Ash Princess (Ash Princess Trilogy #1)(63)

I nod toward my vanity, where an empty bowl sits, ready for Hoa to mix cosmetics in. Artemisia brings it to me and I drop the scraps into it. She holds one hand over the bowl, covering the top completely. The gems in her hairpin wink and glitter as her eyes close tight, and the air around us begins to hum with energy. It stops as quickly as it starts and her eyes fly open again, flashing blue for a second before turning back to dark brown. She lifts her hand from the surface of the bowl and we both peer into it.

The scraps of paper are gone, reduced to a thick liquid the same color as the parchment.

“You turned them to water?” I ask.

“Not quite,” she says pursing her lips. “I rushed the dissolving process. It would have happened on its own, eventually. Now you only have to get rid of this, which should be much easier. I recommend dumping it into your chamber pot.”

She passes the bowl to me, and when our fingers brush, her skin is cool and smooth.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Now we have to think about the reply,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Blaise, Heron, I’m sure this will be boring for you. Take a lap around the palace. See if you can learn anything new.”

Blaise hesitates. “Art…,” he warns.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll play nice,” she says with a smile so sweet I know it must be fake.

The others know it, too, because Heron gives a loud snort and Blaise sighs. Still, they relent, boots clacking against the stones, doors opening and shutting again. As soon as they’re gone, Art’s smile turns feral. I busy myself by sitting at my desk and bringing out a sheet of parchment and my quill, but her presence is heavy at my shoulder.

She wants to make me nervous, to remind me I need her more than she needs me, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. I am done with being bullied.

“I can’t write if you’re going to linger like that,” I snap.

“You should welcome an audience for your act,” she replies evenly.

“If he’s going to believe it, I have to believe it,” I say. “But at the end of the day, I know what is real and what is fake.”

“Do you?” she asks, tilting her head to one side. “Is that why you’re putting Kalovaxian murderers before your own people?”

So she hasn’t put aside our earlier argument, she’s just been biding her time, waiting until I am alone and defenseless. But I don’t need Blaise to stand up for me.

“I am not going to risk our lives and act hastily just so you can test my loyalties.”

She laughs, but it’s a joyless sound. “You think this is just a test? Have you forgotten what the Theyn has done to our people? To your mother?”

Her words sting, but I won’t let her see me falter.

“I wasn’t talking about the Theyn,” I say. “You want to know if I’m loyal to Crescentia over you.”

She shrugs. “Oh, I’ve known better than to trust you from the start,” she says. “The girl was Blaise’s idea.”

“I have nothing to prove. Not to them, or to you,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I’m not about to destroy everything we’re working for, for a hastily thrown-together plan. When the moment is ready, I’ll strike.”

Her smile is cruel and mocking. “Of course, Your Highness.”

I turn away from her and back to my letter, struggling to ignore the feeling of her reading over my shoulder.

    Dear S?ren,

I find it difficult to believe that your thoughts are as consumed by me as mine are by you, if only because I can’t imagine how you are managing to command a ship in such a condition. I envy you that you have Erik to speak to about this, because I have no one. Crescentia wouldn’t understand or forgive me, and I don’t understand it myself, but I can’t deny that my heart is yours—no matter how inconvenient or dangerous it is.



Over my shoulder, Artemisia gives a derisive snort that makes my cheeks warm. Yes, it’s over the top, but isn’t that the idea of a love letter? I ignore her and continue.

You have me distressingly curious: what exactly was this dream of yours about? I look forward to your return so that we can make it come to life.



Art makes another noise, but this time she sounds more approving, so I suppose I must be doing something right, even though I feel foolish writing these things down. I hesitate before continuing, knowing what I want to say to him now, but acutely aware of Artemisia behind me, silently—and not so silently—judging every word I write. In the end, though, I decide to write the truth. A part of me worries that someone might find it, but S?ren wrote plenty of dangerous things in his letter to me; if he wasn’t worried about it being found, I shouldn’t be either.

    As to what I want from you, it’s nothing as extravagant as the sea, though it feels just as vast and impossible. I want you; I want to be able to walk in broad daylight with my hand in yours; I want to kiss you and not have to worry who sees it. And when I dream of you—which I do all too often—I dream of a world in which that is possible.



To that, Artemisia says nothing, which is almost worse. I press forward, writing something I know she’ll have to approve of.

Please, tell me about your days and what occupies them. Mine are as simple and dull as they usually are, often spent reading in my rooms or listening to idle gossip. The most interesting thing that happened was when the late Lord Gibraltr left his fortune to his bastard instead of his wife and daughters. Please tell me something more engrossing than that, I beg of you.