I purse my lips. “That’s actually quite sensible, isn’t it?” I say. “Choosing a ruler instead of leaving it up to bloodlines. What will she want from me?”

S?ren shrugs. “Marriage in Doraz isn’t limited to being between men and women….”

“It wasn’t in Astrea either,” I tell him.

“In this specific case, I’m not sure what the protocol would be. It would likely be open to discussion; you may be able to get her to agree to the two of you being partner rulers.”

“That’s certainly preferable to the others,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “I’m sure she’d still want a cut of Astrea. Famed as they all say your beauty is, they wouldn’t have come all this way for that alone.”

Next up is Bindor and one of the high priests S?ren mentioned. He’s younger than I expected, with limbs he hasn’t quite grown into and a shaved bronze head that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. He looks at me with his nervousness clearly written on his face.

“His Holiness the High Priest Batistius has been raised in a monastery,” S?ren whispers to me. “And in the Bindor capital, women are strictly forbidden. It’s quite likely he doesn’t remember seeing one before.”

I have to stifle a giggle as he approaches me uncertainly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t kiss my hand, only bowing.

“May God smile upon you, Queen Theodosia,” he tells me, his voice shaking.

“And you as well,” I say, which seems to be the right answer. He gives a quick nod before turning to King Etristo.

“Still a no,” I whisper to S?ren. “And let’s try to get him home as soon as we can—something tells me Sta’Crivero might well be enough to kill him.”

I almost sag with relief when I realize we’ve reached the last carriage.

A man steps out in a tailored jacket-and-trouser set that matches the violet of his carriage perfectly. He must be around thirty, with milk-pale skin and dark hair that has been styled with so much pomade that it looks like it would be hard to the touch. He holds himself with a kind of practiced air that seems strange, though it takes me a moment to pinpoint exactly why—he holds himself like a man who had to learn to seem powerful, not one to whom power was a natural birthright. During our lessons on the ship, S?ren and Artemisia mentioned that there were some countries whose leaders were chosen by the citizens themselves, and I would wager this is one of them.

“Chancellor Marzen of Oriana,” S?ren whispers to me, confirming my guess. Chancellors are voted into power and so they can rise from anywhere. “And that will be his sister, Salla Coltania.”

Coltania follows her brother closely in a matching violet gown that hugs her figure. She’s younger than him, but older than me—twenty, perhaps. Her gaze is sharp and serious, her full, painted lips in a permanently straight line.

I open my mouth to ask S?ren what Salla means, but before I can, the Chancellor turns his gaze on me. He has the sort of contagious smile that elicits one in return. Even before he opens his mouth, there is something intrinsically compelling about him. I suppose it’s a handy trait to have if you’re going to convince people to vote you into power.

“Our neighbors to the west, my dear,” King Etristo explains. “In fact, they used to be under our domain before they demanded to run things themselves several centuries back.” He turns to the Chancellor. “From what I’ve been hearing, Marzen, many of your countrymen might be missing our unified country after the stress of the election.”

Though his tone is jovial enough, there’s no disguising the bite to King Etristo’s words. The Chancellor’s smile freezes but never falters.

“I can’t imagine that would be the case unless I quadrupled their taxes and put a toll on all imports and exports, as your grandfather did,” he says.

Both men fall silent and I half expect King Etristo to leap out of his chair—frail bones and all—and attack the Chancellor, but after a moment he laughs instead, a loud, wheezing sound. The Chancellor joins in and I force a laugh as well, even though I’m not quite sure what’s funny.

“This one has such a sense of humor,” King Etristo says to me. “And charm, that’s why almost half the people in his country voted to elect him.”

The dagger is unmistakable, but again, the Chancellor continues to smile as though everyone in the country were watching him.

“Make sure to make my home your home, Marzen,” King Etristo says, reaching out to shake the Chancellor’s hand. “I’ll have someone explain how the bath works. I know it’s a foreign concept in Oriana.”

