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Rubida can’t come out of her room.
It is no matter.
Her words can.
She stands up and walks away from her bed, as one of the servant girls comes in, bowing with deep respect. As she starts tidying up her room, Rubida sits at her desk, picking up a stylus and a waxen tablet.
Just to practice her calligraphy, of course. A future Sunwell Knight must.
“I heard six birds sing in tow,” she stars.
“Six? It is no season for birds, my lady,” the servant says. “To say! I heard the fluttering of silk and saw dancing feet on marble.”
“A dream, perhaps.”
Silk. Dancing.
So she is held in Rasena.
It makes sense. Is where the lower council of the Amaranthines is.
Her stylus trembles in her hand as she thinks of all the ways she is going to enact her vengeance on Astoria di Ottava Ora, when this story will be over.
Because it will be over.
“How curious,” Rubida yawns, then sets the tablet back on her desk, making sure to display how certain letters are shaped differently.
For the servant to learn.
For the servant to relay.
Over the past few days, her seething anger at her father has grown into a plan.
Patient and ruthless, the first and last daughter of the most ancient and most noble Casata degli Obertengo has started to spread her threads.
Soralisa’s missives swim in her mind, the only place where her father can’t see.
And with the grace of the Sun-Birther — she will fix this.
The ancient blood that runs in her veins has built this country.
She will build a path for Argia.

[cont.]

Rubidasisters...