THE EMPRESS’S PET

Cassia’s POV

The man selling me looked at my teeth before he named my price.

I opened my mouth like a good little lot forty-one and let him, because the first rule of being sold is to seem worth buying.

The second rule — the one my father’s men drilled into me between knife lessons and grief — is that the girl worth buying is never the girl they think they bought.

“Healthy stock!” the auctioneer crowed. He had the voice of a man who had sold everything once: sisters, widows, a duchess. “Noble blood, trained manners, and look at that face, my lords — that is a face built for palaces. The Empire’s finest houses are bidding for her tonight.”

Not a name you can sell, I thought, staring at a crack in the stage boards. The rolls struck mine the day the headsman took my father’s. You are selling a no-one called Cassia, with no house, no father, and no future, and if the gods are kind, in three months no one will remember her at all.

“Name?” the auctioneer demanded, rapping the boards under my knees.

“C-Cassia.”

“Lie properly, girl. The name on the papers.”

“Cassia,” I said again, softer, wetter. The papers, I had been told at the dock, were someone else’s problem now. That was the point of papers.

“Age?”

“Twenty-five, my lord.”

“Twenty-five,” he told the hall, “and unspoiled, my lords — the last daughter of a house struck from the rolls! Who will start me at two hundred crowns?”

“Two hundred,” said the fat lord in wine-colored silk.

“Two-fifty,” said a woman’s voice, dry as ledger paper.

“Two-eighty,” the fat lord said, mostly, I suspected, to hear himself bid.

“This is madness,” the fat lord’s neighbor muttered. “Four hundred crowns for—”

“Bid again,” said his neighbor, “and it will be your wife selling you.”

The hall smelled of tallow, sweat, and the cloying jasmine the auctioneers burned to keep the merchandise docile. My wrists ached inside the silk ribbons they’d tied instead of chains, because chains frighten the buyers and ribbons flatter us.

Through the coil of my hair, disguised as a fashionable ornament, lay a hairpin. Six inches of oiled steel, because even a slave is permitted one accessory, and no one searches a girl’s hair when they’re about to overpay for her.

I had carried that pin through four checks, two cell searches, and a cart ride where the guard had looked at me the way men look at unattended purses. Anything in the hair, girl? he had asked at the second gate, bored, already looking past me.

“Ribbon and prayer, my lord,” I had said.

He had waved me through. I had not used the pin. There is a list of men I am permitted to kill, and an auction guard is not on it. Every name on that list is worth more than my freedom, and the first name of all is waiting for me at the end of tonight like a lesson at the end of a school year.

You see, I had not been arrested. I had been placed.

“Three hundred,” said a voice like oiled velvet, from the box on the left. Vesper Caul. Of course. The Senate’s rose does not send an agent to purchase the Empress’s gift; she comes herself, so the whole hall can watch her do it, so the whole hall can carry the message like good little birds: Vesper Caul decides what enters the Imperial Wing. Vesper Caul is the power behind the throne. Vesper Caul—

“Four hundred,” said a voice from the box on the right, and the hall stopped breathing.

I stopped breathing too, but not for the hall’s reasons. Mine had nothing to do with commerce.

“Four hundred to Her Imperial Majesty,” the auctioneer sang. “Against the Lady of Silver.”

You know the name. Everyone knows the name. Seraphine Vael, Empress of Vharen, third of her line — the Winter Queen. The men behind me knew it too. I could hear them not saying it.

“It’s her,” one whispered to the other. “That’s the Winter Queen bidding. The Empress. At auction.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“For a girl. For one girl, when the treasury—”

“The last man who wondered what she spends on, what was it — the Marcher earl?”

“There is no last man. That’s my point.”

They were not executed, you understand. They were simply never seen again, and their houses found their fortunes intact and their heirs employed and their ambition cured like a scar.

The Empress of Vharen did not look at me. That was the first thing my skin understood. The auctioneer stammered through the numbers, and the fat lord’s brave little two-eighty died somewhere in the rafters, and through all of it the Empress examined the underside of her own glove, as though bidding four hundred crowns for a person were a small errand her hand was running without her.

“Do I hear four-fifty?” The auctioneer’s voice had gone up an octave. “For the lot — four-fifty — against Her Imperial Majesty — four-fifty—”

Silence. The whole hall had discovered a sudden, passionate interest in the floor.

“She will do,” the Empress said, to no one, and rose.

To no one — that is what I told myself, later, when people ask how it began. She said it about the purchase, about the price, about the whole ugly room. She said it like a verdict on the evening. Nobody told the hall it was over; the hall simply realized it, the way a schoolroom realizes the tutor has entered.

