Chapter Text
In the end, it's Donetta who proposes, though Calroy buys the ring.
"I fucking hate my father," Calroy says, barging into the room and flopping dramatically onto Donetta's bed. The sugar-silk sheets barely sink under his weight.
Donetta hums in response, undeterred, intent on penning a letter to one of her old Ceresian friends. Jasmine Rice: daughter of a senator she’d met at a diplomatic dinner two years ago, whose power-hungry eyes and sharp tongue had drawn Donetta’s attention like a hunter to prey. Now, with tensions rising amongst the capital of Pangranos, and the already flimsy senatorial struggling to maintain its grasp on the riots, maintaining connections was as crucial as ever.
Donetta’s brother, though, is of a different mind. She’d had to cloak her toffee hawk in all manner of spells commissioned from the Muffinfield mages to get it past the border, and lost precious money keeping their mouths shut about it.
Donetta goes to sign off, but her hand pauses just above the paper. She pokes her cheek with the end of her quill. Instead of the usual ‘sincerely’, she writes, ‘with love, Donetta.’
Her hawk takes the letter eagerly.
Calroy sits up. “Aren’t you driven—crazy by that? Not being able to do anything about it? Being powerless against a bunch of idiots and their petty squabbles—“
“Of course I am,” Donetta interrupts sharply. “I just know how to play the game. And the pieces aren’t just here, they’re out there.”
She gestures to the window, where the Great Stone Candy mountains line the horizon. Further beyond that, the Flour Frosting Ridge that marks the beginning of Ceresia’s border. Calroy follows, staring at the windows for a minute.
He sighs, falling back onto the covers. She’s right, as always.
Donetta smirks. “Patience, my friend,” she says, haughtily.
He shoves a hand into her face, but he’s smiling too. “I swear to god, Donetta—“
There’s a knock at the door, cutting him off. A voice calls from outside. “Sweet Lady Donetta?”
“Fuck,” Donetta says, under her breath.
Calroy’s eyebrows rise, and he’s barely hiding a smile. “One of your suitors? He’s going to kill me if he finds me in your room.”
“So hide,” she hisses. “God, I’m going to kill my brother.”
“Wouldn’t be soon enough,” Calroy says, darkly.
Donetta waves him off. “Get under the bed.”
Calroy rolls his eyes but obeys, shooting a last, “You better not do anything on top of it!”
Donetta grits her teeth. Having come of age a few months ago, her brother had immediately demanded she be paired off to a high-ranking nobleman, sent away from Muffinfield with a rich dowry and no more of her meddling fingers in his work—
“My Lady? It’s Lord Monty Carlos; your chamberlain told me you’d be here!”
And now she’s being harassed at all hours of the day.
Donetta lets out a sigh, brushes the wrinkles out of her dress, and opens the door.
A rehearsed smile on her face. “Ah, Monty! What a surprise to see you here.”
The gentleman that looks back at her grins greasily, the hot pink and creams of his figure gleaming as he smiles. “Not at all, my lady. I was thinking of you.”
Donetta swallows. “How sweet.”
“Indeed,” Lord Carlos says, and then steps forward, edging closer to her doorway. Donetta steps back. “May I come in, Donnie?”
“Ah,” Donetta says. She feels her fists clench behind her back at the nickname in his mouth. “I’m actually quite busy at the moment. Been feeling rather… out of sorts.”
The grin widens. “Oh dear, thank god you have me to help you feel better, no?”
Donetta forces herself to widen her smile. “Of course, of course. And look, on any other day I would just love your company, but I’m just so exhausted, what say we meet up tomorrow—“
“Oh, Donnie, don’t say that, I came all this way,” he says, and then he steps even closer, and Donetta has to move out of the doorway to avoid touching him. He walks into her room like he owns it. Donetta doesn’t know what her brother’s promised him—maybe he does.
“Monty, please—“
He sits down on her bed. It creaks. He pats the seat next to him. “Come, talk with me.”
“Monty, you can’t be here,” she says, through tight lips. “What will my brother say? We’re not yet wed, you’re one out of a dozen suitors.”
He rolls his eyes, smile faltering slightly. “A dozen suitors? I know you’re highly sought after, Donetta, no need to brag. You must know your brother’s all but promised you to me, anyway.”
