Leaning into me, Chiara brushes her lips to my ear as if kissing it.

"Play along, or I'll reveal you," she whispers.

"You did not just kiss that woman," bellows the king, his rage carrying him forward like a crimson tide.

"Before the eyes of Lutra and an anointed witness, on the first of Her days, I did," says Chiara, straightening her back and tilting up her chin to sneer down her nose at the man. Impressive, considering she's much shorter than him.

"I...you—" he sputters, in that moment I wouldn't be surprised if his eyes popped out of his head and boiling water streamed out his sockets. "You little slattern! How could you do this to us? Lord Battisti—"

"To the depths with Lord Battisti. The engagement is off, of course. Considering I'm already wed."

Wed? She has to be joking.

But the fire blazing in her eyes says otherwise.

I think back, trying to remember any details I might have heard about royal wedding ceremonies, but I come up blank. All of that—it wasn't for anyone but them to know. We were lucky to attend receptions, but those were all well after and entirely separate from whatever ceremonies they took part in.

And now I'm surprised the king's eyes don't simply burst as he too registers that loaded word. The vein on his forehead certainly looks like it might. "Wed? Wed?" His eyes roll, and he looks almost drunk in his rage. Finally they settle on me, though it’s clear the words he spits are meant for her.

"And who is she? This bride of yours?"

"Juniper," she says, smiling and squeezing my shoulder. "Newly initiated Royal Gourmand."

"You just pulled someone in off the grounds, didn't you?"

She feigns thoughtfulness for a moment, pressing a finger to her chin. "Hm, yes. I suppose I did."

"And some one-eyed lowland scum, too," he growls, eyes raking me up and down, lip curling upward. "What happened girl, lose some fingers to thievery? Trade your eye to grow them back?"

I set my jaw, look down.

Keep your silence with the king whenever possible, littling. It's always safer that way. My father's words echo in my skull. I shake my head minutely. The king scoffs.

"A lowland girl Lutra didn't even see fit to give two eyes, and I'm to except her into the Blood? Madness. Absolute madness."

"It's not madness to accept reality, papa," says Chiara. "Juniper is my wife. If you don't like the idea of her being Queen Regent one day, you'll just have to disinherit me."

At that, he lets loose a sudden, harsh bark of laughter. Looking decidedly away from her and back to me.

"A Royal Gourmand, you say? And what do you intend to do with yourself now—dispense of your duties entirely and live freely, in luxury?"

My teeth grind together—but this time, I pry them apart.

"Not at all, Your Majesty. I intend to compete in the Greater Trials to become your head chef."

At that, the kings throws his head back, dissolving into choking peals of laughter. He laughs so hard that tears crop up at the corners of his dark, deep-set eyes.

"Well, in that case," he says, fighting for the breath to speak each word as his laughter subsides. He turns his back to me completely, stepping in to cup his daughter's cheek. "Enjoy your moon bride, daughter. At month's end, you'll be a single woman again...and I'm sure Lord Battisti will be all too happy to wait."

Chiara tosses her hair, defiant, lips opening with a retort—but the King cuts her off.

"Oh, no. There'll be no new bride waiting in the wings. I'll give you this little rebellion, for my love of you—but if I so much as think you've found yourself a back-up...that person is gone forever, do you hear me, daughter? Gone. And you'll be under room-arrest until your proper wedding."

Crossing her arms, Chiara gives a curt nod. "Fine. In fact, Papa, I'll promise to happily go along with anything and everything you plan for me in the event my wife should lose at any point in the Trials. But you must promise me not to interfere with her in any way, nor to illicit harm against her or to incite anyone else to do so."

Wiping at his eyes, the king extends a hand—and the threat in his smile is so much like his daughter's that for a moment I think I might throw up.

What the absolute Lutra-loving fuck is going on right now?

"It's a deal," he says, extending his meaty hand to the Heir Premier. "So long as you also swear you won't interfere with the trials or participants in any way yourself."

Smirking, she takes it. "I so swear."

Balling their clasped hands together for a moment, they release each other then beat the spot over their heart with their freed fist.

"Before the eyes of Lutra," says the King.

"And bound by Aijur's wrath," intones his heir.

Then she turns from him and takes my hand.

