Imperial Capital of Pendragon, August, a.t.b. 2010
Of the lavish luxury of the city of Pendragon, capital of the Holy Britannian Empire, there was no locale more coveted or luxurious than the city district which bore the questionably veracious name of 'Saint Darwin Street'. Here was where the various members of the sprawling Britannian Imperial Family made their homes, in (much more aptly-named) 'palaces' rooted in sprawling grounds of manufactured beauty, within which were housed not only all of the royal children, but also any and all of the members of the One Hundred Eight Imperial Consorts who elected to remain in the capital. To occupy a residence on Saint Darwin Street was in many ways symbolic, and it was expected that all who lived there were either those who were themselves claimants to the throne, or those by whose nuptials said claims were secured. By virtue of this, it was a terse and thoroughly unsociable neighbourhood, with stilettos and garrotes concealed in every word of performative civility and polite euphemism, and it was only through fear of Charles zi Britannia and his legendary wrath that the district remained merely on the edge of a massive, intricate, and bloody shadow-war.
In light of these truths regarding the place, it was perhaps putting it lightly to claim that Her Royal Highness Euphemia li Britannia, Seventh Princess of the Realm, was a bit surprised to receive an invitation to lodge in Belial Palace; and she was only more surprised to see that the signature at the bottom of the stiff, high-end stationery belonged to none other than "Carmilla Elizabeth Ashford, Duchess Ashford, Marchioness Tremaine" herself.
Still, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Euphemia took the opportunity to depart from her mother's residence, glad at last to escape Empress Desiderata's maudlin humours and disposition to smothering, and accept the invitation. One of Darlton's sons served as her escort, a rather dashing boy of fifteen years named Mycroft, and she found that she much preferred his mixture of gangly awkwardness and rigorous professionalism to Guilford's…everything, really. It was refreshing to be seen as only a body to be guarded instead of as the younger sister of a man's intended, to be subjected to his concerted efforts to win her good favour that accomplished quite the opposite effect, ironically enough.
Upon landing at Pendragon's airport, Edwin Drood Memorial—the private airport at the palace itself was usable only by the emperor's explicit permission, and Euphemia misliked her chances of securing that—Euphemia was surprised to find that she was not at all shocked to see that Milly had gone to the trouble of supplying a limousine for both Mycroft and herself to ride to Belial Palace; and she was even less surprised to step into it and see that the very same valet as had served her and her sister in Ashfordshire was behind the wheel. "Well, well! A pleasure to serve you again, your highness! Small world, eh?"
Euphemia found it in herself to favour him with a genuine smile this time, and didn't try to suppress the droll chuckle that rose up her throat. "I suppose it must be! Well, if we're fated to run into one another a few more times in this small world, I doubt it would behove me to fail to learn your name, good ser!"
"Ah, I'm no ser, your highness. Just a humble servant doing his job," the man replied, an incline of his head the best substitute for a bow he could offer in this situation. "But if you need my name, then, just call for old Simon, and I'll come running."
"Simon, then," Euphemia affirmed, nodding to him as she smoothed the pastel skirts that she was beginning to consider eschewing entirely. Mycroft finally seated himself down next to her and closed the cabin, running a hand through messy auburn hair as the limousine pulled away from the curb, the privacy partition between them and the man named Simon sliding shut. Mycroft swept his startling green eyes across their immediate surroundings, and then finally he relaxed, sitting back and folding his hands in his lap. Not at all eager to remain a total stranger to the man in whose hands her life was being placed, and with him now forced to remain in close quarters with her (which was not the case on the plane), Euphemia turned to him. "Lord Darlton, would you mind if I addressed you by your given name?"
Mycroft stiffened, and turned to her with an expression like a deer in headlights. She was as unsurprised as she was disappointed; stories abounded of the ill fates that befell the appointed guards upon whom Princess Guinevere had pinned her lusts when she had been little older than Euphemia was now, guards who were bound by propriety, by inclination, and by edict to rebuff her advances. Though she found it unexpectedly refreshing to be inclined to curse the behaviour of a sister who was not Cornelia for once, truth be told. "If your highness is so inclined…"
"None of that, then, Mycroft," Euphemia interjected primly. "You may rest assured that I do not share Guinevere's rapacious and precocious appetites, nor do I see myself becoming eager to replicate the tales of her many indiscretions. Step carefully around other royals if you must; I ask that I name you Mycroft, and you name me Euphemia, because I foresee building an amiable rapport to be advantageous for the continued fulfilment of your duties. Or do you disagree?"
"I… Princess Euphemia…" Mycroft seemed to relax somewhat, yet he remained alarmed to a degree.
"That's sufficient to start, I suppose," she sighed.
"My apologies, Princess Euphemia," professed the young man. "But you must understand the impulse."
"Oh, I most certainly do," replied Euphemia, and she lifted her hands from her skirts to gesture as she spoke. It was a break from the behaviour impressed upon her by her mother to appear more demure, but Carmilla's act of matricide was enough to convince her that if she attempted to maintain the image of innocence that had been cultivated for her, she would be no more than a lamb to the slaughter at court. "Did I not mention the exploits of my eldest sister just now? But as I said. Guards assigned by my sister in the past have not been the most personable sort—professional to a fault, I would say, and the distance they maintained gave way to quite a few fractious and adversarial situations. This is my chance to wipe clean the slate, and I for one would much rather have a bodyguard with whom I may work. I understand it will take some time to adjust, but I would hope that eventually, you may feel comfortable to speak freely with me, without the looming threat of lèse-majesté."
Mycroft nodded once, and that was, to Euphemia's mind, all that she would get from him for now. Designating him a work-in-progress in her mind, she looked out the window to the artificial beauty of Pendragon, monument to cultivation that it was, as it all slipped past. Before long, she found herself in that odd state of mind that exists between the contemplation of entirely too much, and of nothing in particular, where thoughts were gaseous but indisputably there, and defied any attempt to seize them and arrest their shape and volume into something concrete.
It was not a long drive from the airport to Belial Palace, and soon the anodyne foliage of the grounds surrounded them on all sides; then, out of the fairy-tale forest and meadows came a structure that resembled nothing more closely than a Medici-era palazzo. Pale grey stone and Florentine architecture presented itself as a splendid yet tasteful edifice, and Euphemia was stricken by the difference between this and the Indo-Saracenic construction of Warwick Palace, within which dwelt her elder brother, Clovis, and his mother, Empress Gabriella, which was both ostentatious and gaudy—and in that, perhaps it was an apt representation of its occupants.
The car pulled into the round courtyard, around the stone fountain depicting the work of William Blake, "Satan Arousing the Rebel Angels" to be specific, before arriving at the foot of the steps that led into the residence proper. Mycroft was quick to open the door, exiting with the sort of military precision Euphemia had often observed Andreas Darlton to possess, and now was given to wonder if it was taught to all of his wards. She herself paused for a moment, professed her thanks to Simon the valet with a genial gesture, and then took Mycroft's hand as he assisted her from the vehicle.