Donetta does not let the horror show on her face. Carlos frowns at her silence. “Or maybe you didn’t? I understand, you’re speechless from excitement.”
“Yes—you’re right,” Donetta says slowly. “You’re right. In truth, I don’t want you here because I’m planning a… a wedding!”
The lie is ridiculous, she knows, and she ignores the suspicious muffled snort that comes from under her bed at the sound of it. Carlos’ face, though, lights up, ego easily fed.
“A wedding?” Monty says, buttered-up. “Already?”
“Yes, yes, it’s very time-consuming and all, I needed to plan months in advance, you know how it is.” Donetta says, and then takes his arm to move him off the bed. The biscuit of his petticoat is greasy under her hands.
He goes willingly, if not a little confused. “But I haven’t proposed.”
“Well, obviously I wanted to get ahead of things! Weddings are lots of work!” Lord Carlos stares blankly at her, even while she nudges him to the door.
She tries one more time. “I wanted to try on bridal dresses today, you know it’s awful luck for the groom to see—“
“Of course! Of course, I’ll leave you be,” he says, nodding. He claps his hands sharply. “A wedding. How exciting, surely you’ll need my help soon enough—“
Donetta pushes him none too gently out into the hallway. “Great! Great. Yes, I’ll let you know if I do. When I do. Lovely seeing you, Monty!”
The door slams shut, and Donetta leans her back on it, exhausted. She rubs at her eyes. After a tense moment, she hears his footsteps fade down the corridor.
Calroy sticks his head out from under the bed, grinning. “What a piece of shit. I can’t believe that worked—“
“Let’s get married,” Donetta says.
There’s a beat. “What?”
“Let’s get married.”
Calroy extracts himself entirely from under her bed. “Donetta, I don’t even like—“
“Obviously, Calroy, me neither,” she says, rolling her eyes, but then her knees give out and she sinks down to the floor. “I’m just sick of this.”
Calroy is quiet.
“And look,” she continues, not quite looking him in the eye, “You can take my name and join the house—use our status to do the things you want to without your father, I mean, we’re not exactly wealthy, but it’s better than you have now, I can work around what people say about me marrying below my station—“
“Okay,” Calroy interrupts.
Donetta looks up. Calroy moves to sit next to her, settling with his back against her door, shoulder to shoulder.
“Okay,” he says, again. “Let’s get married.”
Donetta takes a steadying breath. “Thank you.”
“Will that stop him?” Calroy asks. Donetta doesn’t need to ask to know he’s not just talking about Monty.
“I don’t know. I still have my say in the house, but as second-born to him…” she shrugs. “Marriage will afford me—us—some power. It will stop the suitors, at least. Give us more leverage in controlling the lands.”
He nods. “He’s not going to like it.”
“No,” she says. “But I’m tired of doing what he wants.”
Another moment of silence. And then, “Well, I will say one thing.” Calroy smiles. “You sure will be planning a wedding.”
Donetta rests her head on his shoulder and laughs.
“I don’t want you spending anymore time with him,” her brother says.
Donetta jumps. She’d been embroidering by the fireplace, letting the light illuminate her work; she looks up now to see the flames reflect in her brother’s eyes with a mania she knows well. She feigns ignorance. “Who?”
“That Battenburg boy.” He is not looking at her, eyes transfixed by the flames.
“Calroy? I hardly know him—“
A hand against the mantle, hard. His eyes drill into her. Donetta forces herself not to flinch. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I am not lying. I do not know him well,” she says, steely. Her brother turns back to the fire, still looking unconvinced.
Instead of listening, he says, “When did the Battenburgs gain their nobility, again?”
Donetta feels dread unfurl in her stomach. “Eight years ago.”
“Right, yes. Merchant, a friend of Father’s, I remember. I protested Father’s decision—and I still do. The idea that a family could earn in an instant what we have lived for over lifetimes—it’s an insult. But I understand now. Nobility is a fragile thing, isn’t it, Donnie?”
She doesn’t answer. The entire room seems to have tilted, as if the light in the room was the absence of shadow, as if the fireplace reflected the flames in her brother’s eyes, rather than the other way round.
