Davidson can’t help but chuckle, a small crack in his inscrutable mask. “Yes, indeed. Two years ago. The nation voted. And on the third year, next spring, we do so again.”
“Who voted, precisely?”
His mouth tightens. “All kinds, if that’s what you mean. Red, Silver, Ardent. A ballot is color-blind.”
“So you do have Silvers here.” They said as much before, but I doubted any Silver would condescend to a life alongside any Red, let alone to be ruled by one. Even a newblood. Still, it puzzles me. Why live here as an equal when they could live elsewhere as a god?
Davidson dips his chin. “We have many.”
“And they just allow this?” I scoff, not bothering to hold my tongue. I only do that around my parents, and they aren’t here, having thrown me to these red-blooded wolves.
“Allow our equal existence, you mean.” The premier’s voice takes on a sharper edge, hissing through the mountain air.
His eyes bore into mine, gold into charcoal gray. We continue walking, both of us sure over the many steps. He wants me to apologize. I do not.
Finally we reach a landing, a marble terrace overlooking a wide garden in full bloom. Unfamiliar flowers, purple and orange and pale blue, spiral out before us, wild and fragrant. Some yards ahead, Mare Barrow and her family pick their way through the garden, led by their own Montfort escorts. One of her brothers stoops to inspect the flowers more closely.
While the rest of our group takes in the expanse of the garden, Davidson draws closer to me, his lips almost brushing my ear. I resist the urge to slice him in two.
“Forgive me for my bluntness, Princess Evangeline,” he whispers, “but you have a female lover, don’t you? And you are forbidden to marry her.”
I swear, I’m going to cut the tongues from the mouths of everyone here. Is no secret sacred?
“I don’t know what you mean,” I growl through a clenched jaw.
“Of course you do. She’s married to your brother. Part of an arrangement, yes?”
My hands tighten around a stone railing. The cool smoothness does nothing to sooth me. I dig in my fingers, and the sharp, jeweled points of my decorative claws scratch deep. Davidson keeps on, his words a tumult, low and fast and impossible to ignore.
“If all were as you wished, if you were not a bargaining chip in a crown, and she were not wed, could you marry her? Under the best of circumstances, would the Silvers of Norta allow what you desire?”
I turn to him, teeth bared. The premier is far too close. He doesn’t flinch, or step back. I can see the tiny imperfections in his skin. Wrinkles, scars, even pores. I could claw his eyes right out of his head if I wanted to.
“Marriage has nothing to do with desire,” I snap. “Marriage is for heirs and nothing else.”
For reasons I can’t fathom, his golden eyes soften. I see pity. I see regret. I hate it. “So you are denied what you want because of what you are. A choice you never made, a piece of yourself you cannot change—and do not want to change.”
“I—”
“Look down on my country all you want,” he murmurs, and I see a shadow of the temper he works to keep hidden. “Question the way things are. Perhaps the answers will be to your liking.” Then he steps back a little, returning to the picture of a politician. An ordinary man of ordinary charm. “Of course, I hope you enjoy our dinner this evening. My husband, Carmadon, has been busy enough preparing for you all.”
What? I can only blink. Of course not. I misheard. My cheeks flush with heat, turning gray with shame. I can’t deny that my heart leapt in my chest, a burst of adrenaline coursing through me only to die in a heartbeat. It’s no use wishing for impossible things.
But the premier moves his head, the slightest nod.
I didn’t mishear and he didn’t misspeak.
“Another small thing we allow here in Montfort, Princess Evangeline.”
He drops my arm without ceremony, quickening his pace to put some distance between us. I feel my heart hammer in my chest. Is he lying? Is what he said even possible? To my bewilderment, sharp tears prick at my eyes and my chest tightens.
“Diplomacy was never your strong suit.”
Cal glowers at my shoulder, his grandmother hanging back to whisper with one of the Iral lords.
I turn my head, hiding for a moment in a curtain of silver hair. Just long enough to regain some semblance of control. Luckily he’s decidedly occupied with staring after Mare, tracking her movements with pitiful longing.
“Then why did you pick me?” I finally sneer back at him, hoping he feels every ounce of my rage and pain. “Why make someone like me a queen when all I’ll be is a thorn in your side?”
“Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit either, Evangeline. You know how this works.”
“I know you had a choice, Calore. Two paths. And you chose the one that leads right through me.”
“Choice,” he barks. “You girls love that word.”
My eyes roll in my skull. “Well, you seem to be a stranger to it. Blaming everyone and everything else for a decision you made.”
“A decision I had to make.” He turns to me, eyes flashing. “Or what? You think Anabel and your father and the rest would have allied with the Reds anyway? Without getting something in the bargain? You think they wouldn’t find someone else to back, someone worse? At least, if it’s me, I can—”
I step neatly in front of him, putting us chest to chest. My shoulders square, ready for battle. A lifetime of Training hardens beneath my skin. “What? Make things better? When all the fighting is done, you think you can sit on your new throne and wave your stupid flames and change the way the world is?” With a sneer, I size him up, my eyes ripping a path from his boots to his forehead. “Don’t make me laugh, Tiberias Calore. You’re a puppet as much as I am, but at least you had a chance to cut your strings.”
“And you don’t?”
“I would if I could,” I whisper, and I think I mean it. If Elane were here, if there were some way we could stay . . .
“When—when the time comes, when we have to marry . . .” He stumbles over the words. It isn’t like a Calore to stammer. “I’ll try to make things as easy as I can. State visits, meetings. You and Elane can do as you like.”
A chill runs through me. “As long as I hold up my end of the bargain.”
The prospect disgusts us both, and we look away from each other. “I’m not doing anything without your consent,” he mutters.
Even though I’m not surprised, a tiny burst of relief blooms in my heart. “I’d cut something off if you tried.”
Cal offers a weak laugh, little more than an expulsion of air.
“What a mess,” he mumbles, so low he might not expect me to hear.
I suck in a shaky breath. “You can still choose her.”
The words hang in the air, torturing us both.
He doesn’t reply, now glaring at his booted feet. In the garden, Mare keeps her back to him, following close at her sister’s heels. Despite their differing hair colors, I see the resemblance. They move in the same way. Careful, quiet, deliberate, like mice. The sister picks a flower as they go, a pale green bloom with vibrant petals, then tucks it into her hair. As I watch, the tall Red boy, the one Mare insists on dragging everywhere, does the same. The flower looks silly behind his ear, and both Barrow sisters double over. Their laughter echoes over us, a taunt more than anything.