Then the doors of Belial Palace opened, and out of the mansion came a girl with blonde hair, but not the one Euphemia was expecting to see. Instead of Milly, the girl who stood before her was none other than her sister's best friend.
"Oldrin?!" Euphemia goggled. "Oldrin Zevon?"
True to her observation, the girl who stood before her, in all her green-eyed, twin-tailed beauty, was Oldrin, of the minor noble house Zevon, the perennial playmate of Euphemia's half-sister, Marrybell mel Britannia, Fifth Princess of the Realm. Pretty as a doll, but far more expressive than Justine when both were at rest, Oldrin was garbed in what looked to be a knight's uniform in miniature, a striking arrangement of red and gold, with her family's sigil emblazoned on her breast, a basket-hilted rapier and parrying dagger in sheaths at either side of her hips. She seemed just as surprised to see Euphemia as the princess was to see her. "Euphemia? I thought you were with your lady mother!"
"I was, but Milly invited me to live here," Euphemia explained. "But what brings you to Belial Palace?"
"Her Highness Princess Juliette invited Marrybell for tea," said Oldrin with a quick bob of her head. "Marrybell asked me to come with her, since Empress Marianne was famously quite protective of her children, and Marrybell and Princess Juliette have never met as a result. She did not want to be without a familiar face nearby."
Euphemia nodded. "Yes, that makes quite enough sense. But why were you sent to get the door, then?"
"I volunteered, actually," Oldrin replied, colouring as she brushed a lock of vibrant gold back over her ear. It was a startlingly similar shade to Milly's, actually, now that Euphemia took a moment to really look at it. "Following the conversation between them was starting to give me a headache…"
"I can sympathise," said the princess. "I once tried to actually pay attention when Justine and Friederike were having an argument. Why, I was certain my brains were about to come dripping out of my ears!"
Oldrin laughed heartily. "Yes, exactly like that!"
"Ultimately, I decided to just step away from it, and be glad that they were both having such a good time," finished Euphemia. "Friederike's affection for Justine is something of a breath of fresh air, in any event. The Imperial Family has more than enough brothers and sisters who have in their hearts nothing but loathing for one another, after all."
Oldrin nodded, suddenly sober. "Well, I'd best show you to them. Come in. Do you need help of any kind?"
"No, my luggage is set to be sorted by my mother's servants," said Euphemia, taking the opportunity to sweep in past Oldrin, Mycroft swiftly at her heels. "Oh! How silly of me. Oldrin, this is Mycroft Darlton, adopted son of Andreas Darlton, my sister Cornelia's close friend. And Mycroft, this is Oldrin, Baroness Zevon, daughter of Dame Olivia, Viscountess Zevon."
"A pleasure, my lady," Mycroft greeted, taking Oldrin's offered hand and bowing to press a kiss to the back of her knuckles. When he rose, it was with stiff formality, an image not at all aided by his choice in clothing—a black military dress uniform, entirely without decoration or adornment, single-breasted and sturdy, and shod in black riding boots and parade gloves. On his father, Andreas Darlton, goliath of a man that he was, his uniform made him look dutiful and dependable, but Mycroft did not wear his nearly as well, and clad in it as he was, the image he presented was one of a stage actor performing the role of Hamlet, maudlin and sullen.
"Don't mind him too much, Oz," remarked Euphemia in an exaggerated stage whisper. "He's something of a work in progress."
Oldrin laughed softly at her jape, but her green eyes were keen and assessing, giving him the once-over in a way that felt…lethal, reminding Euphemia of that odd maidservant of Milly's who had silenced the assassin Milly had somehow managed to convince to kill her mother. She noticed it appeared that Mycroft had noticed this same thing, and stiffened even further, so she took the liberty of elbowing him in the side, and was gratified with a soft grunt of pain as Oldrin turned away to lead them deeper into the palace.
"Keep your wits about you, Mycroft," Euphemia muttered to him. "What did your father tell you of Duchess Carmilla?"
"He said she was…formidable, your highness…" Mycroft replied, rubbing at his side in a vain attempt at subtlety.
Euphemia elected to let him think he'd gotten away with it. Baby steps. "Yes. She is very formidable. And Duchess Carmilla's sort of formidable is the sort that brings her into frequent contact with people who look at others the way Oldrin looked at you."
"Like she's calculating the maximum range from which she can most reliably put a bullet between my eyes?" Mycroft chuckled.
The princess didn't entertain his glibness. She answered honestly. "Yes. Precisely."
Mycroft's mirth faltered. "Your highness…"
"I've come to make allies of them, you'll recall," Euphemia remarked, taking the first few steps towards Oldrin's form as it retreated into the middle distance. "I'd rather not have you ruin that by being too jumpy, if it's all the same."
Her bodyguard grimaced, but nodded. "As you say, your highness."
"Good," said Euphemia. "And once again, call me 'princess' if you must, but dispense with this 'your highness' business. It gives the wrong impression!"
"Not that I don't consider it incredibly diverting to wait on you while you discipline your hound, Euphy," Oldrin called back, bringing a mortified flush to Euphemia's cheeks. "But you asked me to take you to where Princess Juliette and Marrybell are gathered, and while I can show you the way, I daresay I'm quite lacking in the brawn required to carry you there."
"My apologies!" Euphemia cried, moving to make up the distance as quickly as she could in her skirts.
Mycroft was at her heels, thankfully, his longer strides allowing him to easily keep pace with the two highborn acquaintances for all that he remained just far enough behind her for it to be noticeable. Perhaps a version of her half a year prior who had committed herself to this task would have taken umbrage with this, but the Euphemia of the here and now understood to some rudimentary degree how important it was to maintain at least the illusion of absolute propriety. In the interim, therefore, Euphemia was content to concern herself chiefly with the affairs of her half-sister Marrybell's friend and confidante as the most curious contrast between the lavish and grandiose architecture and the sparse decoration of the halls of Belial Palace swallowed the trio.
Oldrin, Baroness Zevon was in many ways something of an enigma, and not just to her. The daughter of Dame Olivia, Viscountess Zevon, a Knight of the Round, Oldrin always seemed content to let her surroundings swallow her on the sparse occasions that had brought Euphemia into contact with the mel Britannia family, and yet even then she seemed to hold herself with a certain grace, a peculiar sort of chivalric poise; and though the older girl seemed entirely content with the silence, making no moves to strike up a meaningless conversation merely for the sake of it, she nevertheless seemed to almost radiate gallantry. In an odd sense, Euphemia realised, she could definitely see Oldrin, Baroness Zevon hitting it off with Carmilla, Duchess Ashford, and perhaps becoming friends in time.
