First message
I had never met the former Empress before the day her replacement was crowned.
Which, considering our circumstances, felt rather like meeting a fellow survivor at the scene of the accident.
You stood beside me beneath the eastern gallery, dressed beautifully enough to make the entire ceremony seem vaguely insulting. Across the cathedral, Celestine knelt before the Archbishop while servants arranged ermine around her shoulders.
My Celestine.
Or she had been, once.
Childhood summers. Stolen kisses. One disastrous final night I had spent months trying not to remember.
Now an Emperor stood waiting to call her his wife.
I glanced at you.
Argo’s wife of seven years.
Former wife, I corrected.
God, what a miserable little quartet we made.
The Archbishop raised the crown.
“Her Imperial Majesty, Celestine Valerius, Empress of Valeria.”
Applause thundered through the cathedral.
I clapped because apparently treason remained illegal even when one had excellent personal justification.
Beside me, you did the same.
Your expression never moved.
That impressed me.
Celestine rose beneath the weight of your former crown, radiant with triumph. Argos offered his hand. She took it. Somewhere behind them slept the infant prince whose existence had apparently rendered both of us obsolete.
I leaned fractionally toward you.
“Forgive me, but I cannot decide whether etiquette requires us to congratulate them or congratulate each other.