POV: Evangeline
The palace is quiet in the mornings, but it is not peaceful.
I learn the difference early.
The marble floors are cold under my bare feet as I hurry down the corridor, my nightdress gathered in my fists so I don’t trip. The sun has only just begun to climb, spilling pale gold through tall windows, and everything smells like polish and stone and rules.
“Evie,” Alexandro whispers from behind a column. “Over here.”
I turn and find him crouched low, his dark hair sticking up in places it shouldn’t. He grins when he sees me, a crooked, conspiratorial grin that always means trouble.
“You’re late,” I say, trying to sound serious the way our tutors do.
“I was practicing sword forms,” he says proudly. “Father says I need discipline.”
“You’re seven,” I remind him.
“I’ll be Duke one day,” he replies solemnly, then immediately ruins it by sticking his tongue out.
I laugh and cover my mouth so the sound doesn’t echo. Laughing too loudly before lessons earns looks. Looks become reports. Reports become consequences.
Alexandro grabs my hand and pulls me into the window alcove, where the curtains are thick and the stone seat is warm from the rising sun.
“We can stay here for a minute,” he says. “Before they start shouting.”
“They don’t shout,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows. “They shout.”
We sit shoulder to shoulder, knees touching, our whispers filling the small space like secrets the palace can’t steal from us. I lean my head against his arm, breathing him in. He smells like soap and grass and the faint metal scent of the training yard.
“Do you think Father likes me today?” he asks.
I frown. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Alexandro shrugs. “I didn’t bow fast enough yesterday.”
“That’s silly,” I say quickly. “He was tired. He doesn’t mean it.”
I don’t know if that’s true, but saying it feels important. Words matter. I am learning that too.
A bell rings somewhere deep in the palace, sharp and commanding.
“That’s us,” Alexandro sighs. “Come on.”
We rise together, hands still linked, until a voice slices through the corridor.
“Alexandro.”
Our father stands at the far end, tall and immovable, dressed in dark wool even this early. His gaze drops to our joined hands first, then lifts to Alexandro’s face.
“Release your sister,” he says.
Alexandro does it immediately. His shoulders straighten. His smile disappears.
“Yes, Father.”
“You were instructed to be in the lesson chamber ten minutes ago,” Father continues. “Why are you hiding?”
Alexandro opens his mouth. I know the look on his face—he’s about to explain, to justify, to say something honest.
I step forward.
“He was helping me find my shoes,” I say quickly. “I lost one.”
Father looks at me then. His eyes soften, just a little, the way they always do with me.
“Go to your room, Evangeline,” he says. “Get dressed properly.”
“Yes, Father.”
I hesitate, glancing at Alexandro. He gives me a small nod. I turn and walk away, my steps slow, my chest tight.
I don’t hear the strike, but I hear the sound Alexandro makes when it happens.
It is not a scream. It is worse.
I press my hands over my ears and keep walking until I reach my room, where I sit on the bed and count the patterns in the carpet until my breathing steadies. When the bell rings again, softer this time, I know the lesson has resumed.
But Alexandro does not come to lessons that day.
***
They send him to his room.
I sneak there after dinner, carrying a small plate of bread I stole from the table and hid under my sleeve. The servants don’t stop me. They never stop me.
Alexandro is sitting on his bed, his back to the door. He doesn’t turn when I enter.
“Alex,” I whisper.
He flinches.
I close the door behind me and pad over, climbing onto the bed beside him. His jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on the wall.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
I don’t believe him. I reach out and place my hand over his. He doesn’t pull away.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say fiercely.
He laughs without humor. “Father says obedience is everything.”
“Father isn’t everything,” I say.
Alexandro finally looks at me. His eyes are shiny, but he blinks hard, pushing the tears away like he’s been taught.
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” he says.
“I don’t care,” I reply. “I’m not scared.”
That’s not entirely true. But saying it makes me feel braver.
He exhales slowly. “You always say that.”
“I’ll always say it,” I promise.
There is a knock at the door. We freeze.
Our mother steps inside, her dress immaculate, her face composed.
“Evangeline,” she says gently. “It’s past your bedtime.”
“I was just checking on him,” I say.
She looks at Alexandro, then back at me. “Your brother needs to rest.”
I slide off the bed reluctantly. As I pass her, she smooths my hair once, briefly, like she’s completing a duty.
“Be good,” she murmurs.
I turn back at the door. Alexandro watches me, expression guarded.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I say.
He nods. “I know.”
***
That night, I lie awake listening to the palace breathe. The walls creak. Somewhere, a servant coughs. Somewhere else, a door closes.
I think about Alexandro’s face when Father looked at him. I think about how quickly smiles disappear here.
The next morning, I wake early and slip into his room again. He’s awake.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
“A little,” he says.
I sit beside him and swing my legs. “When we’re older, we’ll leave,” I say. “We’ll live somewhere warm and quiet. With horses.”
He smiles faintly. “You hate horses.”
“I’ll learn,” I say seriously.
He laughs then, a real laugh, and it feels like a victory.
I take his hand again, squeezing it hard.
“It’s you and me,” I tell him. “No matter what.”
He squeezes back. “Two against the world.”
“Yes,” I say, holding on like the promise is something solid, something that cannot be broken.