"Oh! You will forgive me my thoughtlessness, your highness," Oldrin said suddenly, with a pivot whirling herself around to face them as she spoke, for all that her feet still carried her on the path through the brightly-lit corridor, adorned with dozens of large windows, every robust, reinforced frame boasting a pane of tempered glass. It created, if nothing else, an interesting interplay of light and shadow with the checkerboard marble flooring and the muted hues of the walls, and Euphemia could easily see how this might be treacherous at night, cast in long, furtive shadows and silver gossamer moonlight. "I neglected to ask after your lady mother! How fares Empress Desiderata in these uncertain times?"
Euphemia almost thought to suppress her initial reaction, but decided against it; Cornelia was not here, after all, and neither was Guilford, nor any of Cornelia's subordinates whom she trusted sufficiently to put the safety of her little sister in their hands. She sighed heavily, and let the weariness slough off of her in a single great wave. "Melancholic as ever, I'm afraid. Her time away from the capital has only given her further leeway to indulge in her inclinations, and to be frank, I was glad to be invited here. Truthfully, the solemn climate of the Pacific northwest has never been one that has agreed with me."
Oldrin nodded sagely, and it seemed for a moment that a weight was suddenly lifted from her shoulders. "Yes, I find myself in agreement. The dreary surroundings of the area are ill-suited to your beauty, your highness. Empress Desiderata has ever been noted for her…eccentricities of temperament, however, and I must say that I am glad that she has found surroundings that she feels befitting of her."
Euphemia laughed softly to hear Oldrin speak with such candour. She had long suspected that the older girl would mature into quite the dashing woman, and it was heartening to see that her suspicions seemed to retain their merit.
With a flourish, the scion of one of the few purely matrilineal noble houses in Britannia brought them around a corner, and then ushered them through into a sunlit patio looking out over a bright, colourful garden. The avian cock of her head reminded Euphemia very strongly of her motherless sister, and of her infatuation which had only just begun to truly wane; but the gallant grin upon her face, equal parts princely mirth and smirking confidence, together with the soft features that would have others cast her as a storybook damsel from first glance, came together to beget a delightful dissonance that, through Euphemia's admittedly limited interactions with the girl in years past, the princess had come to understand was quintessentially Oldrin. She was, more than an aristocrat, in all ways a budding gentlewoman, and the Seventh Princess found herself wondering idly if the swift and dramatic conjoining of the Fourth Princess and Duchess Ashford, heiress to one of the few grand duchies in Britannia, would see itself repeated between the future Viscountess Zevon and Princess Marybell.
Stepping out onto the patio, Euphemia blinked at the sudden surge in sunlight that was at once all around her again. There was a tea table made of wicker that was set out in a cosy nook on the patio, and upon it was set various colourful confections, macarons and small finger sandwiches sharing space with a porcelain tea set that Euphemia was sure originated as an insult veiled as a wedding gift given to the late Empress Marianne—the porcelain bore clear French stylings from the age of Napoleon, and the mastery of its make was only to conceal the transparency of the insult to the then-Knight of Two—and, most perplexingly, a plate of round, semi-flat cakes, coated in powdered sugar and seemingly fashioned out of fried dough, with a preserve of red fruit beginning to leak ponderously from its insides. This last thing Euphemia could not place, and since she was here at least in part in the hallowed spirit of new beginnings, the princess resolved to take a sampling for herself.
At the table was, as she had expected, a girl with features even softer than Oldrin's to the point that 'cherubic' would not be unfitting, set into a heart-shaped face that was framed by long, wavy salmon-hued hair, with a fair complexion and indigo eyes. The girl's hair was done up in a broad bow with a forest-green ribbon, and her dress followed suit, an elegant gown adorned with frills that emphasised a soft innocence and chaste elegance. This was, of course, her half-sister, Marrybell mel Britannia, Fifth Princess of the Realm. And across the table from her, speaking softly with silken words and kindly tones, was a girl who, if the Emperor's surviving childhood portraits were to be believed, was their father's spitting image in feminine form.
Juliette, while not as starkly waifish as Justine had famously been, was lithe and slender, her gestures elegant in form and function, her face like unto Empress Marianne's unique beauty that was said to be at once vivaciously youthful and matronly in its serenity. Her amethyst eyes possessed neither their father's domineering force, nor her full sister's calm brilliance and cold command, but instead a sweet, comforting warmth that coaxed images of the hearth and home, a crackling fireplace during a winter storm. Yet to look upon them, Euphemia could only think of the children's tale of the Little Match Girl, and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the saccharine comfort of Juliette's eyes displayed a danger all their own, its viciousness subtle and insidious, a creeping poison or wasting disease that whittled away at a person's vitality bit by bit, barely noticeable, until one day, slowly but surely, nothing would remain. Hers was the intimate ruin that one invited in and made welcome, the slow and patient twisting of a lover's knife.
Juliette's image was altogether distinct from the last time Euphemia had seen her. Her long, light brown hair no longer hung unbound, and was instead styled into a single thick braid that hung over the shoulder of her gown, a dress that was at once comfortable yet somehow still courtly, midnight blue and cobalt satin-weave silk adorned with gold filigree that highlighted the contrast between Juliette's alluring magnetism and Justine's stark gravitas. Her flared sleeves and tight undersleeves highlighted the supple dexterity of her arms and hands, especially since the undersleeves doubled as fingerless gloves, and Euphemia would have been willing to wager that Juliette concealed at least one weapon on her person in case of emergency. It seemed her sister, playmate of her childhood, was preparing to well and truly come into her own.
Juliette was, of course, the first to notice her arrival, and her eyes sparked as she suddenly rose from her chair, rounding the table with deceptive speed for the level of grace with which she moved to wrap Euphemia into a tight, intimately storgic embrace. "Euphy! I'm so glad you could make it. Welcome to Belial Palace."
"Thank you for having me," Euphemia managed with a startled laugh. Perhaps this was her fault for expecting a more cordial reception in the fashion of Justine's preferred social calls, but she had not been prepared for such an emphatic and affectionate greeting.
Juliette released Euphemia and swept back from the embrace, smiling warmly at her as she gave her sister a once-over. With fervent hand gestures, she motioned to a third chair, one that set Euphemia's back to the palace and gave her a clear view of the gardens beyond the patio. "Come, come, sit! It's been far too long, and I have missed you. I've been terribly lonely around here, what with Justine being abroad and all."
Euphemia acquiesced, still a trifle off-balance, and lowered herself into the surprisingly comfortable wicker seat. No sooner than she was settled did Juliette speak anew. "And who is your strapping young friend here, Euphy? A companion? He seems a touch old for you, I must confess…"
Instantly, Euphemia was mortified on Mycroft's behalf. She turned in her seat and did her best to offer him an apologetic look, but she feared it was in vain, for all that the boy resembled a deer in headlights as those words left Juliette's lips. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you. This is Mycroft, one of Viscount Darlton's sons. He's my escort, and after Guinevere's…"
"…Guinevere?" Marrybell helpfully supplied, and Euphemia nodded towards the girl in gratitude.
"Yes, that," Euphemia continued, adopting a mien of disgust that didn't need to be faked in the least. "After Guinevere's being Guinevere, I must confess, the very thought of coercing him to some sort of impropriety makes me a trifle nauseous."