“Yes,” he says, as if musing. “Taken away as easily as it can be given. The notion humbles us all.”
Her brother moves to walk out the door. “Don’t spend anymore time with him.”
Donetta does not finish her embroidering that night.
“He’s not going to give us his blessing.”
“Have you asked?”
“I didn’t need to.” Donetta steps closer, “he threatened to strip your nobility. Me being here is a risk in and of itself.
Calroy’s hand clutches at the lining of the curtains, as if its opulence would be torn away before him. “We don’t need it. It would displease people, but we could do it without his permission…”
Donetta doesn’t say anything. She knows his argument sounded weak even to his own ears. Neither of them could risk it.
Calroy turns, angry. “He can’t get away with this. First the soldiers at Ceresian borders, then the sacking at the northern villages, then this—”
“What can we do?” Donetta asks, and finds that it is more genuine than exasperated.
“I don’t know! Get rid of him—Bulb knows no one here actually likes him, they just want his favour… they just want a taste of his power.” Calroy stills, and then breathes out slowly. “Sorry. I know you’re right.”
Is she? Donetta’s tongue works in her mouth. Sometimes, she dreams of blood. She’d woken up last night with the taste of it—had bitten her tongue so hard in her sleep that it had bled.
She takes a breath. “Well. Worse has been done in the name of Cruller.”
Calroy turns to her. “Yes,” he says, slowly. “It has.”
Donetta opens her mouth to say something, and then changes her mind. Instead, she leans back on her desk, hands resting on the hardwood, and asks, “If you did get to marry me, what’s the first thing you would do?”
Calroy gives her a curious glance. To another pair, this might be a flirtation, but Calroy knows better.
Calroy leans over Donetta's shoulder and taps the Muffinfield banner above her, rolling his eyes. "Well, I would certainly change that. Make it checkered. Yellow. Like the Battenburg cake pattern. Make sure they can never forget us.”
Donetta directs her attention to it; a cruller donut crossed with two swords emblazoned in green. She raises her eyebrows, pushes the farce a bit further. “Having second thoughts about my last name?”
“Please,” Calroy says. He makes a face. “ You’re not exactly going to go by Donetta Battenburg, are you?”
Donetta snorts. “Touché.”
"Also, we should get rid of that," Calroy says, pointing.
"The sword?" Donetta smiles at the crest. "No. I like it. I’d just hide it behind the donut, and make it... pink."
“Subtle.”
“Me? Ulterior motives? Of course not.” Donetta throws him a saccharinely innocent look, batting her eyelashes. It makes him smile, for the first time during their conversation. “Is that all? Changing our crest?”
“Please. Do I need to mention the part where I’d make every noble who’s sent me a dirty look across the room suffer from a miserable and painful slow death?” He says, deadpan. “Kidding.”
“Don’t joke about things like that,” Donetta says, and then grins. “Not when I can help you.”
“Uh huh,” he says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling, “And you? What’s the first thing you would do if we were married?”
“Well,” she starts, “assuming I gain control of the estate, I’d put an end to the ban on hunting in the Peppermint Woods, to gain favour with my brothers’ allies… and then I’d stop spending our gold on those idiot, stuck-up families. I’d build up the merchant routes again; god knows we’re insulated, when we could be brokering deals with Jawbreaker or even Castle Candy! And stop terrorising those poor families on the rural outskirts, of course. They’re more valuable to us as allies than fodder.”
“…Is that all?” Calroy echoes her, but with significantly more sarcasm.
“No,” Donetta says, teasing, and keeps going. “I’d lift the tightened borders, too, and fix our family’s reputation in Ceresia. Use my family’s name to fix yours, too. We’d be free. No one breathing on our necks, looking down their noses at us. No one would even dare say a word against us. We’re cleverer than half those officials combined, anyway. We’d rule Muffinfield the way we always dreamed of doing.”
Calroy looks at the far horizon. And then, sighing, with a tone weary and feverish both: “What’s the point of pretending, Donetta?”
“Well,” she says, and forces her tone to be blasé. “I’ve been thinking. Spousal privilege holds up in court.”
Calroy stares. “…You’re not serious.”
“You suggested it yourself!” She says, somewhat childishly.
