A Memory of Nightshade

Dear Gemma,

In the several days that have passed since I arrived, I have decided that Solana Palace must be hiding some horrifically dark secrets—adulterous trysts, sinister political intrigues, gossips with vile intentions, murderers masquerading as charming nobles. What kingdom in Ivryndi doesn’t have murderers?

I came to this suspicion after witnessing a superior member of the palace staff get to his knees to help a kitchen wench clean up a pile of broken crockery and leftover oatmeal that she had accidentally dropped. It wasn’t this kind and humble gesture alone that has pushed me from simply admiring outsider, to bemused guest, to full blown skeptic. It has been three and a half days of witnessing the flawless outplaying of harmonious palace life everywhere I look. Can this place possibly be real? At first, I just marveled at how polite the courtiers were among themselves, how sweetly the Calyx treat every visitor no matter where they’re from or their station in life. But soon I couldn’t fail to notice that it isn’t merely the upper classes and celebrity citizenry (after all, they are expected to behave in a genteel manner anyway) who seem to value decorum the way people in Boskaya treasure gold.

Servants are kind to stable hands, launderers laugh in the yard with the herbalists, chemists chat with the arborists in an easy and sociable manner, soldiers are polite to the boys who shine their boots with shoe-black and oil their leathers with green-tinted salves.

Yesterday, I returned from an early morning stroll and entered the main courtyard in time to witness two blacksmiths rush out of the forge. Their objective? To help a scrawny young farrier-in-training get a spooked stallion under control. Without being asked, gardeners bring the last of the late harvest blossoms to cleaning staff whom they know like them, just so they have something pretty and fragrant in their own rooms to enjoy after a long day’s work.

As if this all weren’t enough, I have been given a beautiful suite of rooms in the East Keep and enough clothing, shoes and accessories to be mistaken for a member of the royal family. I have been better treated here as a refugee than I ever was as a princess-to-be in…

Çifta paused and sat back in her chair, touching the end of her quill to the tip of her nose. It would be better if she kept her accusations out of the letter, in case someone other than Gemma read it. She reached for the blotter and soaked up the still wet ink of the last line. Over the smudge, she wrote anew:

I have been welcomed to sit alongside the most distinguished guests in the banquet hall, and no one has pried into my personal affairs, although there is a warm level of interest in my person and my presence. I tell you, Gemma. These Solanans cannot be trusted.

Çifta chewed her lip and looked away from the page, wishing that a certain red-headed fae male from Stavarjak had shown a warmer level of interest in her person and her presence. She couldn’t complain to Gemma that Laec had not sought her out—other than to perfunctorily ensure that she was not injured from their escape, that she had everything she needed—including parchment, ink and a quill, with which to write to her father post-haste—and that her suite was warm and comfortable—a suite that was an apartment consisting of four rooms all decorated with varying botanical themes, and were luxurious to the point of absurd.

Gemma would cheekily tell her to have a dalliance if it was what she wanted, it was Gemma after all. But her sister would also reply that Çifta had no right to expect anything from Laec, especially not after she’d let him think she was available, and Gemma would be right.

The irony was that now that she had damaged Laec’s trust in her, she was very close to becoming available—she hoped—again. She wouldn’t make matters worse by telling Laec any of this. She had to finalize things with Kazery first. What might Laec have to offer that would satisfy Kazery’s appetite for wealth and influence? Çifta didn’t know. She had doubts about the big-eyed, wild-haired Stavarjakian with the too-long eye-teeth. It was stupid of her to think of it, really. Childish. It was only a girlish crush for a handsome and unavailable male. Too bad the message wasn’t getting through to her heart. A day did not pass since she’d been rescued, where Laec had not come into her thoughts. And nights? Çifta blushed to think of the manner in which he’d come into her dreams as well.

Laec’s expectation had been clear: Çifta would write to her father, and he would send an escort for her in a matter of days. Already, she’d lingered at Solana for too long. Already, she’d been on the receiving end of a calculated look from Laec in passing, a look that she read as still here?