"Well then! I daresay our dear friend Mycroft is much relieved that he has not run afoul of the misfortunes of royal bodyguards past—is that not so, Baron Darlton?" Juliette remarked, and in spite of the admitted cruelty of putting the boy on the spot in such a manner, Euphemia found mirth bubbling up her chest nonetheless.
"Most certainly, your highness," Mycroft managed, all stiff formality and eyes wide with animal terror as he bowed fully from the waist. This much, Euphemia sighed internally at; this could well have put back her efforts to form a rapport with her escort by a noticeable margin, if he wasn't the sort to compartmentalise the way she knew his father could.
"Yes, well, I can assure you that your charge is amongst friends here, and there is naught to fear. The property is under the aegis of the great ducal house of Ashford, after all," Juliette began, winking at the boy mischievously. "And speaking of which, the fourth and final seat at this table is reserved for Duchess Carmilla, I'm afraid. Worry not, however, for we are not so inhumane as to demand you remain on your feet uselessly as we girls get down to brass tacks, as they say. If you'd like, you may go sit with Lord Elend for a time."
As Juliette gestured, Euphemia followed her hand, and recoiled slightly in surprise. In the recess to the other side of the glass doors that led back into Belial Palace was another table, near identical to the one at which she sat; and seated at that table with his back to the palazzo was a man she both recognised immediately, and also only vaguely. Her brother, Clovis la Britannia, was a pretty man even among a bloodline that was legendary for its comeliness, and for a brief moment in time, Euphemia believed herself to be looking upon his spitting image, yet rendered some two or three decades hence. Yet, as she devoted more attention to the man, the initial rush of shocked recognition faded away to leave only vague recollection in its wake as she noticed more and more of the subtle differences, both profound and minute, that separated this man from her admittedly foppish older brother, budding dandy that the latter was.
Devoid of the shades of the Emperor that so paled Clovis's spun-gold curtain of wavy hair, the man who sat there, enjoying the scenery, possessed a head that spoke much more vividly of the sort of lustrous metals that had brought the Spanish Empire to ruin, and adorned the bodies of Egyptian god-kings even while ensconced in their eternal repose. It was a shade that drew to mind images of the sun, citrus, summer, and most profoundly, her sister's betrothed. The man's face did not possess the hints of statue that the emperor's graven countenance had left in Clovis, and in their absence were features possessed of a more delicate beauty, noticeable in its lack of the Imperial Family's awesome austerity of form. Sat there, nursing a glass of clear fluid that appeared to be water, he seemed a figure torn from the lavish and fanciful illustrations of a story-book, his startling green eyes glittering like emeralds from out his angular face with its smooth, fair complexion.
It was the eyes that informed Euphemia as to his identity, trite though the sentiment might have seemed; indeed, while there had been a few houses of noble lineage and high birth through the years who claimed direct descent from the ill-omened Elizabeth III's lover Ricardo, First Emperor of Britannia, there was but a scant handful who were said to have made the claim so convincingly as the emerald-eyed scions of House Tremaine.
The last of which, if Euphemia recalled correctly, had sired Milly.
"That is Elend, Marquess Tremaine, then?" Euphemia asked, keeping her eyes on the far table as Mycroft all but fled to take a seat there, and Juliette returned to her appointed chair.
"That is Elend, Dowager Duke-Consort Ashford," Juliette corrected softly.
"I had heard him a wastrel," Euphemia remarked.
Juliette shrugged, and here Marrybell took up the torch. "Well, according to Mother—that is, to say, Empress Flora—there is talk of Lord Elend making something of a reform with respect to his lifestyle. You know how nobles are with gossip, Euphemia—rumours circulate swiftly. She has not yet had the opportunity to call upon him and discuss such things face to face, as it were, but in the wake of Justine's betrothal to Duchess Carmilla, Lord Elend was appointed to the regency of the vi Britannias. Something regarding his birth as a Tremaine and the terms of his marriage to the late Duchess Cassiopeia making him a neutral third party in the eyes of court law, or aught complicated like that. Did I remember that correctly, Juliette?"
Juliette nodded simply with a warm smile, the corners of her lips twisting upwards fondly. "A fortuitous, if quaint legality, to be sure. Of course, more fortunate still is that His Majesty seems to have found another bauble to strike his fancy, so such arrangements are being made from the office of the Prime Minister. I do so hope such coincidence has lessened some of the sting for dearest Friede—she gets awfully disaffected whenever His Majesty shirks matters of governance and state, leaving her to keep the trains running on time all on her lonesome."
Euphemia looked to Marrybell, who herself looked right back at her. Marrybell gave their confusion voice before Euphemia could manage to form the words. "I didn't know you and our sister Friederike were that close, if I'm being entirely honest."
"I was under a similar impression," Euphemia added. "Everyone knows that Justine's the only one of our siblings of which Friederike is genuinely fond…"
Juliette gave an insouciant shrug. "It's not an unwarranted impression, I'll grant you. But the same cannot be said of Priscilla, Countess Maldini. Why, no sooner had I discerned that my sister's troth being pledged to our good hostess was an inevitability than I decided that I would be best-served making contact with Friede's aide and closest confidante. She's been quite a great help, though I do not doubt Friede is aware of our correspondence and is interjecting whensoever she deigns to find it necessary."
To Euphemia's pleasant surprise, what she felt upon Juliette speaking of Milly's 'victory' was far from even the merest suggestion of anguish. However disaffected she was with her lady mother's mercurial disposition and irrepressible caprice, she could nonetheless not conceive of one day ending her life, for any reason—however cognizant she was of the fact that her mother would not hesitate to smother her in her sleep if she believed it served her ends. But becoming a kinslayer for the sake of petty ambition was one thing, being as it was indicative of a certain breed of cold-blooded callousness; becoming a matricide for the sake of love (and for certain, she did not doubt that it was the prospect of a future with Justine at her side that had galvanised Milly into action and nothing else), however, was quite a different matter. If Milly was willing to go to such lengths to fight for Justine, and Euphemia was herself significantly less able to bloody her own hands, she could only respect her former playmate's resolve, and take with her an errant lingering hope to one day find something she desired so keenly as Milly did Justine. "Speaking of our beloved older sister—Justine, not Friederike—how are you holding up, Juliette?"
The conviviality faded from Juliette's countenance once Euphemia voiced the question, her bearing lapsing into a distinctly more sober visage. "I won't lie and say it isn't…trying, to be here while she is there. She and I have been all but joined at the hip for the longest time, after all, and the separation is itself a troublesome experience. I know that she is capable, yes, but there is such uncertainty in war, you understand, that I fear some foul fate or sudden misfortune may yet befall her, and thus deprive me of my sister, no matter how careful or deliberate she is."