"Come, wife," she says. "Let me show you to our chambers."

~~~

"What the fuck just happened?"

I wrench my hand away from Chiara, whirling on her the instant the door to her suite closes behind the three of us. Though they're anything but, the words come out polite, almost sweet—my survival instincts and conditioning warring with my shock and incredulity.

Never let yourself appear undone or poorly affected by anything a noble says or does to you. Always be polite, always courteous. They have enough power over us as it is. Don't ever give them the satisfaction of shaking you. Don't ever give them an excuse for punishment or rebuke if you can help it.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

I'm grateful for the clarity of my memory, that I can keep my father's words so close. But they haunt me, chide me, every time I defy them.

"Did you think I wouldn't recognize you, just because you changed your face? Traded your eye for a new tongue?"

I laugh. "I didn't even consider that you'd remember me at all. Of all the children you must have tormented—"

At that she laughs. "Oh yes, I was an awful little bitch, wasn't I? But no, I didn't have many other friends back then. Never have. Not real ones, anyway."

I can feel my eye go wide. "Is that what you thought? That we were friends? I had no choice but to put up with you. And how? How did you know it was me?"

Her expression twists before settling back into its usual smugness. "Your song's barely changed since last I saw you," she says. "And besides, I've a stronger Blessing than most. The things I can hear in a person's vitei would surprise you." Her lip quirks up.

"But don't worry, this is good for both of us. I can help you get your revenge. I can protect you, inform you. With me at your back, you have a much better chance of winning, of clearing your father's name....and of killing mine. You may even get away with it. And when it's all said and done, I'll abdicate the throne to my sister and we'll both be free."

I shake my head, hair falling out of its hasty twin buns.

"Why me?"

"Well," she says. "I couldn't exactly trick a noble into it, they know too much. And it couldn't be Cedro. When I was twelve I swore I'd never marry a man, and I'm not about to lose face."

My hands fly up to tangle in my hair, pulling more locks free in frustration.

"But why me?"

"Better than some actual stranger, someone I couldn't trust."

"You mean someone you couldn't blackmail."

She shrugs. "I mean both. I know you don't want this, and that makes you safe. Someone who actually did might make things difficult for me. Besides, we share a goal. And this way, we can help each other make it happen."

"You know I absolutely hate you."

Her eyes dart away from me. Another shrug.

"There are two other bedrooms besides my own in the suite, you can take your pick. I'll have your things sent for. Don't worry. We don't have to provide proof of consummation anymore unless reason comes up to doubt it. I'll just say we proxied it through Cedro, and then you can pretend to miss your period at some point to seem like we're actually trying. No one will question it when nothing comes of it—proxy fertilization is always tricky. My physician team will vouch for us, say they did the treatments. I'll make them."

I just balk at her.

"I wouldn't recommend going to sleep yet, though. You'll be attending the Offering ceremony with me at sun-up. You can sleep once that's done. In fact, you will sleep once that's done. We need you rested up for the first Head Chef's trial."

"I'll sleep when I please," I say, ignoring the voice at the back of my head that's pleading with me to watch my tone. To apologize for my insolence.

Chiara's lips form a little "oh" shape of mock surprise, eyebrows flying upward, then she chuckles. "My, I don't remember you being so fiery. What's that saying, willful wife interesting life?"

"Fuck you."

"Not tonight, dearest."

At that I make a sound I can't even describe and turn from her. Then I march off to shut myself into one of the bedrooms she'd indicated before I break completely and try to strangle her.

Not thirty minutes later, there's a knock at the door. I taste that it's not her, so I answer. A young man in a palace Hand uniform comes in with a cart bearing my trunk and deposits it at the end of the bed. Not long after that, there's another knock. This time it's a palace Masseur.

"The Heir Premier bids me see to you."

"Please fuck off," I say. She does.

Next comes a palace Gourmand with a heaping tray of food. That, I accept. I'm skilled enough in my own blessing that poisoning and unwanted manipulation through food aren't things I have to worry about. I'd taste it in the air, and if not there—then in the first bite as it touches my tongue. Unless, of course, they used moresegrata honey.

But the only people who know about that are Gourmands of the Cauldron families...and the last of those to work in the palace was my father.

I'm almost finished when there's another knock at the door. This time it is Chiara, so I ignore it. At the next knock, I leap from the bed, curses rising ready to my lips before I even have the door open.

"Gods fucking curse it, I just wa—"

But I stop short, because the person on the on the other side of the door is so striking that she strikes the words right out of my mouth.

"Good morning, Your Highness," she says, dipping in a bow. My gorge rises at the way she addresses me.

"I am Royal Artisan Errys Petraveri. I am to be your personal couturier and stylist."

"Please don't ever call me that. My name is Juniper," I say, stepping aside for her without really thinking about it. "And don't bow."

"As you wish," she replies readily, brushing past me—all flowing silk and silvery-blue and gold. Gold freckles dusted over her cheeks, gold roots to her long ice-colored hair. Gold flushing her eyelids and ears, not like shadow but as if her blood itself is gilded.

"If you would stand for me here so I might take your measurements," she orders, moving into the open space at the center of the room. I'm glad to hear all the false deference dropped from her tone. This isn't a woman who makes requests, not in earnest. Her vitei tastes of rain-washed stone and nothing else. I do as she says almost without thinking. With a twist of her wrist, she produces a ribbon-measure from her sleeve and sets to work.

For a long time, she's silent—until I lift my skirts so she might measure the circumference of my thigh.

"You should have let the Masseur do her work," she observes, kneeling to the task. "It was foolish of you to refuse. You must accept every advantage you can."

I say nothing, setting my jaw and staring at the painting of a turtle whose shell is overgrown with moss and flowers on the wall across from me.

"When I am done here, I will send for her to return."

She finishes her measurements a moment later, and I'm expecting her to whip out a color chart next. But instead she withdraws a tiny gilded book and a plumed pen, scratches down some notes, and says—

"I'll be back in a few hours to dress you for the Offering, one for daytime wear and one for dinner, and a set of Gourmand's robes. Not anything new, of course, but I can find something suitable to modify. It'll take a few weeks to finish your baseline wardrobe. Until then we'll keep up with the modifications, and you aren't to leave this room in anything I haven't personally approved."

"I already have a lot of dresses—"

The Artisan laughs. "I can't let you walk around the palace in those, you represent the Blood now. You understand? Besides. It's the same as with the Masseur. You need every single advantage you can get. Were your dresses hand-made for you by a high ranking Royal Artisan?"

I just scowl, still not looking at her.

"You want to live, don't you?"

I grit my teeth together, exhaling through my nose.

"Fine," I snap after a moment. "But I have to approve it all too. You're not parading me around in anything I don't love."

Again, she laughs. I want to hate her, want to defy her—but somehow I just can't quite.

She's good at her job. Just let her do it.

"You will love every single thing I give you." she shuts her little book, returning it to the hidden pocket from whence it came. "I'm done here. Enjoy your massage."