“I was exaggerating! Mostly.” Calroy lets out an absurd laugh, rubs at his temple. “So all that was to what, butter me up? Convince me?”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.” He stills, genuinely considering. Then, “Donetta… he’s still your brother.”
There’s no intent to guilt in Calroy’s tone. It’s a reminder, and nothing else. There is no love lost between her and her brother. But it takes a certain kind of person to kill, Donetta thinks.
“It’s hardly in cold blood,” Donetta says, swallowing. “It might as well be self-defense, if half of Muffinfield has anything to say about it.”
“We can’t get caught.”
“We won’t.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“Yes.”
A pause. “Well?” Donetta asks.
Calroy walks to the archway, resting his hands on the sill and staring outwards at the great many mountains that line the border, at the candy floss trees that line the forest like spools of cotton embroidered into cloth.
“Okay,” he says, and rests his hand over hers. “I trust you.”
Donetta smiles.
The day Donetta first meets Amanda, the sun is blazing like an open fire.
She is walking to the Knight’s barracks with fresh water and honeyed fruit, and is unsurprised to see most of the soldiers leaning against the walls, sitting down and scratching at the joints of their armour. Beyond her brother’s personal guard—soldiers with far more to lose and too much of their lives at stake to lose it—Muffinfield has never had a very dedicated force.
A few call out to her as she comes into sight, faces lighting up at the food and drink. They make their way to her, rough hands caked in sweat and dirt digging clumsily on her platter. She makes a habit to be friendly towards common foot soldiers, as unpleasant a company she finds them; she does not know when they will become useful. Seeming friendly and open to everyone on the estate did wonders for winning favour, after all.
Sitting apart from their group, there’s a single knight she hasn’t yet seen before, cleaning her armour. The woman looks hungrily at the food she and the others are eating, but she doesn’t stand to join them. When Donetta notices the uniform, she corrects herself—not a knight, but a squire.
“It’s been a while, my lady,” asks Sir Shortcrust, grinning as she plucks an apple from her plate. She is one of the few knights that doesn’t make Donetta want to tear her hair out, but this heat is making her snippy. “How’s Monty?”
Donetta bites back a scathing reply, and smiles thinly instead. So word got around. “He’s fine. Who’s that?” she asks, bluntly, pointing her chin at the hunched figure still focussed intently onn her armour.
Shortcrust turns to look at where she gestures. “Her? Amanda Maillard. New squire. ‘Bout your age, actually. Took up the position just a week ago. New brooms sweep clean, and all that.”
Amanda seems to be pointedly ignoring them, short hair falling in around her eyes and sharp cheekbones as she avoids their gaze. Donetta nods her thanks, and then takes two apples from the basket and walks over. She steps on the straw louder than usual, making her approach clear. Not that she would’ve needed to; she can see Maillard’s pupils tracking her, even if the squire doesn’t lift her head. From this distance, Donetta can see the sweat glistening on Amanda’s arms, brown skin and well-defined muscle working the cloth back and forth on the breastplate she’s cleaning.
“Honey apple?” Donetta says, dangling it by the stem in front of her and going for a welcoming smile.
Amanda hesitates, stiff and unsure, not yet used to the customs of court. Then, she wipes her hands on the cloth and takes it. “Thank you, my—my lady.” Her speech stumbles over the address.
“It’s Lady Donetta.”
“Thank you, Lady Donetta.” She doesn’t eat it, though. It only makes Donetta more eager to break through. She can hear Calroy chastising her in the back of her mind, telling her not to take on another little project—but she waves him away dismissively. Amanda frowns at the movement. “You’re Lord Cruller’s sister?”
Donetta nods, and makes a face. “You know what—just call me Donetta,” she says instead, and takes an inviting bite into her apple, letting the juice drip down her chin and her formal demeanour fall.
“Oh, drats,” Donetta says, laughing. She lets out an internal cheer when Amanda lets out a surprised snort. The squire offers up her cloth, and then seems to remember that she had been using it to clean armour, and pulls away—but Donetta grabs it before she can, dabbing at herself. “Thank you.”
She gives the cloth back, but keeps her arm on it. She takes another bite, and nods towards the apple Amanda is still holding. Lets unprofessionalism seep into speech to loosen Amanda up, and talks with her mouth full, just a little. “It’s good. Promise.”
