“Your Majesty,” he whispers, breathless. A note of amusement creeps into his voice. “You’ll ruin me.” Then he pulls me to him, so that every inch of our bodies is pressed together. I lean against him, soaking in the luxury of the warm water. I don’t want to ask him what he’s thinking.
A faint voice rings out, muffled, from the other side of our hidden space. I ignore it as Magiano drowns me in another kiss. Through the haze of my thoughts, the voice comes floating over again.
“Your Majesty? Your Majesty!”
Water ripples against our bodies.
“Your Majesty,” the voice continues, drawing nearer. Now I recognize it as one of the stewards who deliver my messages. “There is an urgent letter for you.”
“She’s not here,” another voice complains. “The bathhouse is empty.” The voice sighs. “She’s probably off slitting some poor fool’s throat.”
The words break me out of my haze. I push away from Magiano right as his eyes open again. He glances toward the collapsed entrance too, then shoots me a questioning glance. I straighten and give him a smile, unwilling to show him that the servant’s remark has bothered me. Instead, I exhale and try to bring down the flush in my cheeks.
“You’d better go,” Magiano whispers, his words echoing in the space. He nods toward the collapsed archway. “Far be it from me to interrupt something urgent.”
“Magiano, I . . . ,” I start to say. But the rest of the words don’t want to come out, and I stop trying to force them. I take a deep breath before ducking under the warm water and swimming through the space that leads back out into the main bath hall.
I break through the surface with a loud splash. A yelp of surprise comes from somewhere in the chamber. As I wipe water away from my face, I see two messengers standing at the edge of the bath, their eyes wide, their fear hovering over them.
“Yes?” I say coolly, raising my brow at them.
This snaps the men out of their terrified stupor. They jump backward in unison and bend down in low bows. “Your Majesty, I—” one of them says, voice trembling. This is the one who had spoken about me with sarcastic disgust. “I—I—I—hope you had a lovely bath. I—”
His words fade into an incoherent jumble as Magiano comes up behind me, shaking water from his hair. If he weren’t here, I might indulge myself in punishing this messenger for speaking about me so carelessly. The whispers stir, delighted at the fear emanating from the man. But I shake them off. He’s lucky this time.
“You mentioned an urgent letter,” I finally say, interrupting the messenger’s distracted train of thought. “What is it?”
The second man, smaller and slighter, approaches the water. He presents a rolled parchment to me. I wade toward him and lift one hand out of the water to take it.
The letter’s crimson wax seal bears the royal crest of Tamoura. I crack it open, unfurl the parchment . . . and freeze.
I know this handwriting. No one else can write in such an elegant script, with such careful flourish. Behind me, Magiano approaches and looks over my shoulder at the message. He whispers the first thought on my mind. “It’s a trap,” he says.
But I cannot speak. I only read the message again and again, wondering what it really means.
To Her Majesty of Kenettra,
Your sister is dying. You must come to Tamoura at once.
Raffaele Laurent Bessette
Where will you go, when the clock strikes twelve?
What will you do, when you face yourself?
How will you live, knowing what you’ve done?
How will you die, if your soul’s already gone?
—Excerpt of monologue from Compasia & Eratosthenes, as performed by Willem Denbury
Adelina Amouteru
Tomorrow, we set sail for the shores of Tamoura. So, tonight, the entire palace is alight with festivities in celebration of our upcoming invasion.
Long tables piled high with food sit in every hall of the palace, while the courtyards are bright with lanterns and dancing. I sit with Sergio in one of the gardens. In my hands is the strip of parchment from Raffaele, which I’ve played with so much now, I can hardly read the letters anymore. My stomach feels hollow and sick. I couldn’t even finish my herbal drink, and now, with nothing to keep them at bay, the whispers have started murmuring incessantly in the back of my mind again.
Violetta is with the Daggers after all. Your enemies. What a traitor.
Why do you still care for her? Have you forgotten how she abandoned you?
Yes, she tried to wrench us away from you.
She’s better off dead.
Beside me, Magiano’s chair is empty. He has taken up his lute and is now sitting in the arched entranceway to the garden, playing a song he’s composed just today. Below him, a crowd has gathered. Everyone is already drunk—they sway in their dances, stumbling all over, laughing uproariously. At the edges of my vision, an illusion of Violetta unfurls. I see her dying on the floor, blood spilling in a pool all around, while the other partygoers step over her body. I force my attention back to Magiano, hoping he can distract me.
Magiano is a sight to behold tonight. His silks are gold and white, and trinkets glimmer amongst his long braids, all of them pulled over one shoulder. He leans forward and flashes a brilliant smile down at the cheering people listening to his music; every now and then, he pauses in his playing to call for challenges. People shout the names of old folk songs at him, then cheer and clap when he takes them on. I blush as I remember the bathwater beading on his braids, his bare skin against mine in our secret pool, illuminated by the dim blue glow of faery moss. Perhaps he is thinking about it too.