What she did next took four seconds, and I have spent every night since trying to make them longer.

She crossed the floor of the auction house — her guards peeling around her like water around a keel — and stopped at the foot of the stage, and looked up. At me. At me, not at the lot, not at the asset, and I want you to understand the difference, because my whole life people have looked at the asset. The traitor’s daughter, the pretty stock, the last of a struck house — a face built for palaces, sold by weight.

Seraphine Vael looked at me the way an archer looks at a target, and then the look did something no archer’s ever done.

It doubted.

She came up the stage stairs. The auctioneer aged a decade trying to bow while standing. She did not trouble to notice him. She stopped an arm’s length away — I will swear on anything you like it was exactly an arm’s length, because I had already measured — and she took my chin in two gloved fingers and tilted my face to the light.

“Hold still,” the auctioneer whispered, fingertips hovering, ready to arrange me like cushions. “Majesty is inspecting. Whatever she asks — yes, Majesty. Whatever she wants — yes, Majesty.”

“I know how to be sold,” I whispered back.

“Then you know nothing,” he said, and retreated, and left me to learn it the hard way.

The hall held its breath. I held mine. Her gloves smelled faintly of cold iron, and under that, clean and cold, like snow about to fall.

“The rest of you,” she said, without turning her head, “may stop pretending to breathe.”

Around us, the hall exhaled as one lung.

“Name,” said the Empress of Vharen.

“C-Cassia, Majesty,” I said, and gave her the trembling voice, the wet eyes, the whole repertoire — lot forty-one, healthy stock, trained manners — while inside my skull the old doctrine ran cold and clear: close enough to touch, close enough to kill, and she does not know your face.

“How old are you, Cassia?”

“Twenty-five, Majesty.” Liar, said the doctrine. Better, said the doctrine. “Sold with papers, Majesty. My Lady Caul can vouch—”

“Sold with papers,” the Empress repeated, mild as milk.

Her thumb tipped my chin higher. My pulse — trained, schooled, drilled to walk slow — slammed against her fingers like a knock on a door, the one betrayal no tutor ever taught me to leash, and I watched her eyes, pale as a winter dawn, flicker down toward my throat.

She heard it.

“You’re frightened,” she said. Not a question. An audit.

“Of course I’m frightened, Majesty. Everyone is.”

“Mm.” One gloved finger traced, once, from my jaw to my ear. “Everyone is,” she agreed, in the voice you use to sign something. “And yet your heart — it knocked just now, twice, and stopped. Fear doesn’t stop, pet. Fear begs.”

“I— Majesty, I don’t—”

“Breathe,” she said, almost kind. “I’m not going to eat you. I’m deciding what to do with you, and I do my deciding quietly.”

“And — and when Majesty has decided?”

“Then you’ll know.”

“Majesty — if Majesty would only say what she wants of me, I—”

“Everything. Eventually.” Said like a housekeeper reading a shopping list. “Now hold still. Your chin is escaping.”

For one unguarded instant — less than a blink, I would have missed it if I had blinked — her gaze moved across my face like a hand smoothing a map, finding the rivers: brow, cheekbone, jaw, mouth. And what crossed the Winter Queen’s expression in that instant was not appetite, not vanity, not the calculation I had prepared four answers for.

It was recognition.

“My Empress—” began the auctioneer, finding his courage near her boots.

“The ribbons,” she said.

He blinked. “Majesty?”

“Remove the ribbons. She is not goods.”

“Majesty, she is — that is — she is sold, then? To the Crown?”

“To me,” said Seraphine Vael, Empress of Vharen, to a hall full of the richest cowards in the world. “She is a gift, and I do not share.”

Her fingers left my chin; the cold where they’d been felt like a brand going the other way. She turned and walked down the stairs without looking back to see whether I understood — because understanding was the test, and tests are not announced.

I stood on the block for the two heartbeats she left me — open air between the auction block and following her — and because I was quick, because I had twelve years of training and one working instinct left, I understood. It was a test. Gifts follow. Property is carried.

I stepped down off the block on my own feet, ribbons still trailing my wrists, pin still sleeping in my hair, and the whole hall watched the spy and the Empress walk out together, and not one of them — not the Senate’s rose, not the fat lord, not the man who had checked my teeth — knew that the gift had come with a blade and an order, and that the order was simple.

Get close to the Winter Queen.

Get close enough to touch.

God forgive me. I already had.