Amanda looks at her, and Donetta’s eyes widen as Amanda reaches out with the cloth to wipe away something at Donetta’s cheek. “Grease,” she says. “From the cloth. Sorry. It probably made you dirtier.”
Amanda looks like she regrets the action the moment the words leave her mouth, hand stopping in mid-air as if whatever had possessed her to touch a noble without permission had finally left her. Donetta laughs, genuine in her surprise, and the awkwardness shatters like ice.
“Don’t apologise,” she says, and then gestures towards Amanda. “Well?”
The squire smiles, and finally bites into her apple, hungry.
“You’re right,” she says, then, and makes an appreciative sound. “It’s good.”
Donetta leans back and smiles. “Told you. You’re new here, right?”
Amanda nods. Swallows before she speaks. “Just arrived here a couple weeks ago—they recruited me from the Plains Frosting.”
Donetta furrows her brows. “And you came? Sorry, that was rude—I just can’t imagine Muffinfield has a good reputation there. Not during—“
“Cruller’s rule? No. It doesn’t, but—“ Amanda cuts herself short, eyes Donetta carefully, as if realising she’s badmouthing her family in front of her. Donetta shrugs, as if to say, ‘I brought it up first’. Amanda nods. “But power is power.”
“You know,” Donetta says, and smiles, “I completely agree.”
“Oh, husband of mine,” Donetta calls across the room, “Read this for me, will you?”
“Fiancé,” Calroy corrects, and takes the letter. “We’re not married yet.”
Donetta rolls her eyes. She reaches forward and plucks a separate invitation from her tabletop, careful not to smudge the ink. She had hand-written all of these, inviting a score of guests to a banquet she was hosting for her brother after what she knows would be a particularly tense political council. She’d needed suspects, a scapegoat—and well, her brother has plenty of enemies. Keep him on his toes for the night, and keep the court guessing at the instigator of his inevitable demise; two birds with one stone, and all of that. Donetta, for the hundredth time, is endlessly grateful that she’d had the common sense to not publicise her own issues with her brother. The same could not be said for about a dozen others.
Calroy finishes reading. “Sounds suitably antagonising, dear. Plenty of motive. Excellent forgery, too, right down to your brother’s little flourishes. And Monty?”
She waves a hand. “He’ll be called to urgent business in Ceresia by his cousin. It will take months, at least. I’ll be expected to go with him, but in the turmoil of my brother’s absence, it won’t be a surprise that I stay. It may be less of a surprise if he doesn’t return.”
Calroy raises his eyebrow. “How many people are we killing, again?”
“Oh, I’m not killing him. He’ll be caught up in the disaster that is Ceresian politics, right now, like anyone who even lays a finger in that nation.”
“Like you?”
“Like me,” Donetta says, lightly, and then gives him a look. “I’ve got it under control, Calroy.”
“I know, Donetta,” he says, giving her a sheepish smile. And then, a bit worried, “Your brother doesn’t like any of this, you know. He can sense something’s up.”
“Well, if all goes well, he won’t be sensing anything for much longer.” Donetta says, dry, but she does not miss how their bodies steel themselves, as if the air in the room had gotten heavier around them. Calroy’s breathing shifts.
“Yes,” he exhales. His hand reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. His voice has grown feverish. “Almost there.”
Donetta swirls her drink slowly, and the banquet before her waits in anticipation.
It is the last night she will feel like this, she thinks. The attendants mill, oblivious, and Donetta feels as if her life has condensed into this one night, as if every move she makes echoes back hundredfold around her, so very aware is she of her presence in this space. The world around her is honeyed water—slow and rippling.
“Evening, Donetta,” comes a familiar voice from behind her.
Donetta’s gut drops, and she turns, moment shattered in her anger. “What are you doing here,” she says, flat.
Calroy, decked in what Donetta knows are his nicest clothes, has the gall to smirk. “I wasn’t going to miss this.”
“We talked about this! I’m meant to be here with Monty, you don’t want to draw unnecessary attention—“
“And I won’t,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Come on, we’ve been planning this for months. What could go wrong?”
