At first, Carys didn’t talk to the sniffling girl with the tear-streaked cheeks. Even at five, Carys had been told time and again that she was to avoid strangers, to protect her brother from anyone who might get close enough to learn what must be hidden. Even then she understood her duty—to quiet the whispers in the Hall of Virtues and stymie those who would do anything to remove her family from power.
But Andreus never paid attention to the rules, and he could never ignore a child in distress. Not now. Not then, either. And he refused to leave the dimpled, dark-haired girl weeping in a crook of the castle. No amount of arguing made Andreus relent in his quest to free Larkin from her punishment. That was the beginning of the friendship. It was the first time Carys trusted anyone besides her twin. It was also the last.
For the next several months, the Queen frowned whenever she spotted Larkin giggling in the castle halls, but their mother never said anything pointed about the dangers of outsiders when Andreus was around. She saved that for the moments she and Carys were alone. She assured Carys that Larkin would be used against them. Maybe even hurt by others who wished to do the King and his family harm. Carys was ordered to let the friendship die. By the time winter came, Andreus had found a new friend to rescue and had forgotten about Larkin. Carys swore to do the same.
She lied. It was a minor fabrication compared to all the others, but it had always felt like a victory to her. And even small victories were significant in the middle of a lifelong war.
“Larkin,” Carys said smoothly, “perhaps we should focus on my order instead of worrying your father over events long past.”
“Of course, Highness,” Larkin sang out with a hastily bobbed curtsy. “This way.”
Larkin bounced up the stone steps leading to the second floor. As Carys followed, Goodman Marcus cleared his throat and said, “I apologize for my daughter, Your Highness.”
Carys stopped at the top of the stone steps. She looked back down at Larkin’s father as he twisted a length of hemp between his hands. A man who loved his daughter. A man who lived life with a virtue none in the castle could ever understand. “You have nothing to apologize for, Goodman.”
Carys walked through the doorway at the top of the stairs. Larkin closed the door, turned, and perched her hands upon her hips with a frown. “Now that we have Father convinced we are still giggling children with nary a true thought in our heads, tell me what’s wrong. You’re troubled.”
“Don’t you know it is not acceptable to tell a lady she looks out of sorts?”
“You have never been a traditional lady.”
And wasn’t that the heart of her problem? “My mother would have you locked in the tower for saying that.”
“Compliments come in many forms, Highness. Especially outside the white castle walls. Ladies are boring. Every move in every situation already prescribed. Gods, they’re barely even people.” Larkin walked over to a large wardrobe and opened the doors to reveal several gowns. “I sewed through the last several nights to complete the special accommodations you asked for. Try them on.”
Larkin selected the most important dress first.
Ignoring the questions in Larkin’s eyes, Carys allowed her friend to pull the corset tight, as if willing curves out of thin air. But as much as Larkin tried, Carys was never going to be soft and curvy. Her edges were hard, inside and out. Still, the dress fit like a glove. Her mother would appreciate that.
Carys cared more about what she’d asked Larkin to add to the dress. The compartments were hidden in the seams, impossible to spot even for one who knew they existed. Larkin was both cunning and skilled.
Carys slid her hands into the pockets and smiled.
“Extra deep, lined with leather, each with a built-in sheath, just as requested.” Larkin paused, staring at Carys for several long seconds. Carys knew her friend was waiting for her to explain. But Carys said nothing and Larkin understood her well enough to simply nod before walking to the table near the window. When she turned she was holding an iron stiletto. “For my lady’s inspection.”
“Where did you get that?” Carys hissed, looking toward the door.
“Never fear, Your Highness.” Larkin smiled again. “It belongs to Father. He hasn’t used it in years, and I doubt he even knows where he last saw it. I did, however, and felt a royal request was a proper enough reason to borrow it. I’ll return it to its very dusty chest after you leave.”
The handle was less intricate and the blade inferior to the ones Carys had asked her twin to commission two years ago. No princess could commission the castle blacksmith to make weapons. Not unless she wanted the rest of the court and the Council to find out and start asking questions. Questions were the last thing Carys or her brother needed.
Carys felt inside the pocket for the sheath opening, then practiced sliding the blade into the concealed carrier and drawing it again. The first three draws caught on the fabric. The fourth came free without incident. With an hour of practice she would be able to draw and brandish the weapon with both speed and ease. Knowing that made the knot of anxiety wedged deep in her stomach ease a bit. It had been growing there for weeks as if trying to warn her of—something. When she’d mentioned her unease to Andreus, he’d told her she was just jumping at shadows, that she shouldn’t look for problems where there were none.
Perhaps she was being paranoid, but she liked having her blades near. With so little she could control, it was good to have command over this and to know that no one, not even her brother, was aware of the secret. To survive in the castle, a girl needed all the secrets she could get.
Out of the corner of her eye, Carys spotted Larkin poking a stick into the small fireplace. Once the end was ablaze, she began lighting candles throughout the room to chase away the lengthening shadows.
“Is there a reason you’re not using the overhead lights?” Carys asked. Every business in the town was allotted a share of the power harnessed by the windmills atop the castle towers. Seven massive windmills to represent the seven virtues of the kingdom and the power that those who lived by those virtues wielded.
Power. It came in many forms. Running the lights. Operating the water. Raising people above their stations. Ordering people to their deaths. In Eden, he who controlled the wind had the power.
“Candlelight is not as harsh as the overhead glow.” Larkin glanced at the window, then finished lighting the last candle before placing the burning stick into the fire. “Shall we move on to the next garment, Your Highness?”
“Larkin, what do I not know?” Carys asked as her friend busied herself at the wardrobe. Larkin always changed the subject when she was hiding something. When she looked away the trouble was even greater, and right now Larkin was keeping Carys at her back. “Larkin, tell me. Is there something wrong with the lights?”
Her friend turned with a sigh. “People are saying the wind has not blown as strong as it should in recent weeks, Highness, and that’s why there isn’t as much power. The shortage has caused some . . . tension.”