Euphemia nodded, and did not take offence; bonds among Britannian royals were odd in their function, and only the fraternity or sorority between two full siblings was considered in any way sacrosanct, but the emphasis that was placed upon that bond was far and away above and beyond any value placed upon the concept of family by any other culture in the world. Loyalty to one's fellow in both seed and womb was assumed; that one would die for the other was such a foregone conclusion that it hardly bore mentioning. Treachery of that bond, likewise, was one of the few moral transgressions that remained a source of universal, genuine horror even amongst the most jaded and pernicious of Britannian peers.
The slaughter of one's royal siblings born from different wombs was a cornerstone of Britannian culture and royal succession—His Imperial Majesty the Holy Britannian Emperor had one hundred eight different women warming his bed specifically because of this, in hopes that one worthy claimant would successfully ascend the corpse-mound of their fellow royal heirs and seize the bloody throne at its summit—and so no one would bat an eye should Carine one day wrap a garotte wire around Euphemia's throat. It was the way these things were done, after all. But if Euphemia were to reach out and tear Cornelia's heart free from her chest, whatever reign she had in the aftermath would be short and ruinous.
The last time such a kinslayer had ascended to the throne, it had marked the beginning of the Emblem of Blood.
"Nelly's been a soldier for years now, and so I've grown relatively used to the stress of having my sibling in the line of fire," Euphemia began, her tone a best attempt at a soothing and conciliatory cadence. "If there's anything you need, I want you to know that I get it, Juliette, and that I'm here for you."
Juliette gave her a tepid smile in return. "Thanks, Euphy."
Euphemia turned, and saw that she had for a moment completely forgotten that Marrybell was present. The evidence of it was written large in the discomfort on her face, and it made her gut clench in sudden guilt. "Marrybell—"
"Good morning, Duchess Carmilla," said Marrybell, visibly perking up a bit. Then her attention came back to Euphemia. "I'm sorry, Euphemia—you were saying?"
"It can wait," she said, and then she turned to the threshold, looking just in time to catch Milly stepping briskly out of Belial Palace and onto the patio. The blue-eyed aristocrat, however, dressed herself in a manner so outlandish that Euphemia found herself unable to tear her gaze off of the other girl's form. Cut-off trousers fashioned from a rough, sturdy blue fabric reached down to end at mid-thigh, sandals were strapped to her feet, and a short-sleeved exercise blouse was draped across her chest, only instead of breathing linen or fine silk, this was fashioned from what looked almost like sailcloth, and embossed upon it was a print of a painting: a painting of two subjects, one a man abed with a dressing-gown and nightcap, his face twisted in euphoria, while upon the other side of the bed as it faded to grey smoke was perched a Satanic figure in the midst of playing the violin. It was not a painting Euphemia recognised, nor could she honestly believe any of her siblings beyond Clovis might be able to recognise it at a glance. Milly, what on Earth are you wearing?
"Clothes, obviously," replied Milly, her eyebrow cocked almost contemptuously, and in a flush of embarrassment, Euphemia realised she had phrased the question aloud as she attempted valiantly to decipher the significance of the iconography on her hostess's shirt. But the other girl brushed past it, sweeping by the table to take her seat across the tea table from Euphemia. "I see you're rather fatigued by your travel, if that question in all its inanity was one that you elected to allow to pass your lips."
"I believe she meant to ask why you chose those particular clothes, Milly," Juliette interjected, and she looked glad of the break in the morbid subject matter. "Why, to one who has never had cause to see how commoners attire themselves on a daily basis, I'd venture to guess you'd look positively Bohemian."
"I'm meant to be mourning, obviously. I'm taking full advantage of that to dress as comfortably as I please within the walls of my own home. It's summer, after all—and as cool as Pendragon allegedly is, I'm used to the Adirondacks' climate. I'm not going to suffocate myself in courtly garb if I don't have to," Milly explained with a dismissive huff. "Nevertheless, Euphy, I'm very glad you could make it, safe and in one piece. Welcome to Belial Palace."
Euphemia mustered up a smile, and found it was far easier than she had thought it would be to do so. The abbreviated form of her name was no longer used as a means to communicate to her how hopelessly out of her depth she was, and she dared to believe that Milly meant it as a means to build bridges as sisters-in-law—for as much weight as the concept held in a nation like the Holy Britannian Empire. "I am glad to be here, Milly. And thank you for the invitation. It's good to be back in Pendragon—it's always a surprise to me how much I end up missing it after being away for a time."
Milly nodded to her with a vague smile, and rather than being put out at the implication of how little of their camaraderie heretofore had been mutual, she found herself instead inspired to build a true bond this time, beyond the reaches of the shadow Justine inadvertently cast. "So! Now that that business is concluded, what were you girls talking about before I could win free of my tutors?"
"Euphemia and Juliette were just speaking on the matter of Justine's whereabouts, and her safety abroad, such as it is," Marrybell supplied helpfully, taking hold of one of the four pots of tea arranged on the table to pour herself a blend with the clear scent of mint. Euphemia turned to discern where Oldrin had gotten off to, having only just recalled her tendency to slip into the shadows, and was somewhat glad to pick her out at the other tea table, interacting with Mycroft and Lord Elend. That was good—perhaps Oldrin could go a long way towards allaying the boy's anxieties regarding the defence of a princess of the realm. Euphemia had to admit that for as bad as Guinevere was, Cornelia and Guilford didn't exactly paint a very encouraging picture either. "Justine is your betrothed, Duchess Carmilla, as you've said—are you not also concerned for her safety, given that she is to be in an active war zone?"
"Hardly. I have absolute confidence in my Justine returning to me, alive and unharmed," Milly replied, her tone heady with quiet conviction. "And should that confidence end up being misplaced, through error or misfortune, I have made certain that she knows well that I shall not hesitate to make myself the envy of Orpheus and drag her back from Hell itself if I have to."
And that was that.
Andreas Darlton was an uncommon sort of man, and his reputation reflected that; one of a rare few to have been ennobled from low birth by way of exemplary military service, he was known universally as competent, reliable, even-handed, honourable, and unpretentious. Upon the death of his wingman, Darlton had sought out the man's widow and infant son, and with his star quickly rising, he adopted the child and provided for the mother as best he could. With the next man who died in his company, he did the same; and once Darlton became ennobled, he extended this to men who perished under his command as well. Each of these children knew themselves to be a son of one of the most honourable men in the Britannian armed forces, and to know each other as brothers; and in a final gesture of honour, Darlton had made clear that he would divulge to any of his sons who wished to know the identity of their deceased sire.
Mycroft's had been a military surgeon. A medical practitioner sourced of common stock, so said his father, the man's remarkable skill and lack of aristocratic connections had gotten him conscripted into the Imperial Medical Corps, where he had personally treated several of the sires of Mycroft's brothers, as well as Darlton himself. Mycroft, who had often felt apart from his brothers, different in some fundamental capacity, who had immersed himself in mediaeval tales of chivalric romances while his brothers had in turn consumed works of martial scholarship by everyone from Sun Tzu to von Clausewitz, had taken this information and attempted to utilise it to solidify the foundations of his relationships with his brothers; and to this day, no matter how viciously they squabbled from time to time, as was the wont of even siblings as unconventional as they, he knew they cared for him as best they could, even though they did not understand him.
