“Good.” She sank back into her chair, her voice softening to a terrifying gentleness. “Because there can’t be, Amalia. Ever. You know that, don’t you?”

I knew. I knew from four years of my mother telling me none of the would-be suitors who crowded me at court were good enough for the Cornaro heir. I knew from hearing the measured calculation with which the Council of Nine spoke of cementing political alliances through marriage in the drawing room downstairs. I knew it from the moment I was born to a father who had given up being a prince, the younger son of the queen of Callamorne, to come to Raverra and marry my mother so his country could become part of the Empire without losing face. But it had always been a remote thing, a sheathed dagger to protect me from foolish dandies and poor choices. Now the blade was out and up against my throat, and the edge burned.

I had to nod and say Yes, Mamma, like I always did. That was what came next.

But anger rose up in my chest, a great bubble of frustration at all the rules and duties that circumscribed my days. It pushed different words out of my mouth.

“Grace of Love, if I can’t so much as make a friend without you dropping the ax on any thoughts of courtship, you’d best not be expecting any grandchildren.”

My mother reached across the table as if she might take my hand. Her wedding ring gleamed on her finger: a sapphire for Raverra and a smaller diamond for Callamorne, bound together with delicately wrought gold. “Whom you spend time with, whom you dance with, whom you stand an inch closer to in a public square—all of these things are watched, and noted, and like as not printed in rumor sheets. Even your perceived interest in this man could ruin a political gambit based on the idea you are unattached and eligible. Unless you can tell me what advantage a match would bring our family or the Serene Empire, you can show no undue attention to any person. Do you understand?”

“So I’m not to even think of courting anyone?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “You don’t need to control every tiny thing I do, Mamma. You can’t rule what I feel.”

No flicker of anger disturbed the composure of my mother’s face. People far older and cannier than I tried to rattle her every day and failed. But she stood again. The gentleness was still there, but it was swan’s down over iron.

“Test me in this, Amalia,” she said, “and you will see what I rule.”

I was still seething all through my lesson at the Mews that afternoon, which was especially unfortunate because it was a combat lesson.