I’m too shocked to reply, and Heron must be as well. It’s a kinder sentiment than I ever expected from Artemisia, and though it doesn’t alleviate my guilt wholly, it does help a bit.

“Come on,” Art says when the ladder reaches us. “I’ll go first, then Theo. Heron, you bring up the rear in case she falls.”

“I won’t fall,” I scoff, though it suddenly occurs to me that I might. After the swimming and climbing yesterday, my arms feel limp and useless, but it’s a short climb, at least.

“There will be a crowd gathered,” Art continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll push through it, so stay close to me. My mother will be waiting in her quarters, away from the madness.”

She takes ahold of the rope ladder and begins to climb. I wait until she’s a few feet up before following. The pain in my arms as I climb is almost a pleasant distraction from the worry rattling around my mind. I can feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, watching me like I’m someone worth watching—worth following—and I’m not sure I know how to be that person.

When I reach the top, Artemisia’s waiting for me, leaning over the edge to take my hand. Her face is creased with panic.

“I’m sorry, Theo,” she says, pulling me over the edge of the deck as she whispers in such a rush that I almost can’t hear her. “My mother came out to meet you after all, and there’s something you don’t know—”

“Theodosia.”

I know that voice. It sends shivers down my spine and sets my heart racing, fills me with hope that I haven’t felt in a decade. I know it’s impossible, but I would recognize that voice anywhere.

Art steps aside and the first thing I see is the thick ring of people gathered on the deck around me, all watching with joyous looks on their faces. A few have children on their hips or shoulders. Most of them look like they could use a few extra rations now and then, but none of them are starving, like the slaves in the capital.

The crowd parts and a woman approaches through the people.

The woman has my mother’s face as well as her voice, the same dark eyes and round cheeks and full mouth. The same tall, reedy frame. The same untamable mess of black-cherry hair that she used to let me braid. The same freckles one famed Astrean poet referred to as “the most divine of constellations.”

I want to cry out and run toward her, but Artemisia’s hand comes down on my shoulder and I understand the warning.

My mother is not alive. I know this. I saw the life leave her.

“Is this some kind of trick?” I hiss as the woman comes closer, mindful of the people watching. My people. I force myself not to cower, not to leap forward into her arms.

Her eyebrows arch the way my mother’s used to, but her eyes are heavy with sadness.

“Not an intentional one,” she says in my mother’s voice. “You didn’t think to warn her?” she asks Artemisia.

Next to me, Artemisia’s posture has gone stiff as a soldier’s. “We didn’t want to risk…If Theo was tortured…” She trails off and clears her throat, turning to look at me. “Theo, this is Dragonsbane.”

The woman smiles with my mother’s mouth, but it doesn’t have the warmth my mother’s smile always held. There’s a sharpness there, a bitterness my mother never had. “You, however, can call me Aunt Kallistrade, if you’d prefer.”

“Our mothers were twins,” Artemisia says, but I barely hear her. I barely hear Heron as he climbs over the deck railing and comes to stand on my other side.

The words make little sense to me. All I know is that I am staring into the face of my mother, a face I thought I would never see again. There are things I forgot about her, like how thick her eyebrows were and the bump at the bridge of her nose. I forgot how pieces of her hair would stand on end unless they were smoothed down with grease.

“Eirene was born five minutes before I was,” the woman with my mother’s face continues. “Small distance as it was, it made her the heir and me only the spare.”

“If my mother had a twin, I would have known it,” I say, still unwilling to believe what I can see.

She shrugs. “I was halfway around the world for most of your life,” she says. “Court was never my place. I’m sure we would have met eventually, if the siege hadn’t happened.” She pauses and presses her lips together, her eyes softening as they take in my face. “I can’t express how glad I am to have you here. It feels like getting a piece of her back.”

She says the words, but I can tell she doesn’t mean them. They’re for the audience, not for me, and I know I should say something similar. I clear my throat.

“Looking at you, I can’t help but feel the same,” I tell her, even as I remind myself that she is not my mother. I don’t know this woman, and I certainly don’t know if I can believe anything she says.

I draw myself up to my full height. “I’m sure we have many things to discuss, Aunt,” I tell her, pasting on the fake smile I always wore at court. The one I hoped I would never have to wear again.

“We do,” she says, matching my smile. “I hear you’ve brought me a present.”

I think of Søren, asleep with his limbs bound.

“Prinz Søren is not for you. He is a political prisoner,” I say. “He’ll be treated as civilly as possible while he’s with us.”

Her nostrils narrow. “You expect us to keep a Kalovaxian fed while the rest of us eat half rations?” she asks. “What justice is that?”

“The time for justice isn’t here yet,” I say levelly, raising my voice so the crowd can hear me as well. “We’re still playing a game we have little chance of winning, and the Prinz is the only card we have. We need to keep him healthy and whole or else he’ll be useless.”

Dragonsbane’s eyes flick over her shoulder to the crowd before she turns back to me, smile broader and more false than before.

“Of course, Your Highness. I’ll see to it.”

She shouts to two men on the fringe of the crowd. “Bring the prisoner to the brig.”

“I’ll be checking in on him to make sure he’s being taken care of,” I tell her.

When she turns back to me, her smile has gone feral. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she says. “Or wise, for that matter. There are already those who say you’re too fond of him.”

The words are a well-aimed jab, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. Next to me, Heron tenses like a bow ready to snap.