It was in sight of this care that when their father asked for a volunteer, to escort and guard the body of Princess Euphemia, Mycroft had been the first to step forward. In his bravado, he had believed that he was unique amongst his brothers in his ability to rebuff the advances of the princess, should she prove to be of similar stock to the infamous First Princess Guinevere, whose alarmingly precocious lusts had ushered many a would-be bodyguard from this mortal coil in ignominy, both in their fearful acceptance and, more notoriously, in their dutiful rejection. And yet, now that he was here, accompanying the unexpectedly personable Princess Euphemia into a den of lions, he found that fear gripped his heart in a perilous wreath of briars—while the sight of Lord Elend, widower of the late Lady Scorpion Cassiopeia, Duchess Ashford, anointed his throat in a crown of cinders and ash.
Perhaps there was a cruel irony in this, he mused, that he might seek to save his brothers from a danger that never truly came, while finding his undoing by means of that very quality he believed defended him. For Lord Elend's beauty was akin to none he had ever before seen, and it had stolen the breath from his lungs, and all certainty fled his imprisoned heart. What gross and egregious misfortune this is, that my first true infatuation might be none other than a man whose heart has quickened at a woman's touch…
"Mycroft? Mycroft? Baron Darlton, are you quite well?"
Oh, right. He shook his head vigorously, doing his utmost to regain some recollection of his current predicament. They were in a drawing room, one of many such chambers Belial Palace seemed to feature, and Princess Euphemia was perched upon a comfortable-looking settee, while he and her highness Princess Juliette were themselves in relative repose in matching armchairs. The upholstery of the chair was rich, the rug beneath his feet lavish to an extent with which he was personally very ill-acquainted, and the light wood panelling paired together with the large windows to let the sun wash the chamber in radiance.
Princess Juliette had been the one to call his name, he realised. She held herself with a sort of graceful poise that the flowing fabric of her midnight blue dress with its mature tailoring only served to emphasise, and from the way her features sat upon her rounded face that was just beginning to lose its baby fat, he could see in a somewhat oblique way that she would grow to be a great beauty within the next few years. The single braid in which she held her hair lent a gentle regality to her appearance, but his instincts cried out to him that no matter how kind she seemed, and in truth he could see some of the saintly gentility Jeanne d'Arc was said to possess about her, she was a poison, vicious and deadly. The glint in her violet eyes, the hue of amethysts much like her royal father's, told him as much; she was appraising him, assessing him, and he was caught with the queer realisation that this was what a field mouse might feel beneath the cold calculation of a shrike.
Unable to hold her gaze, he turned his attention to his charge, Princess Euphemia. Aside from her eyes, he would likely never guess that she and the other princess were half-sisters were he not already aware of such. While Princess Juliette had the feel of an ambush predator, she felt much more floral, or perhaps even lepidopteran, a butterfly in the process of deciding whether or not it desired to be venomous. Her lavender eyes glimmered with both kindness and concern, but her body seemed tense, as if it meant to communicate some unconscious discomfort. On some level, he felt as though his presence provoked this tension—he had noticed it creeping into her shoulders slowly but steadily ever since he was introduced to her and had taken her under guard.
The side-arm he had been given for this duty suddenly felt noticeably much colder in its holster, inside the jacket of his uniform, pressed to his side under his armpit—a "Raging Bull" revolver, made by the Taurus Armaments company of Area Six, bearing five .454 Casull rounds loaded into its chambers—and not for the first time, he prayed against hope that he would never have cause to fire it. But of course, she was a princess, both of them were, and so he could not afford to let his vigilance lapse; even in the imperial capital, there could be threats.
Especially in the imperial capital.
But even if neither princess here was anything like their eldest sister, it still wasn't good for his continued health for him to keep either of them waiting.
He lifted his eyes to Princess Juliette once again, and gave what he hoped was a harmless smile. "My deepest apologies, your highness. My mind was…elsewhere."
"I had noticed," she replied wryly. "You must realise, Mycroft—may I call you by your given name as Euphemia does?—that Lord Elend is in his thirties. Even were you somehow to magically be of age at this very moment, your coupling would be considered indecent on account of your age gap for a few years yet."
Mycroft choked on his own spit, and his blood flashed cold. "I'm afraid I don't catch the implication, your highness…"
Princess Euphemia's mouth twisted into something like a grimace. "Juliette, what—?"
"Don't play coy with me, Mycroft. Much as I find myself taking great amusement at the spectacle of watching you flounder so, you are rather awful at it," Princess Juliette continued, as if her sister had not spoken. "Lord Elend is certainly a pretty man, I must concede. Legendarily so, some might say. I applaud your immaculate taste. How unfortunate it is, however, that you met him before you learned to be subtle about your ogling. It's almost funny, actually. Justine is much the same way. Milly's entrance into a room entirely does away with her otherwise flawless composure, and it is as though she becomes an entirely separate person."
"Juliette! I must protest!" Princess Euphemia cried, and it was almost pathetic how a girl of almost eleven years could make him desire for the earth to swallow him with her words alone. "This is entirely too cruel."
"Mm. I'd wondered why this specific son of Viscount Darlton was chosen to guard you if they did not know you would comport yourself in a manner unlike Guinevere," Princess Juliette shrugged, entirely insouciant. "Now I have my answer."
"Juliette!" Princess Euphemia hissed, with sharp reproach.
For her part, Princess Juliette appeared entirely unphased. "It seems you are ignorant to the manner in which things function here at court, Euphy, so allow me to elucidate this to you. If we are to be allies, then we must function as one will, with one mind, possessing three faces: to speak with one voice from three mouths. I do not interrogate your man out of concern for your safety, as Cornelia might; I do so out of concern for my own, as well as Milly's, and yes, yours.
"In the course of allowing a foreign element into the work upon which we are about to embark, you have exposed us to a possible threat," Princess Juliette continued, standing from her armchair and pacing with spritely, gliding footfalls. "Were his loyalties in question, were he not what he says he is or what he seems to be, it would be all of us who would pay the price for that oversight. And so I impart unto you this first lesson of court: that you may trust myself, and you may trust Milly, both inasmuch as we see we may trust you. We are your friends, Euphy. And at court, as far as it concerns all those outside of we three? They are not friends or foes. They are not even allies or enemies. They are assets, or liabilities. And the moment you forget that single truth is the moment your negligence dooms not only yourself, but us as well. Think on that, the next time you see fit to chastise me for being 'entirely too cruel.'
"I don't care how fond you may become of your pet, Euphy, but if you are expecting me to allow uncertainties to put myself, Justine, Justine's betrothed, or you at unnecessary risk, then I'm afraid you'd be best-served attending to your mother," and here Princess Juliette gestured broadly with a single hand, the warmth and kind comfort of her appearance entirely at odds with the words that tumbled free of her mouth. "For this I may promise you, and heed this if you heed nothing else: the Imperial Court feasts upon bleeding hearts. It feasts with gluttonous abandon."
