Page 20 of A Game of Veils

One face sends a shock of recognition through me that jolts the words from my throat. “That’s Emperor Tarquin, isn’t it?”

He’s a much younger man in the portrait, with golden hair much like his son’s and a little more flesh around his high cheekbones, but the same sharp-edged features. It’s his eyes that first caught my attention, though—the gray irises piercing even on canvas.

He’s posed next to an elegant woman whose dark brown hair is sculpted in whorls over her head with several tendrils cascading over her shoulders. Her doe-like eyes give an unexpected impression of gentleness, but there’s a firmness to her smile that suggests some fortitude.

“And his late wife.” Rochelle’s mouth slants at a discomforted angle. “Can you imagine having the birth of your first child go so wrong? Even with the gifted medics the imperial palace employs… I wonder if she ever got to hold her son before she passed.”

I don’t know what to say about the woman who might not have had much more choice in her marriage than I have—but who produced the arrogant, shameless jerk I might have to marry.

“Birth is a dangerous time,” I settle on.

Less so for nobles than commonfolk, but there’s no eliminating the risks completely.

A shaky laugh escapes Rochelle. “I suppose she at least survived long enough to actually marry.” Then she presses her knuckles to her mouth, her cheeks flushing beneath her freckles. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean—I’m grateful for the chance?—”

A flick of my gaze shows no one is close enough to have overheard. I offer Rochelle a sympathetic smile, one that’s more genuine after the hint of uncertainty she’s revealed. “It’s all right. It’s an… unnerving situation, as great as the reward might be.”

“I didn’t even know my father had complained.” Rochelle sighs and draws her posture up straighter, turning away from the wall of paintings. “Well, we’ll all just do our best.”

She sounds as if she’s reassuring herself more than me.

As we drift along the inner side of the room, Bianca and Fausta sashay by. Even though she’s nearly half a foot shorter than me, Fausta manages to peer down her pert porcelain nose when she looks my way. “Can’t even dress herself properly for the imperial court. They really don’t teach their princesses much of anything in the wild north, do they?”

Bianca lets out a snort that somehow sounds graceful. “Apparently not.”

I did learn some politeness, because I manage not to roll my eyes at the two ladies as they swan off. If the worst thing they can find to criticize me about is unfashionable clothes, I’m not doing all that badly.

“They seem to be close,” I remark to Rochelle. She might be more comfortable talking about the other ladies than my maid was.

She dips her head in agreement, the corner of her lips crooking up wryly. “There’s a family connection—cousins twice removed or something like that. But they obviously get along beyond that. I remember seeing Vicerine Bianca had taken Lady Fausta under her wing during my early visits to court.”

Vicerine—more prominent than a baronissa but not quite as respected as a marchionissa. She clearly feels secure in her position.

I arch my eyebrows. “It seems they don’t think very highly of visitors from beyond Dariu.”

“It might be just that they know you’re only here because you were meant to marry Marclinus.” Rochelle hesitates, her stance tensing as if she’s realized she’s ventured into precarious territory.

I match her previous wry smile. “It’s fine to acknowledge that. We all know it’s true, no matter how the situation evolved.”

She shakes her head with a rustle of her curls. “I’m sorry. Anyway, I don’t know much about how they’ve reacted to other guests from farther abroad. I’m usually only at court for a short time each month. There’s a lot to oversee at home, and it’s a day’s carriage ride away. I suppose Bianca wants to see Fausta elevated with such an impressive match, but it is a little strange because… Oh. Well. That.”

Something in her tone puts me on the alert. My gaze darts over the crowded room, seeking out Fausta’s flame-red hair.

I spot Bianca’s sleek braids first where her head is tipped close to one of familiar golden-blond.

Marclinus has been sauntering amid his subjects since we gathered here after breakfast. Now, the imperial heir leans against the back of one of the armchairs while Bianca appears to murmur something in his ear.

Her lithe brown hand trails down his chest over his silk shirt with the confidence of a woman who’s touched him many times—and in much more intimate ways—in the past.

Ah. The sight makes me a little queasy, even though I have no desire to be touching Marclinus myself. Even though it’s no surprise.

If one of the foster princes who has no real standing in Dariu can seduce plenty of the married ladies of the court, why in the realms would anyone assume His Imperial Highness hasn’t partaken as well? I can’t imagine any husbands would be bold enough to object.

Marclinus grins at whatever Bianca has said and grasps her hand, but his attention appears to be mainly elsewhere. I follow the direction of his wandering gaze and notice Prince Raul working his own charms not far away, presenting a glass of wine to one lady before aiming a sly wink at another by his side. His crimson shirt with its loosened collar emphasizes his brawny form to even greater effect than yesterday’s clothes.

The imperial heir must have noticed his foster brother too. Marclinus raises his voice loud enough to carry through the room, though his tone is jaunty. “Look sharp now, Prince Raul. Is there anyone in this bunch I should be worried about today?”

Raul’s smile stiffens. He lowers his head obligingly, easing a little away from his two female companions.

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