~~~

The rising sun is pink as the flower Chiara tucked into my hair right before she kissed me, bleeding its brightness across the horizon. Lighting up the undersides of the heavy clouds that hang above. The Storm Summoner will have no difficulty in their work today.

I bat away Chiara's reaching hand, her nearness like a burning in the air. My silvery-gray dress whips around my legs in the building wind, the color of spirits, of stormclouds. Of mourning and goodbyes. The same color the royals and nobles and their guards and attendants all wear, crowded up here with me on the grand balcony overlooking the portion of the palace grounds designated for today's purpose. The air smells of flowers, but tastes of blood.

Stone pillars rise from the earth like grave markers, and to each one a person is shackled. I recognize some of them, even from here. Most are sensari who failed the entry trial. Many are the sick we Gourmands failed to save in our own. The rest are just very unlucky—those accused of crimes within the palace. Hopefully some of them are actually guilty.

Specially trained Royal Bards move from pillar to pillar, whispering in each offering's ear. Freezing their eyes open.

As the whisperers finish their work and shuffle away, another Bard emerges. They wear robes of mottled black and gray with the glyph of Aijur wrought in silver over each shoulder, their large hood hiding their face, shielding their eyes.

The King begins his speech, and I flinch with each booming syllable. Lofty words of sacrifice and loss from a man who suffers neither. Words of gratitude and mourning that taste bitterly of smugness and lies.

Then, quietly at first but building—the robed Bard begins to sing. The blood drains from my face as we all reach for our earplugs. Goes cold as the first faint flicker of teal lights the clouds.

We turn away, retreating to the palace interior. Servants shut and cover the doors and windows, but nothing really blocks out the screams.