Would her own marriage be like this, Raisa wondered—this constant sparring, shifting alliances, hidden agendas, the gaining and losing of ground? She loved both of her strong-willed parents, but it wasn’t easy to be caught in the middle.

If Raisa had felt trapped before, she felt stifled now, the cage of expectations closing tightly around her. She was almost never alone, and there were always spies, servants, lords, and ladies ready to carry tales. Queen Marianna meant to make sure her headstrong daughter took no more unauthorized excursions.

Often Amon fell into the role of courier, ferrying messages and trade goods to Averill. Raisa worried about that, knowing she shouldn’t be encouraging the Queen’s Guard to go behind the queen’s back.

It set a poor precedent for when she came to the throne herself.

The queen even ordered Magret to sleep in Raisa’s room, which made it difficult for Raisa to meet Amon in the garden. She was able to slip out a few times, when Magret drank sherry for her aching bones and fell fast asleep. Once, though, Raisa emerged from the closet to find Magret awake and peering under the bed, looking for her lost charge. Raisa made up some story about drifting to sleep while fondling her new dancing shoes.

The only other name day party to rival Raisa’s in extravagance would be the one thrown by the Lord and Lady Bayar in honor of Micah and Fiona. The fusion of magical and political power, glamour, and hints of wickedness was not to be resisted. Parents used whatever influence they had to make sure their offspring were included. Those invited were ecstatic; those not so favored were socially ruined.

Lady Bayar issued word that all guests were to be attired in black and white, in honor of her striking children. Tears were shed, plans and wardrobes scrapped, homes were no doubt mortgaged, and every bit of black and white cloth in the Vale was snapped up.

Dressmakers and tailors were called in from all over the queendom, and silks and velvets ordered from Tamron Court and We’enhaven, despite the price gouging caused by the wars. It was whispered that the fabric for the Bayars’ clothing came from the Northern Isles, and had sorcery woven right into the cloth.

“What if I wore purple and green pantaloons,” Raisa said, as she submitted to the final fitting. “Do you think they’d bar the door against me?”

“Hold still,” Magret said, teeth gritted around the pins in her mouth. She stood on one side, the dressmaker on the other, pinning out the extra fullness in the hips. When they’d finished, the black dress fit like a second skin, and Raisa wondered if she’d ever be able to squirm in and out of it.