Page 115 of A Game of Veils

I just have to ensure I’m the one marrying him.

I arrive at breakfast holding tight to that goal and smile at the imperial heir as if I’m nothing but delighted to see him. He appears to be in one of his milder moods, offering chuckles rather than raucous laughter and often simply sitting back in his chair to observe the conversations around him.

When we retire to the hall of entertainments with a sudden rain shower pattering against the windows, he ambles over to observe me while flanking his father.

Emperor Tarquin studies me with his piercing gaze. “You had correspondence from Garince this morning, Princess Aurelia. I’m surprised you’d be familiar with anyone in that far-flung place.”

Of course he’s informed of every letter that passes in and out of the palace by official means. That’s exactly why we had to be so cautious. I wouldn’t be surprised if he read it himself and then resealed it.

I dip my head in respectful acknowledgment. “Since the former Lady Rochelle has never carried out maid duties before, I wanted to be sure she had no infirmities I should be aware of when assigning her responsibilities. It wouldn’t do if she embarrassed me with a weakness I wasn’t prepared for. She gave me the name of the medic who’s attended to her family so I could request his opinion.”

It should sound like a sensible enough story. There’s no reason for Tarquin to suspect Rochelle of a romantic entanglement with the man.

He hums to himself thoughtfully. “How very thorough of you. Were you satisfied with his assessment?”

“Quite. It seems she has no previous issues with her health that should interfere with any work I might require of her.”

“Excellent,” Marclinus says. He’s toying with his dagger again the way he sometimes likes to do, spinning it slowly between his fingers. The flash of the blade makes my throat tighten, even though he’s never carried out any of his ladies’ executions himself.

Emperor Tarquin lifts his voice as if he intends to draw the attention of others beyond our small conference. “You haven’t had any missives from Accasy thus far.”

Where is he going with that point—and why does he want to bring anyone else into the conversation? Several of the court nobles standing nearby glance up at his comment and drift closer to us to follow the discussion. Among them, Bianca offers me a typical smirk and rests her hand on Marclinus’s arm.

The emperor stays focused on me. I’m not sure what response he’s looking for, but honesty is always safest where possible. “It’s a long journey from our capital. It’s doubtful that my former maid has even reached my family to confirm my safe arrival yet. I look forward to writing to them to inform them of my happiness here once I’ve earned your and your son’s full approval.”

A glint of challenge lights in Marclinus’s gray eyes. “You’re sure that you will, it seems?”

I bob into a partial curtsy. “I can only endeavour to do my best. But I know this is where I’m meant to be. If I fail to prove that, I’ll deserve my fate.”

He lets out a short bark of laughter. “So very yielding.”

His father’s gaze turns more intent. “I wonder if we should thank your dedication to Elox for that part of your temperament, or if it’s simply common for Accasians to take such a submissive attitude? I’ve heard that your people sometimes wander off into the woods when they feel unwell and let the wilderness take them as it will.”

Bianca giggles as if this is the funniest idea she’s ever heard.

I pretend not to notice the implied insult in the emperor’s words. “That’s an old tradition, mainly among those who are elderly and feel they’ve lived their full life already. It’s not very common anymore.”

In Accasy, it’s seen as taking control of your fate rather than submitting to it—deciding that you’re ready to go—but I doubt Tarquin will appreciate me contradicting his interpretation.

“It is fascinating to hear how things are done in other places,” Marclinus says, although the laziness of his tone hardly gives the impression of avid interest. “I’ve been honored to know that Accasians include portraits of my father in your temples to pray to him alongside the gods.”

Bianca isn’t the only one who titters at that comment. I will my stance to stay relaxed despite a flare of irritation.

Some of our temples do hold an alcove dedicated to the current emperor—but only because the invading forces forced the change, insisting that we needed the additional reminder of who we should thank for our “acceptance” into the empire given our distance from its heart.

None of us prays to Tarquin’s visage unless there’s a soldier watching to take offense if we don’t.

It would be deeply unwise to mention any of that. I keep my voice even. “Indeed, we have the utmost respect for our benefactors.”

The emperor speaks up in his dry voice. “I’ve been surprised that for all your rugged landscapes, your workers haven’t proven hardier. So many of them end up faltering in their jobs, at least under our watch. Perhaps their passive nature has left them without much ambition to strive to do their best.”

With that outright attack on my people’s character, I recognize what they’re after. This is another small test, seeing whether they can provoke me into arguing on my country’s behalf.

Confirming that I’ll bow to their opinions even when it comes to the people who matter most to me.

As much as I want to retort that they push the workers they wrench from Accasy far harder than they do their own citizens, that so many of our ambitions are squashed by the empire’s demands for money and manpower rather than any lack on our part, I can’t. For the sake of those same people.

To serve them later, I have to denigrate them now.

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