Fairest

Evret’s child.

Levana settled a hand on her own stomach, incorporating the pregnancy into the glamour. What must that feel like, to have a living creature growing inside her? A child created by love, not political advantage or manipulation.

“Levana, are you up—”

Gasping, Levana spun around as Channary crested the top of the staircase. Her sister saw her and paused. “Oh, you’re not…”

Channary hesitated, her eyes narrowing. It was an expression that Levana had seen a thousand times. No matter how confident she was becoming in her glamours, Channary always saw through them. She would never explain what Levana was giving away, whether it was the way she held herself or a particular expression or some other tell, like a gambler’s tick. But Channary had a special knack for discovering it.

Sensing that Channary hadn’t yet made up her mind about the pregnant woman loitering on the great hall’s upper balcony, Levana dipped into a humble curtsy.

“I do beg your pardon, Your Highness,” she said in her meekest voice. “I should not be up here. I was only waiting for my husband to get off duty and thought I would come to admire the decorations.”

Thinking she had already said more than a real seamstress would, Levana curtsied again. “May I take my leave of you, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” said Channary, still hesitant, “and don’t let me catch you up here again. This isn’t a playground for the desperately bored. If you need something useful to occupy your time while you’re”—she gestured at Levana’s stomach—“reproducing, I’m sure my lady’s maid can find something for you to do. There will be no idleness under my rule, not even for women of your condition.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Keeping her head bowed, Levana ducked around her sister and darted toward the steps.

“One more thing.”

She froze, a mere three steps lower than where Channary stood, and dared not meet her gaze.

“You are Sir Hayle’s wife, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

She heard a soft footstep, and another, as Channary came to stand on the step above her. Curious, Levana dared to glance upward, regretting it the moment she saw Channary’s smirk.

“Do tell him how much I enjoyed our time together after the funeral,” said Channary, her voice lilting over the words like a stream bubbling over worn stones. “He was such a comfort to me, and I hope we can enjoy each other’s company again soon.” Her tongue darted through the corner of her mouth as she admired the fake pregnancy bump. “You are a very lucky woman, Mrs. Hayle.”

Levana’s jaw fell, horror and indignation filling her head as quickly as hot blood rushed to her face. “You’re lying!”

Channary’s insinuating look turned immediately to arrogance. “It is you!” she said, laughing delightedly. “What in the name of Luna are you doing impersonating a guard’s wife? And a pregnant one at that!”

Balling her hands into fists, Levana turned and marched down the steps. “I’m only practicing!” she called over her shoulder.

“Practicing your glamour?” Channary said, traipsing after her. “Or practicing for a life of eternal loneliness? You must know you’re not going to catch the eye of anyone in court by prancing around as a poor, pregnant woman. Or—oh!” Faking a gasp, Channary clapped a hand over her mouth. “Are you hoping that Sir Hayle himself sees you like this? Do you have fantasies of him mistaking you for his beloved? Swooping you into his arms, kissing you breathless, perhaps even … reenacting what led to your present condition?”

Smothering her embarrassment, Levana kept a firm hold on the glamour of Solstice Hayle, in part for the principle of it. Channary thought that if she taunted Levana enough, she could control her decisions, and Levana refused to let that be true.

“Stop it,” she seethed, arriving at the first landing. She rounded a carved column to continue down to the ground floor, her hand rested on her stomach like a real pregnant woman might do. “You’re only jealous because you never have any originality with your—”

She froze halfway down the steps.

Two guards stood at attention on the lower landing.

One of them was Evret Hayle.

A shudder pulsed through her, from her very empty womb up through her chest and vibrating down through her gloved fingertips.

Despite all his training, Evret was failing at keeping his expression stoic and disinterested. He gaped at Levana—Solstice—and he tried so very, very hard to look professional, but it was conflicted and confused.

“Solstice?” he stammered, brow furrowed as he took in the beautiful blue dress that pulled tight over her stomach, the elaborately embroidered gloves that he’d no doubt seen his wife working on the evening before. “You’re supposed to be resting. What are you doing here?”

Levana gulped and wished and wished and wished that she were truly his beloved.

“Oops,” said Channary. “I guess I should have told you he was down here. Completely slipped my mind.” She drifted down the steps until she was standing beside Levana and placed a hand on Levana’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, you silly man. This is my baby sister, only pretending to be your wife.” She dropped her voice into an exuberant whisper. “Between you and me, I think she might have a bit of a crush on you. Isn’t that just darling?”

Levana felt a sob in the base of her throat, clawing to get out, and knew it would succeed if she stood there a moment longer. She tried to figure out what was the worst part of this moment. That Evret had seen her impersonating his wife, or that he might have heard Channary’s accusations.