He takes the glass from her hand to take a sip of the wine. “Blegh. You couldn’t have gotten something nicer?”
She sighs, resigned. Calroy is nothing if not stubborn. “It’s his favourite.”
“His bad taste extends to everything, I see.”
“Yes, well. Don’t let him see you. Don’t let him see you with me.”
“Don’t let who—ah. You,” Monty says, appearing behind Donetta again. She suppresses a groan. “What was it again?”
“Battenburg,” Calroy grits out, and then passes his glass back to Donetta and turns on his heel. “Well, I can tell when I’m not wanted. Have a lovely evening, my lady.”
“What was he doing here?”
“Who knows,” Donetta says, truthfully, letting genuine frustration seep into her voice. “Come on, dear, the festivities are about to begin.”
She’s right; a few moments later, the band begins to play. A gentle waltz, that she takes on with as much grace as she can muster. Sometimes, she sees a pink flash of Calroy’s gloves in amongst the bodies, and tries her best not to worry. When it ends, she and Monty sit amongst the increasingly raucous laughter of his friends, and Donetta could draw blood with how hard she is biting her tongue. She’s never been among such dull, thick-headed company.
After a while, she finally excuses herself, and then nods at a servant, Kit, who approaches her at the skirts of the party with two wineglasses. She owes him a favour for this: his parents had been displaced by her brother’s iron rule, stripped of their names and houses and sent away for opposing him. She will pardon them in his absence.
“Straight to my brother, understand?” Donetta whispers, as her arm catches on Kit’s sleeve and drops something inconspicuous in one of the glasses he holds. She takes the other, and squeezes his arm, comfort and threat both in the gesture.
The boy nods, face steely, and Donetta smiles, genuine. She has always liked that about him. The whole Kat family has anger to spare in spades. It makes them useful, if a bit volatile. He takes his leave.
“Lady Donetta?”
Donetta turns around at the familiar voice, surprised. It seems she’s encountering all manner of people she was not expecting tonight.“Amanda? You’re here tonight?”
She has never seen Amanda in full armour before, and the squire stands even taller than usual at her post, looking much more like nobility than any of the people she served.
“You didn’t know?” Amanda says, tilting her head and smiling. Donetta, despite everything, feels her body loosen, a tension eased by Amanda’s mere presence. “We were running low on escorts. There’s a lot of people at this banquet, my lady.”
Donetta nods. “I just…” Of course she knows, she invited them. Still, she had not expected a squire to be here. They have become closer friends than she had thought; she did not want Amanda to have to shoulder any of the inevitable blame.
“Are you alright, Donetta?” Amanda asks, dropping the title, and Donetta’s lips quirk at how easy she was read. She is spending too much time around the barracks, it seems.
“Fine, Amanda. I must return to the banquet, is all.”
Amanda nods. “And I to my duties.” And then, gentler, “Have a lovely night.”
Donetta nods, and turns, and hopes Amanda is far from the chaos when it strikes.
“That your new project?” comes a voice as some sidles up beside her.
“Calroy,” she sighs, eyes closing.
“Geez. Can’t a man offer his betrothed a dance?” he says, and then lifts his hand. Donetta purses her lips, but takes it.
“Can’t a man let his betrothed finish her glass, first?” she says, eyebrows raised, and then a shadow falls over her, and she freezes.
“Donetta,” her brother says, deathly quiet, and Donetta swallows, and turns slowly, and does not flinch. He is smiling saccharinely at her, eyes dark with rage, as he pointedly does not acknowledge the man standing next to her. She didn’t see him approach—he must’ve been following Calroy—
“Brother,” she says, recovering quickly. “How has your night been? Congratulations on your meeting today. I heard it went well—”
“Did our previous conversation go over your head, Donetta?” He asks, ignoring her greeting. “Didn’t I tell you not to spend your time with—“
“Lord Cruller,” Calroy says, eyes like flint. Donetta resists the urge to rub at her temples. If he’d had any sense, he would’ve slipped away by now. “You’re looking dashing in that suit—it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I hope I’m not keeping your sister away from you.”
Her brother’s jaw works, but still his eyes refuse to acknowledge Calroy. Donetta’s eyes go to the glass her brother is holding, and she lets out a simultaneous sigh of relief and horror; it’s Kit’s glass, still full. The poison is slow-acting, but the both of them still need to be far, far away from here when he drinks.