“Ah, but I’m simply excited to try some of this Sta’Criveran wine I’ve heard about,” Marzen says, matching the King’s tone. “Is it true it can be used to clean carpets as well? How magnificent to have so many uses for a single product!”

Again, both men laugh and shake hands, though their grips are white-knuckled.

When Marzen disappears into the palace, I lean toward S?ren.

“Did I fall asleep at some point and miss the part where they compared the size of their—”

“You see, my dear,” the King interrupts, drawing me back to him, “I’ve found you some fine prospects. What are your thoughts so far?”

I consider my words carefully before answering. “They were all wonderful, to be sure,” I say with a smile. “And I’m so pleased that they all left their homes to come and meet me.”

“You’ll get to know some of them better at dinner tonight,” he says.

Without waiting for my response, he waves his hand and a group of attendants rushes over to lift him out of his chair and into a transport similar to the one he used when we first met in the desert. They carry him inside and the gathered Sta’Criverans follow.

“Thoughts?” S?ren asks me as we stand as well.

I think my expression manages to say it all better than words ever could, because S?ren stifles a laugh. He eyes me for a long moment. “As badly as I’d like to go back to my room and sleep off this infernal headache, you look like you have other plans.”

“I was hoping to visit the refugee camp,” I admit. “But King Etristo refused. He said it was no place for a girl like me.”

“Something tells me that isn’t enough to dissuade you,” S?ren says.

I smile. “Tell the others. We’ll leave in an hour’s time.”

MARIAL DOESN’T LOOK AT ALL surprised when I say I’m not feeling well and would like to rest, which makes me think that I must look as awful as I feel after last night. Which means the suitors were awful liars for telling me how lovely I was all morning.

After Marial and the rest of my attendants help me out of my suffocating dress and unpin my hair from its elaborate style, they leave me tucked into bed in another gauzy nightgown. When the door closes behind them, I wait a moment to make sure no one comes back before throwing the satin quilt off and climbing out of bed again. Comfortable as my bed is, I’m worried that if I stay in it for another moment I actually will fall back asleep, and I can’t do that.

My wardrobe is so full I can’t move the hangers more than a hair’s breadth, and almost all the dresses are embellished and heavy with layer upon layer of material, with so many hooks and buttons and ribbons that I could never put one on myself. After searching for a few minutes, I finally manage to find one that might perhaps be described as plain, if only by Sta’Criveran standards. Bottle-green silk with cap sleeves and a bodice that is somewhat looser than the other dresses I’ve worn. The skirt bells out in a cascade of chiffon, trimmed with small jewels along the waist and hem. Even with the embellishments, it’s far lighter and simpler than anything else in the wardrobe. It will have to do.

It’s a struggle to fasten the hook-and-eye closures that run up the back of the dress without assistance, and for an instant, I nearly call for help from one of my Shadows before remembering that this is a different palace entirely and one without holes in the walls.

I’ve just managed to hook the last closure when there’s a soft knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, Artemisia slips in. She’s wearing her tunic and leggings from the Smoke again, and her cerulean hair is gathered into a messy pile on top of her head. Her dark eyebrows arch almost into her hairline as she looks me over from the top of my head to my toes.

“We’re going to the refugee camp,” she says slowly. “Not a ball.”

My cheeks warm. “If you can find something less flashy in there, I’ll gladly change,” I say, gesturing to the wardrobe.

“Hmmm,” she says with what might be a scoff or a laugh—it’s difficult to tell. “It’s almost as if the King doesn’t want you sneaking out of the palace to go visit the camp. You didn’t bring your clothes from the Smoke?”

“It didn’t occur to me to,” I admit. “And even the purple gown I wore to shore would have been better, but I think they sent it to the launderer when I got here. Or the furnace, maybe,” I add, thinking about the disdain with which Marial’s attendants handled the patched and fraying dress that had been through far more than it was made to withstand.