Mycroft sat where he was, his sense of self-preservation keeping the idea of intercession as far away from his mind as it could get, as Princess Euphemia's nostrils flared, and she seemed to seethe with a fury that appeared entirely alien upon her expressive, vivid face. But the anger seemed to subside for just a moment as she got a handle on it, and then faced her sister to ask, "And what, precisely, does outing my escort's sexual orientation have to do with determining whether or not he's a security risk?"
"It's quite simple, really," Princess Juliette shrugged again, and the return of her flippant insouciance was all the more jarring for how little her tone had changed between modes. "I only desired to take his measure. And if I was to do so with any degree of accuracy, I needed first and foremost to shatter any attempt at composure, poise, or deception he might make. I merely saw outing his orientation to be an effective method in breaking his guard, that's all. And it's not as though anyone's going to look down on him for wanting Lord Elend to make him bite a pillow in half, Euphy."
"Juliette!" Princess Euphemia cried, scandalised.
"Prejudicial behaviours or ideas regarding homosexuality, or those so directed, have been against royal edict for over a century now, Euphy," Princess Juliette sighed, rolling her eyes with a fond smile upon her face. "You ought to know this. It's yew-law, after all. Or do we need to arrange remedial lessons for your benefit? If so, you need only say the word."
"Princess Euphemia," Mycroft interjected, composing himself anew with the recollection of his mission, and indeed, why his brothers and not some proven, blooded soldier were chosen for this task. "As grateful as I am for your willingness to come to my defence, Princess Juliette is correct, after a fashion. Callous as her methods might be, she has a point in that, were I a security risk, all of you would be endangered. And I daresay the act of revealing my orientation has hurt my pride and not my person; in fact, I would suppose that compared to the tribulations of life at court, her words would be considered a kindness. After all, she only revealed me. She did not in some way exploit her knowledge in the process of harming me, or facilitating harm done to you."
Princess Euphemia sighed, heavily and unhappily, her anger on his behalf smouldering as she attempted to gutter it out. "Very well, Mycroft. Juliette, your point is made. Now, shall we proceed onto the next order of business?"
"Oh?" asked Princess Juliette, drawing still and pressing a single finger to the side of her chin, violet eyes flashing dangerously. "And pray tell, what would that be?"
"Ugh. Dispense with the riddles, please!" cried Princess Euphemia, her frustration boiling over as her ire surged. "It was your idea that we gather here, if I really must remind you! Did you have a purpose?"
"That is exactly the problem here, Euphy. I do," enunciated Princess Juliette, every word chiding. "You don't."
"What is your meaning?"
"Merely that when I drew you here, you were content to follow along with the itinerary I presented. Not once through this gathering have you made a serious attempt to turn the direction of the discussion to a venue that is more advantageous to you and your aims," said the Sixth Princess. "We are to be allies, after all. Partners of a sort. It would not do for you to have no aims or aspirations of your own. If you bring no goals or ambitions to this partnership, content only to aid in the execution of our will, then there is naught that would separate you from a common servant—an asset, to be used when useful, and discarded the moment it becomes a liability.
"And speaking of assets, usefulness, and liabilities, your dear sister is one such example of precisely my meaning," Princess Juliette continued. "To be sure, Cornelia is a capable enough sort—straightforward and unimaginative, perhaps, but sensible enough to not be in any danger of snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory through virtue of sheer incompetence, as is the case with some of our…less fortunate fellow claimants to the throne. In many ways, she is entirely unremarkable, which, ironically, makes her incredibly remarkable given the morass of nepotistic idiocy against which she must compete.
"But she is, at her core, a battering ram. A siege engine of decent efficacy, but limited utility. Like you, she possesses no ambitions or aspirations of her own; she devotes herself to the accumulation of power solely for the sake of her fool's gambit, her mad dream of somehow leveraging her capabilities against His Majesty in an attempt to ensure your continued safety. A woman like that is dangerous to underestimate, 'tis true—and given her limited utility, this means that it is likely inevitable that she will one day become a liability. When that happens, she will need to be eliminated."
A crack startled Mycroft from his enraptured, appalled daze. So focused on the words of Princess Juliette had he been that he had failed to notice Princess Euphemia standing, and now she had struck her sister across the jaw with the back of her hand, with enough force to send the other careening into the wall beside the hearth as she trembled with rage. "How dare you…!"
"And thus we come at last to my final point," Princess Juliette continued, her eyes hard and sharp as she steadied herself against the mantle, drawing the back of her hand across her lip to wipe away the blood trickling down her chin. She appeared entirely unperturbed, and every bit as composed as ever. Within moments, she had regained the regality of her bearing, as if she had never lost it, as if Princess Euphemia had not reached out to strike her, even as the girl herself beheld what she had wrought with shock and no small amount of rising horror. "You are, as I had ample cause to suspect, entirely unused to your own anger. I daresay there are quite a few nasty feelings of which Cornelia worked to keep you carefully ignorant. Unfamiliar with them as you are, they seize you up in their grip when they come upon you, and it happens very suddenly, as you know not how or when to resist.
"In summary, Euphy dearest, your composure is quite sorely lacking." Some inarticulable shift occurred in the princess's voice, not in tone nor in volume, but the result was a very sharp change in character, akin now in feeling to that of a lash as it tore away at the skin of one's back. She stepped forth towards her sister, who in turn retreated, again and again, appalled at her own actions and eyes wide in the glimmers of nascent animal terror. "Notice, if you will, that it took very little effort for me to get under your skin just now; and you may believe me when I tell you that you will hear far worse in simple passing, in the process of establishing for yourself a presence at court. Foul as they are, they will speak ill of you, and of me, and of Milly, and of Cornelia, and of Justine, and of our late mother. Everyone and everything that you love and care for, they will with their words seek to defile and denigrate. Like the most loathsome, depraved, and opportunistic of scavengers, they will nibble and they will nick without mercy or relent, and at the slightest taste of blood in the water, they will swarm, and they will gorge themselves upon you, until not even bones remain of your corpse. But they are all of them cowards; and so you must give them reason to fear you. That is a process that begins with mastering your composure, so that they cannot hurt you. And I will not allow you to be presented to court ere you learn that mastery, and learn it well."
Princess Euphemia's back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Princess Juliette drew close, her hand alighting tenderly upon her sister's ashen cheek.
"After all, my darling Euphy, gods do not bleed."
"…Are you certain of this, Carmilla?"
Milly looked up, startled, her study materials for learning the Japanese language instantly forgotten on her desk. It took her a moment to process what she had just heard; Elend did not do such things often, trusting in her handling of matters, and he never did so in front of others, bereft as he was of any desire to undermine her, deliberately or accidentally. On both counts, she was grateful, and she was cautiously optimistic on the subject of their developing rapport—neither of them were particularly certain on the matter of how to go about building a stable relationship that was twelve years late, but the enduring transparency between the two on the subject of their own shared cluelessness had gone a long way to helping them find common ground, at the very least. The result was that, on the rare occasion he did question her, however, it came as a surprise, and took her a moment to sift through her own sensory recollections of the past few moments to seize onto the subject of his well-meaning inquiry. "Certain of what?"
