At seven bells, Cleo arrived with an armful of dresses, an exhausted-looking Brianne in tow. Elodie winced at the sight of her youngest sister. Brianne’s cheeks had lost their rosiness, and dark bags had developed beneath her eyes.
“Bri, sit down.” Cleo ushered the youngest Warnou onto a stool and started fussing with her hair. “El, I brought the dress you wore for Mother’s birthday last year,” she said through a mouthful of hairpins. “It’s in our color, and the skirt is slim enough you’ll have no trouble getting in and out of a carriage. You won’t look foolish, nor too rich in the face of scarcity.”
“Wonderful thinking, Cleo.” Elodie was grateful for her middle sister’s machinations. Cleo ensured that the queen always looked elegant and appropriate for events, and she never forgot a single name.
Elodie had just stepped into the gown in question when she was interrupted by another knock on the door. Marguerite hurried to open it, revealing a servant with a letter on a silver tray. While the serpent sigil pressed into the wax seal was unfamiliar, it nagged at some moribund memory. The queen opened the envelope to find handwriting that crept across the page like a spider. Half-dressed, Elodie sank into a chair, the floral perfume emanating from a bouquet of pink begonias turning her stomach as she read.
To Her Majesty the Queen of Velle (and my betrothed),
Imagine my surprise, beloved, when your carriage arrived without you in it. I don’t know if you think me foolish, or you believe me weak, but either assumption is made in error. I was promised your hand in marriage, and I intend to get what I am owed. It will be easier if you don’t resist. Marry me of your own accord, and I’ll let one of your sisters ascend the throne. Deny me once more, and I cannot guarantee I will be so gentle.
Sincerely and lovingly yours,
Edgar DeVos, Senator of the Sixth Republic
It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous missive the queen had ever laid eyes on.
“He cannot be serious.” The sun was hardly in the sky and already Elodie was facing threats of racketeering. She had expected it to take longer, to prove herself a global threat.
“Ellie?” Brianne’s eyes were wide as she watched her sister pace. “What is it?”
“That boy from Ethliglenn believes he is owed my hand in marriage.”
“Tell him to jump in a lake,” Cleo said, gesturing for Elodie to hand over the letter.
“With stones in his pockets,” Brianne muttered.
Elodie’s hands began to tremble. “This is unbelievable.”
“What’s unbelievable?” Tal had returned with Rob in tow.
“Edgar DeVos unkindly requests that I honor our engagement,” Elodie sputtered. “Or else.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked, as Cleo passed the letter to Rob.
“Ignore him,” Elodie answered immediately. “If he thinks this will garner a reaction, he’s an even bigger fool than I believed.”
“You should respond to him,” Rob said, addressing her directly for the first time in over a week. “He’s hurt. Perhaps you should apologize.”
“What could I possibly have to apologize for?” She turned toward Tal, who glanced deferentially at Elodie’s brother. “Don’t tell me you agree with Rob?”
“I certainly don’t,” Cleo said darkly.
“Nor me,” Brianne confirmed.
Tal looked uncomfortable. “If you don’t address this, Edgar might make your life difficult. He does nothing to veil his threats.”
Elodie gritted her teeth. “The two of you must think me as weak as he does,” she said finally. “I’m not going to roll over so he can bite at my underbelly. I am a Warnou woman. I make threats—I don’t give in to them.”
“I urge you to reconsider, Elodie,” Rob said softly. “You’re getting emotional, which can cloud your judgment.”
“And I urge you to keep your opinions to yourself,” Elodie snapped. Their lack of solidarity left her feeling exposed. She needed to finish getting dressed. “Everyone out. I’ve got an orphanage to christen and a country to run. I do not have time to humor hurt feelings.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “The Queen of Velle will not be swayed by idle threats. Not from Edgar DeVos, and not from any of you.” She scowled at the bewildered faces of her siblings and Tal. “All of you! Out!”
When at last Elodie was alone, she allowed herself exactly ten seconds of emotion. Then she used Edgar’s letter to wipe away her tears and threw the offending message into the fire.
3
Sabine spent days poring over scripture, searching for anything that might help her understand the Second Son’s threat. It had been nearly a week since her sermon in the city square, and thus far she had come up empty-handed. The Book of the New Maiden offered little insight into Sebastien’s temperament. Ruti, one of the New Maiden’s seven Favoreds, had focused her transcription so intently on Her word that the man who would become the Second Son was described only in errant adjectives.
There was little of Her character, either. The New Maiden might have been anyone, a faceless girl upon whom the world projected their need for guidance. That sort of belief—in what could be rather than what was—had always been difficult for Sabine to stomach.
She much preferred to focus on the present: the wooden pew beneath her, the scripture in her hands, the call of the seagulls muffled by the stained glass windows.
Harborside’s house of worship was her favorite among Velle’s chapels and undoubtedly the smallest. She craved its snug embrace each time her footsteps echoed in the airy churches of the other districts, where clergies and worshippers varied almost as much as the architecture. The Arts and Manufacturing Districts had embraced her handily, while those in the Garden and Commerce Districts had been more selective in their welcome. Sabine had not received a single invitation to the royal chapel since her ascension.
It was no matter. She much preferred the stoic company of Silas and the dependable grit of her neighborhood. She coveted the sighs of relief from dockworkers who ducked through the door to gain reprieve from the sun. She cherished the sparkle in the eyes of children as they wandered inside to gape at the colorful mural on the ceiling.
That was how faith was made. Through tiny comforts and moments of awe. Surely, Sabine told herself as the great wooden door opened with a whoosh, the Second Son knew nothing of community. He could not dismantle what He did not understand.
A trio of men entered the chapel, younger than her father, older than her brother. All three removed their hats to reveal sunburned cheeks and peeling noses, made all the more noticeable by their cheerful red pocket squares. Two slipped into an empty pew. One paused before the prayer candles, lips moving silently. Sabine peeled her gaze away to afford him a modicum of privacy.
“Maiden?” She had not heard the woman approach, so careful were her footsteps. “I do not mean to interrupt, I had only hoped…” Her eyes flickered to the confessional. “Have you the time?”
“Always.” Sabine closed the Book of the New Maiden and tucked it carefully back beneath the pew. She led the way to the booth, ensuring the woman was settled before closing herself into the other side. Sabine traced the intricate divider between them, the craftsmanship impossibly delicate. The confessional booth was a sacred place. It was here that she could do true good as the New Maiden.
“Forgive me.” Safely tucked away in the confessional, the woman’s voice began to tremble. “It has been so long since my last confession, for until now I had nowhere to go.” The woman’s voice lilted like the sea, and she had the soft r’s of the neighborhood. This was Harborside, after all.
