Odetta coughed out a raspy laugh. “After all these years, now you’re going to ask?”

I nodded.

“There a reason you’re asking now?”

“Not really.” I shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve always wondered about.”

“And you thought you’d ask before I kicked the bucket?”

I frowned. “No—” White, bushy brows crept up on her forehead. I sighed. “Okay. Maybe.”

Her laugh was dry and raspy, but her eyes brightened with a sharpness that erased much of the dullness. “I hate to disappoint you, child, but that’s not a question I can answer. It’s what the Fates claimed upon your birth. Only the Fates can tell you what that means.”

Chapter 5

Stifling a yawn the following morning, I entered the quiet, candlelit room through the door often used by servants. My steps were a bit sluggish as I crossed the stillness of the Queen’s sitting room. Between the annoying headache that hadn’t gone away until this morning, and trying to figure out Odetta’s vague non-answer to my question, I hadn’t slept well the night before.

I didn’t even know why I tried to understand what Odetta had meant. That wasn’t the first time she’d spoken in what reminded me of a riddle. And to be honest, half of the time, I truly believed she was simply embellishing whatever she was saying. Like the Fates—the Arae—claiming that both life and death had touched me upon my birth. How would Odetta even know that? She wouldn’t.

Shaking my head, I passed the plush ivory settees, my steps silent against the thick carpet. I made my way to the back of the long, narrow chamber on the second floor, where two candelabras burned. I’d never known a time when those candles hadn’t been lit.

In the still, rose-scented chamber, I looked up at the painting of King Lamont Mierel and took the time to really soak in his image, knowing my mother would be at brunch at this time. It was safe to look upon him now.

My father.

There was a tightness in my chest, a pressure that I thought could be grief, but I wasn’t sure how I could mourn someone I’d never met.

He’d died shortly after my birth, having leapt from Wayfair’s east tower. No one had ever said why. No one ever spoke of it. But I often wondered if my birth—the reminder of what his forefather had done—had driven him to it.

I swallowed as I took in the image of him captured in such detail it was as if he stood before me in white and plum robes, the golden crown of leaves resting upon hair the color of the richest red wine.

His hair fell in loose waves to his shoulders while my hair was, well, a mess of tight and loose curls…and knots that tangled their way down to my hips. Our brows were shaped the same, arching in a manner that gave me the appearance that I was questioning or judging something. The curve of our mouths was identical, but somehow his had been captured with the corners tilted upward in a soft smile, while according to the Queen on more than one occasion, I looked sullen. He had a smattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose, but it looked like someone had dipped a brush in brown paint and flicked tiny brown spots all over my face. His eyes were a forest green like mine, but it was how those eyes had been painted that always got to me.

There was no light in his stare, no glimmer of life or hidden mirth to match the curve of his mouth. His eyes were haunted, and I wasn’t sure how an artist could capture such emotion with oils, but clearly, they had.

Looking into those eyes was hard.

Looking at him at all was difficult. He had more masculine, far more refined features than I did, but we shared so much that I wondered long before I’d failed if that was one of the reasons my mother had struggled to gaze upon me for any length of time. Because I knew she’d loved him. That a large part of her still did, even if she had found space to hold tender feelings for King Ernald. That was why those candles were never extinguished. It was why King Ernald never entered this sitting room and why when the painful headaches struck my mother, she retreated to here instead of to the chambers she shared with her husband. It was why she often spent hours in here, alone with this painting of Lamont.

I often wondered if they were mates of the heart—if there was even such a thing that was written about in poems and songs. Two halves of a whole. It was said that the touch between one was full of energy and that their souls would recognize one another. It was even said that they could walk in the dreams of another, and that the loss of one wasn’t something repairable.

If mates of the heart were something more than legend, then I believed that was what my mother and father had been to one another.

A heaviness settled in my chest, cold and aching. Sometimes, I also wondered if my mother blamed me for his death. Maybe if he’d fathered a son. If he had, would he still be alive? Instead, he was gone, and I didn’t care what the Priests of the Primal of Life may believe or claim. He had to be in the Vale, finding whatever peace he hadn’t been able to attain in life.

In the center of the aching coldness was a spark of heat—anger. That was another reason it was so hard to look upon him. I didn’t want to be angry because it seemed wrong to feel that, but he’d left me before I even had a chance to know him.

The doors to the sitting room suddenly creaked, causing my stomach to drop. I spun, knowing there was no way I could make it to the servants’ door in time. Any hope that it would be one of my mother’s Ladies vanished at the sound of her voice. A storm of emotions whipped through me. Dread over how she’d respond to finding me here. Hope that she wouldn’t take issue with my presence. Bitterness that warned I was foolish to hold onto such hope. I locked up as the Queen of Lasania swept inside, a force of flowing lilac skirts and sparkling gems. Behind her, Lady Kala and a seamstress stood, the latter clutching a gown.

I couldn’t help but stare at my mother. I hadn’t seen her since the night the Vodina Isles Lords had rejected the offer of allegiance. Did she look different? The creases at the corners of her eyes appeared deeper. She looked slimmer, and I wondered if it was the gown or if she struggled with her appetite. If she were ill…

“Thank you so much for finishing the gown—” My mother drew up short, the yellow-jeweled comb pinning her curls in place glittering in the lamplight. Her gaze landed on me, widening slightly and then narrowing. My shoulders straightened as I braced myself. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

I opened my mouth, but any ability to form words left me as she stalked forward, leaving Lady Kala and the seamstress by the door.

She stopped several feet from me, her chest rising sharply. Tension bracketed the Queen’s lips as she turned away from me. “I’m sorry, Andreia,” she said, speaking to the seamstress. Andreia. I thought I’d recognized her. Joanis was her last name. She had a clothing shop in Stonehill frequented by many of the noblemen and women. “I know your time is very valuable. I wasn’t aware that my handmaiden would be here.”

Handmaiden.

Lady Kala’s gaze dropped to the floor as the seamstress shook her head. “It is fine, Your Grace. I will just go ahead and get set up.”

My focus shifted from my mother to the seamstress. Andreia had dark shadows under her eyes, and stray brown hairs escaped the neat bun at her neck. I was willing to bet she had spent many long nights finishing the froth of ivory silk and pearls she carried. A muscle ticked at the corner of my mouth as I thought of how many coins that gown must’ve cost. Andreia’s services didn’t come cheap. Meanwhile, thousands—if not more—were starving.

But my mother needed a new gown that could feed dozens of families or the entire orphanage for months—if not longer.