbal tea/infusion

•••