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I tried to draw a full, long breath and failed. My chest was simply too tight, my heart rate higher than normal. As intriguing as I found this part of the castle, there was no denying that it was also creepy. What allowed it to act—at least somewhat—sentient?

The question died as something glowed.

“I can take a hint!” I muttered.

As if I hadn’t been taking them all along from a disembodied voice, no less. The same voice who made me promise to pay a debt to save Anna’s life. I squashed the flutter of rising resentment. If this was all I had to do to pay the debt, that wasn’t so bad.

Of course, I had no idea if thiswasrepayment. But I went along with it. For now.

On light feet, I trod over to the desk. Behind the expanse of wood loomed a case of crowns and tiaras. Interesting placement behind a desk and not in her closet full of finery. As if the queen wanted a reminder that her crowns were linked to the work of running a kingdom, rather than fashion. Or perhaps she liked to look at them as she fell asleep? It would forever be a mystery.

When I stood before the desk, I peered inside the open drawer to find that the glowing object was a book. It lay there, amidst the jumble of quills—phoenix feather, if I wasn’t mistaken—three rouge tubes, and a bracelet of glittering white diamonds each as large as a copper claw. My fingers itched to take the bracelet too, but I refrained. The sentient force in this part of the castle hadn’t balked at my taking the opal, but it was best not to test my luck.

Instead, I picked up the book and delighted in the fine, buttery leather that met my fingertips. A clasp held the book shut, but with a press of a button, it unlatched. I opened the book and my eyebrows arched.

This was no book, no story, but a diary.

Thequeen’sdiary.

Chapter 16

NEVE

Should I read it?

It felt so wrong to read a person’s diary, even one from a long-dead queen. A book of thoughts and admissions and perhaps even ramblings that, against all odds, still clung to a regal scent: amber with floral notes. As if the queen had just set it down.

And yet, the voice led me here. The diary had glowed, for stars’ sake!

It wanted me to read it. Or, at the very least,somethingwanted me to read it.

Swallowing thickly, I shut the drawer and took a seat at the desk. Not having supported a person for two decades, the chair protested beneath my weight, but it held.

I stared down at the first page of the diary, wondering where to start. Then an idea struck. I tilted my chin up, feeling ridiculous but determined to try, anyway.

“Is there something in particular that you want me to read?” I asked. “Or should I start at the beginning?”

The pages flipped, sending another burst of flowers and amber into my nose. Despite my unease over the sentient nature of this part of the palace moments before, my heart lifted. We were learning to work together, the creepy castle and me.

When the pages stopped, I pulled the book closer and spoke to the ceiling again. “Thanks.”

The queen’s handwriting was elegant and flowing, so unlike my own, which I’d always thought messy but never attempted to improve. Slaves, or even courtiers, didn’t need nice handwriting.

Inhaling deeply, I dove in.

I wish I had better news to relay. Alas, my mother taught me to be a record-keeper queen, not one who shoved her head in the snow and enjoyed balls and the frivolity of court. As a result, I see much, far too much, for my own liking.

Things are not going well.

Unrest chokes Winter’s Realm, and what’s worse, I cannot blame the commonfae. For many turns now, Harald has been acting odd, harder and crueler. It is unlike him. Even he knows it . . . Even he wishes to change. Begs for me to find a cure for what ails him.

Often, I can bring him back to himself, healing a poison that seems to spreadinsidious desires inside him. But my ministrations never remain for long. Never take fully.

I cannot help but think that had I finished my training at the White Tower, had I gone against sweet Harald’s wishes and become a Master Healer, he would already be better. Not that our Master Healers know what is wrong with him—or even that he is ailing. Harald will not allow that weakness to be shown to others. It’s infuriating, yet unsurprising. He is acting as his own father taught him . . . Fates rest his troubled soul.

And then there’s the matter of those closest to me. One has been acting strangely in ways that put her in great jeopardy.

But Inga has always been stubborn and independent. If she wishes to flirt with Leyv Riis, she will do so. Truth be told, I can hardly blame her. Leyv is not only my favorite merchant of rare goods—you should see the phoenix opal he brought me not long ago—he is also quite handsome.