If there is a step after anger, I haven’t yet found it.

    Yours,

  Thora

I start to roll the letter up, but as I do an idea strikes me and I freeze.

“If I tell Søren that the Kaiser killed his mother, it would be enough to make the divide between them permanent,” I say aloud, partially so my Shadows can hear me and partially so I can hear the words out loud myself. “He would be furious, enough so to act out against the Kaiser publicly.”

For a moment, no one says anything.

“How can you be sure?” Blaise asks finally.

“Because I’ll make him feel that he has no choice.”

I unfold the letter and dip my quill into the inkpot once more, the pieces of the plan falling into place. It feels inevitable, in a way, as easy as toppling a pyramid of fruit by removing just one piece.

As easy as driving a dagger through his heart? A voice whispers through my mind, but I try to ignore it. I knew it would come to this; it was my idea, even. It’s the only way I can see to retake Astrea, and I am not going to change my mind now because I care for Søren more than I thought I would.

* * *

—

The next day, I answer the door to find Elpis, sent to bring me to meet Crescentia for coffee. For a moment, I think about saying no, because every time I’m around her the guilt in my gut becomes too much to bear, but there is a part of me that always hopes and dreads that this will be the time we acknowledge what was said the night of the maskentanz.

“Just a moment,” I tell Elpis, my heart thudding in my chest. I leave her in the doorway before going back into my room, to my hiding place in the mattress to retrieve the vial of Encatrio. I’m not going to use it, but taking it should buy me some time with my Shadows, should show them that I’m willing to use it. I feel their eyes on me as I tuck it into the pocket of my gray brocade mourning gown. They give no sign of warning or encouragement—even Artemisia stays mercifully silent. Maybe they know as well as I do that it’s an empty gesture.

Elpis gives me a small smile when I meet her back at the door, and we start down the hall to the pavilion. There is little that can be said, since the halls are crowded with people. Still, having her close helps me focus. Elpis is why I’m doing all of this, why I’m playing a game I have a hard time imagining I can win, why I’m carrying a vial of poison in my pocket intended for my closest friend. Elpis, and all the people she represents, all the others who have been enslaved for as long as they can remember. All the others who are chained and beaten and hungry but still have the gall to dream of a better world. I will build it for them, but not with the bones of innocents.

We turn down an empty hallway that leads to the east wing of the palace. Talking is still too much of a risk, but as soon as she’s sure we’re alone, Elpis grabs my hand. Her fingers are all bone and another wave of guilt slams through me. I ate a five-course meal last night, but when was the last time she ate more than a bowl of broth?

She presses something into my palm before dropping her hand. When I look, there is a small, crumpled flower made of scraps of pink silk I recognize from one of Cress’s gowns. Each petal has been painstakingly cut and arranged around a single pearl no bigger than a freckle. The memory is there, but it slips through my fingers like smoke.

“Happy Belsiméra, Your Highness,” she murmurs, her smile rare and wide.

I close my palm over the flower and tuck it into my pocket and out of sight. My mother and I used to make dozens of silk flowers together for Belsiméra for those closest to us, though my tiny fingers were clumsy and most of my flowers turned out shapeless and unusable. She enlisted seamstresses to make hundreds more, enough for all the Guardians and the palace staff.

Belsiméra—the birthday of Belsimia, goddess of love and beauty. In the story my mother used to tell me, the earth goddess, Glaidi, always loathed the fall, when her flowers would die and her trees would grow skeletal. She mourned the loss of color in the world, the loss of beauty.

One year, when the season turned and Glaidi grew melancholy and distant, the water goddess, Suta, cheered her up by crafting a hundred flowers from silk and presenting them to her friend. When Glaidi saw them, she was so moved by the display of love and beauty that she began to weep tears of joy. One of the tears landed on one of the silk flowers, and from that bloom, Belsimia was born.

To celebrate Belsimia and the deep friendship that created her, we used to craft silk flowers and give them to friends and loved ones throughout the day. At night, there was a celebration in the capital, with dancing and sweets and silk flowers everywhere.

I remember making the flowers with my mother and passing them out to everyone who worked and lived in the palace. I remember the festival, when Ampelio scooped me up in his arms and swung me around in a dance until I was delirious with giggles. I remember it was my favorite night of the year, even more so than the ones with gifts.

“Thank you, Elpis,” I say, looking at the younger girl, whose cheeks flush pink. “I’m sorry, I don’t…” I trail off, biting my lip, embarrassed. “I’d forgotten.”

She nods, her eyes solemn. “We celebrate in the slave quarter still, but we have to do it very quietly. If anyone knew…” She shakes her head. “I wanted to give one to you. You’ll keep it hidden, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.”

I turn to start down the hall again, but Elpis touches my arm, stopping me.

“I need to do something,” she whispers.

“Elpis—” I start, but she interrupts.

“Anything, please,” she says. “I can help, if you’ll let me.”

Her dark eyes are so earnest that it’s easy to forget she’s only thirteen. In the old Astrea, she would still be considered a child.

“I need you to stay safe,” I tell her gently.

“But—”

“The time is coming,” I murmur in Astrean, casting a glance down the hall for anyone who might be listening. “I need your patience.”

She bites her lip and releases my arm. “I just want to help,” she says, sounding even younger than she is.

The desperation in her voice clutches at my heart. “You are helping,” I assure her. “You’ve already done so much.”

Her eyes dart up to mine, searching for any sign that I’m patronizing her. Finally she bows her head slightly.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she says.

She doesn’t say the title the way the others do; there are no strings attached. I hold her full trust in my hands and it is a terribly fragile thing. I will not break it.