Chapter 3: First Rights

Kahina

The red silk of the chemise is a cold weight against my thighs, thin enough to show the outline of my ribs. Madame Eclaire designed this garment for a woman meant to be looked at, silent and yielding. On the other side of the locked door, the house operates in a steady hum of activity. Skirts rustle against the corridor walls, and the professional laughter of women rises over the music from the lower salon. A man shouts about a misplaced bottle of champagne, his voice sharp with the urgency of a customer accustomed to prompt service. I sit on the edge of the narrow bed, my spine rigid, my hands resting flat on my knees. My father taught me that a woman’s hands betray the secrets her face attempts to hide. My fingers remain still.

The holding room is small, smelling of heavy rose perfume and damp plaster. A single candle burns on the washstand, the flame flickering in the draft from the window. The walls are covered in red paper, peeling at the corners to reveal the grey stone beneath. I turn the facts over in my mind, seeking the leverage in this new arrangement. A week on a yacht is a stroke of fortune, regardless of its ugliness. The vessel represents a private theater, a contrast to the stone cells of Le Sanctuaire. On the yacht, the space is confined, the exit near, and the master of the boat is a young man whose habits are already clear.

My father’s court in the south was a place of high walls and cool tiled floors. He taught my sisters and me how to study the hands of the merchants as they signed the treaties. "A man’s eyes will lie to you," he would say, pacing the courtyard with his hands behind his back. "His mouth will tell you whatever story keeps him safe. But his hands are honest. Study how he holds his cup, how he handles his pen. The hands always tell the truth."

Here, in Madame Eclaire's house, the hands of the men are greedy and careless. I heard them through the panels as they led me up the stairs: boots thudding on the boards, a palm slapping wet against skin. It is a market where everything has a price, and the buyers believe their gold makes them masters of the world.

I remember the silver-haired man standing in the corner of the salon. His cuffs bore the same anchor mark I saw stamped on the foresail of the Marie-Claire. Madame Eclaire looked to him for permission before she accepted the gold from the dark-haired man. He is the owner of the brand, the merchant who claims my kingdom's cumin and saffron. The young playboy who bought my company is either his partner or his blind spot.

The brass lock clicks, and the door swings open. A girl in a grey linen dress enters, carrying a small tray with a pitcher of water and a clean glass. Her face is flat, and she looks at the washstand as she places the tray down.

"You leave at midday," she says, looking at the pitcher and not at me. "The master of the yacht is collecting you himself. The crew is already preparing the cabins."

"And the master of the yacht?" I ask, my voice formal.

The girl shrugs, smoothing her apron. "Nico? He is a soft touch. He turns away when the girls weep. If you cry enough, he will probably buy you a dress and leave you in the cabin."

A slow, wicked smile rises to my lips. If he expects a weeping captive to soothe his rich-boy conscience, he purchased the wrong princess. I will let him look. I will let him talk, allowing him to believe he holds the leash, while I search his cabinets and slip his secrets from his pockets. He can open doors I cannot, and I intend to learn which ones.

The door closes, the key turning in the lock once more. I kneel on the cold floorboards, reaching under the low frame of the bed. My fingers find the small splinter of pine I pried from the saffron crate on the quay. The wood is rough, the black ink of the anchor mark scraping against my thumb. I press the wood into my palm, the sharp edge digging into my skin. The pain holds the memory of my youngest sister in place. I remember her face as they dragged her toward the boat on the southern quay, her green dress torn, her voice lost in the wind. I refuse to set the memory down.

I stand up, brushing the dust from my knees. The red silk chemise is still cold against my skin, but it is only thread. I remain a princess, independent of the coin Nico paid. I am the woman who stays.

The dark-haired man on the yacht has an exceptionally good face, a detail I admit only to myself in the dark of this room. He is either the key to the door or another lock. If he is the key, I will turn him. If he is a lock, I will have to break him.