"Leaving the details of Princess Euphemia's preparation for life as a debutante and as a courtier to Princess Juliette's discretion," the man elaborated from his place in an armchair near the far corner of the chamber. "Are you certain of it?"
Milly folded her hands on the desk, and considered the question honestly. Justine's good at fielding questions. How would she answer this? "Well, I suppose the answer depends on how you define certainty in this instance, would it not?"
Elend's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't rightly follow."
"Well, do you mean to ask me if I'm certain that this will go well, leaving it to Juliette's discretion? I can tell you honestly, I'm not," Milly explained. "If you mean to ask me instead if I'm certain this is a good idea, then the answer is likewise 'no,' albeit less emphatically. But I am certain that it's the best course of action we have open to us at the moment, as far as Euphemia's involvement in our affairs is concerned. With my Justine not yet winning herself renown, Juliette's continuing supply of political capital is limited—this was why she wanted Euphemia down here, to make her into an ally. With one fell swoop, we claim both the most universally beloved of the royal claimants, as well as the rising star that is her elder sister. Her political capital becomes our own in the interim, as we get our operations up and running. And who knows? It's possible that our dear Euphy will surpass our expectations, and become a valuable ally."
"An ally for what?"
"A bid for the throne," Milly was able to answer smoothly. "Or at least, a possible one. Juliette seems convinced that it is my Justine's will to see herself claim their father's title for herself. I'm not inclined to agree, per se."
"You don't believe your betrothed desires the crown?" he prompted gently.
"Oh no, I know she does," she clarified. "I'm just not convinced she knows she does. I'm more inclined to believe that she has a vague idea of conceding the throne to Princess Friederike, or someone else she considers worthy of rule."
"And so you all work to prepare a bid for the throne so that when she realises she desires it for herself, the majority of the legwork is complete, then? Do I misunderstand you, or is that your goal here?"
"That is precisely the goal, yes. When my beloved bride realises that she is worthiest for the crown, Juliette would not have it be said that she failed to do her part. And I find myself very much inclined to agree with her."
"You speak very highly of your betrothed," Elend remarked.
To that, Milly could only scoff. "Is that so surprising?"
"The words themselves? Not at all," he replied. "You know, in all my years of marriage to Cassiopeia, I never once spoke ill of her where others could hear. Not once."
"Why not? She was hardly an admirable woman, as you well know," asked Milly, not really seeing how this tied into his earlier comments, but willing to hear him out nonetheless. At worst, she'll have taken a break from the frustration of learning a language so different from her own by having a conversation with the man who sired her, of whom she found herself growing rather fond. "I suppose nothing would be accomplished by doing so, and certainly the fact that she was so eager to speak poorly of you to all and sundry was one of her least charming aspects."
"Part of it was because she wasn't exactly slandering me. A good deal of her complaints about me were at least somewhat deserved," Elend explained. "But the majority of my reluctance to follow suit stemmed from the fact that all of my grievances with her, her assassination of my family excepted, could be traced back to a single core issue: that she was a bitter, angry woman, who was deeply dissatisfied with the circumstances of her existence. And so I was forced to ask myself, what victory would there be in complaining about her to all who would bend their ear? How would my deriding her do anything beyond bringing me closer and closer to that thorny pit in which she languished and dwelt for all the days of her life?
"But this is, of course, somewhat afield of my point," said he. "It is not that you speak so highly of her that is unusual, really. It is the genuine passion with which you do so. I only hope she is appreciative of how fiercely you care for her."
"I have gone to great lengths to impress upon her the strength of my affections, and she is certainly appreciative," Milly confessed. She could confide in this man, couldn't she? He hadn't given her a reason to believe otherwise. Still, even as the words slipped from her lips, she prayed to whatever entity might be bearing witness to her that she would not be mistaken. "Yet, she is given to thinking the worst of a situation, if she is left to her own devices. I believe it's likely that Empress Marianne left a more significant impact on her than she acknowledges, or perhaps is even aware of."
"From what I've seen, Princess Juliette seems like a relatively stable, self-assured young lady, albeit rather ruthless," said Elend, crossing his legs atop one another and folding his hands atop them.
Her answering smile was a rueful twist of her lips rather than any genuine expression of mirth. "Juliette is a rather different matter. My Justine shielded her a great deal, kept many of her secrets, and loved her as she needed. But what irks me is…who shielded my Justine? Kept her secrets? Both of them will attest that Empress Marianne was at her husband's side first and foremost whenever he came to see them. Who put my Justine first, made her a priority, made her understand that she was worthy of love, that she was wanted as more than merely a carbon copy of her mother?"
"I understand your point, Carmilla, and so I ask that you hear this the way I wish to speak it, had I the art to do so: has she given you reason to believe that such things are likely to become issues in the future?" asked he, his brow furrowed in equal parts consternation and concern. "To be sure, I am finding it rather difficult to reconcile all that I have heard of the young lady with what you say now—not that I have cause to doubt you."
"They speak at length of her as a brilliant woman, possessing this aura of grandeur that sweeps you up in its magnificence, making you look upon her and believe, honestly and truly, this woman can do anything. That, I shall grant you. And they would not even necessarily be incorrect to do so. She is remarkable," Milly qualified. "Yet, at times, I feel there is…a distance she maintains. She has ample confidence, yes, but I get the sense that her confidence lies a great degree more in her skills than it does in herself."
Elend opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, mulling it over. Finally, he voiced a thought: "Well, at the very least, you have misgivings regarding the relationship. Not the normal sort a girl of your age might be expected to grapple with, I'll grant you, but misgivings all the same. I had begun to think your certainty was absolute—it concerned me somewhat that it might border on fanaticism. Such…attachments, they rarely end well, you understand. You saw it well enough, as you said, with the late Empress Marianne and His Majesty. But beyond that, I'm sorry to say that I'm afraid I'm remiss as a father once more, that I cannot think of any useful advice I might give you. I apologise."
Milly sighed, shaking her head. "Your advice was not what I asked for. Your confidence, I think, is sufficient."
Elend nodded, heartened, a small, fond smile gracing his face. Once again, she was struck by the odd sense of recognition she felt, to look upon many of the same features set in the face of another. "That, at least, I may freely give. Yes, Carmilla, I shall keep your secrets."
"Thank you, truly," she replied, returning his smile with one of her own. "But yes. I have given this a great deal of thought, have had ample cause to in the last few months. Again and again, I come only to the somewhat disappointing conclusion that all I can really do for her is to make sure that she knows that I, at least, love her. And I will make sure she knows that, has that knowledge carved onto her very soul, every day of the rest of our lives…however long they may ultimately be."