“Battenburg,” her brother says, malice coating his teeth like caramel.
“So you do know my name! I’m afraid your friend, Lord Monty Carlos, was struggling earlier—“
“If you know what’s good for you, you will end this charade. Don’t fool my fathers’ weakness for mine; you and your family will get what you deserve.”
Calroy’s lip curl, his usual control slipping. Donetta tries to stop herself from turning and hitting him with a withering glare. “The only person who’s getting what’s coming to them is you, my lord. I’d watch your step, making so many enemies. I’d be surprised if you last the night.”
Donetta’s heart stops.
Her brother’s face smooths over, unrevealing and dangerous. Donetta watches with horror as he places his goblet back on the table.
“Brother—“
“Well, sister. This has been a pleasant banquet, but I simply must take my leave. I warned you, did I not? Enjoy the banquet while you can, Battenburg.”
He stands, and Donetta’s hands clench as her brother walks to the open doors. She grabs Calroy’s forearm viciously. “What have you done?” she hisses.
Calroy’s tense under her grip, but at her nails digging into his skin, he comes back from his fog of rage slowly. And blanches suddenly, reality catching back up to him all at once. “Did he not drink the—“
“No!” Donetta says, hands going up to worry at her eyes, mind racing for a solution.
Calroy has the grace to look admonished, panic marring his face. “Shit. Shit, I’m sorry, Donetta, but you heard what he said—No. I’m sorry. What do we do?”
Donetta meets his worried look with anger. “You—“ She reels herself in. “We have to kill him. Tonight.”
“He won’t let us get any closer to him. There’ll be guards.”
Something strikes Donetta, then. “There’ll be one guard.”
“What?”
This was not in the plan. But they could not afford to lose almost a year of planning. Donetta spins on her heel, looking for dark hair and cracker steel. She finally finds Amanda down the hall from where she left her, at the banquet outskirts, and has to stop herself from running to meet her. “Amanda, I need a favour.”
“What?”
“Abandon your shift at my brother’s post tonight.”
“What?”
“It’s dangerous, Amanda—listen to me. If you value your life—”
“Donetta… what do you know?”
Donetta swallows. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Amanda says, well-trained. Donetta could smile if the situation weren’t so dire.
“Then trust me. You don’t want to be there tonight.”
“Your brother’s in danger.” It’s not a question. “Why?”
Donetta doesn’t respond, which is answer enough. She may not have been outwardly derisive of her brother’s rule, but they’ve spent enough time in each others’ company to know. Amanda has never been blind to Donetta’s ambition.
Amanda grits her teeth. “I can’t do that, Donetta. If anything happens to him, I’ll be blamed for it.”
Donetta shakes her head. “No. I’ll make sure of it. At the end of tonight, Amanda, things will be different. I promise. Do you trust me?”
There’s no hiding what she’s going to do. Amanda’s not stupid. Donetta locks eyes with her, starkly aware of every single point of space between them, toffee-thick with confession, and knows there’s no going back. They’ll be tied to this moment, forever.
“I—“
Donetta reaches out, and it feels like pushing her hand through butter—and clutches Amanda’s gloved hand. She speaks softly, words leaving her mouth thin as wafer, but Amanda stops and listens without question. “I will have to do it either way, Sir Maillard, with or against you. But I would rather be with you.”
“Donetta. I trust you.”
Donetta feels a weight slip off her back, and almost collapses into Amanda’s arms then and there. This was not even the difficult part.
“You’ve made up your mind,” Amanda says, troubled, but mostly just worried. For Donetta, of all things. Donetta cannot believe she is this lucky.
“I have.”
“Then, I suppose, so have I.” Amanda takes her lady by the elbow, and guides her back to the banquet. Calroy is amongst the crowds, looking for her. “There is a fair bit to go in the festivities tonight. I will be found missing from your brother’s quarters at midnight. Good luck, my lady.”
“What did you do?” Calroy asks, as he spots her. Amanda turns and walks away, and Donetta misses her presence at her side.
“Secured our victory,” she says, tight, frustration still lining her thoughts—she would not be in this position had Calroy’s emotions not overtaken him—it’s too late. She has to act, now. “You should leave. Make a public exit. You cannot be seen here later tonight.”
Calroy scowls, but nods, wary of his mistakes. “Will you be okay?”
She nods. “I’ll take care of it.”
“If I can do anything—“
“You’ve done enough, Calroy,” Donetta says, sharp. And then, at Calroy’s guilty expression, she takes his hand. “I mean it. Leave the rest to me, okay?”
He squeezes back. “Okay.”
Donetta holds her hand up to the light, squints at the wedding ring on her third finger. There is a tiny bright red gem embedded in the middle of the golden band; Calroy had commissioned it from one of his father’s contacts as a merchant.
Their room is her old one; proper tradition would have required her take over her brother’s room, but—well. She could not have seen the inside of those walls again, so she pulled a few strings. Muffinfield is hers now, after all.
“Can you believe Princess Sapphria was at the ceremony? I’d forgotten how young she was,” Calroy muses, flopping onto the bed next to her. “Isn’t it strange to hear of the royal family in such broad, mythical legends, and then see them face to face? It was almost disappointing.”
Donetta hums, thinking about Sapphria’s shallow laughter, like morning birds. The princess had gotten drunk, as had the rest of the attending party, royalty or not—but despite being her fourth glass in, her eyes had remained as clear as Donetta had ever seen them. “Well, it’s good to know I wasn’t the only one in Candia concerned about Muffinfield’s political standing. It was nice to see an outside face. Hold on—help me get out of this ridiculous dress, will you?”
Calroy turns, nimble fingers loosening the lace at her back. “I thought it was rather nice.”
“It was itchy, is what it was,” she remarks, and then strips out of it and the corset underneath to pull on a night dress.
Calroy gives her a disquieted look when she turns back around. “Your gloves. Here, let me—“
She jerks, suddenly, away from him. “No, I—“
He looks at her gently. “Have they not healed, yet?”
She sits heavily on the bed, not meeting his eyes. “They’ve healed. I just don’t want to… you know.”
He nods. Donetta stares at the offending garment, and feels the urge to rip it off and scrub at her hands, again, itch at them until the scabs peel and bleed, until she can no longer tell the difference between the marks her brother left on her and her own—
“We did it, Donetta,” Calroy says, reassuring. Donetta snaps herself out of it. When she finally looks up to meet his eyes, the giddiness spills into his voice like wine. “Muffinfield is ours. Not your brothers, not any of his stupid elders, or stuffy nobles—ours.”
“Ours,” she echoes, and feels the word in her mouth like honeyed candy; round as a gumdrop and twice as sweet.
“Ours!” Calroy crows, and then reaches out to pour the both of them another glass of wine. “We can do whatever we want, sweetheart.”
Donetta looks up, sees the Cruller crest hanging above her bed, sickly yellows and suffocating browns—and then she reaches up with her hands and yanks, hard, cloth straining beneath her grip until it doesn’t, until the thread gives and she collapses back onto the bed with the force of it. It tears in half with a horrid, ripping sound.
She smiles from where she lies there, staring at the cloth in her hand. Turns her head to meet Calroy’s shocked, but not displeased expression. “Whatever we want,” she says.
He grins, hands her a glass of wine. She sits up and sculls half of it in one go, not caring that some of it drips down her chin.
“Oh, the faces on your brothers’ friends tonight!” Calroy says, eyes closed in satisfaction. “I could get drunk off of their expressions alone.”
“They never saw it coming,” Donetta agrees. The wine is sweet on her tongue, and she watches the stars outside hang in the cool night air. “Marquesa and Marquis of Muffinfield,” she says, turning the titles on her tongue.
“What next?” Calroy laughs, but his eyes are feverish as they reflect the candlelight. “King and Queen of Candia?”
Donetta holds out her glass, grinning. Despite it all, she feels invincible in this moment, victory running through her veins like blood. She feels it like a heat, thick and heady, and wants more.
She laughs. “We have all the time in the world.”
The candlelight burns. Calroy taps her glass with his own. “To the new Marquesa.”
She returns his sentiment, pleasure pooling in her gut at the title. “To the new Marquis.”
And they drink.