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I set the parchment aside, my emotions spinning, spinning until eventually, they land on something like grim determination.

Iwillfinish this. I will find the Thief, I will kill him and Galleghar along with him, and then I will scour the underworld for my lost mate. I won’t stop until Des is mine again.

Nothing else will do.

A knock onthe door jerks me from my thoughts.

“Your Majesty?” The soldier who left me not so very long ago now calls out from the hallway. I guess he doesn’t trust me enough after all to leave me alone.

“Come in,” I call. I almost don’t recognize my voice. It’s cool and collected, like my world hasn’t just been upended.

Des is not here. Oh God, he’s not here and I have to still function.

You’ve functioned without him once before, back when you thought you’d never see him again. You’re an old hand at this.

But back then I at least knew that the Bargainer was out there somewhere in the vast universe, sipping espressos out of tiny cups and making deals with desperate men.

The heart might in fact be the shittiest organ out there because it can feel love and love is a terrible thing.

Hate is a much better emotion.

I have plenty of hate.

I let it heat up my veins as I get up and open the door.

“Your Majesty,” the guard says from the hallway, “the Queen of Flora is here, and she’s seeking sanctuary.”

Chapter 37

Mara Verdana isalive—alive and here in Somnia.

For a moment, I’m so shocked I forget about my own issues.

I can picture the Flora Queen so clearly in my mind’s eye. Her flame-red hair, those flowers twisted in her fiery locks. Her beautiful, poisonous smile.

Brazen, wicked Mara. By the end of my stay in her kingdom, she became a tragic figure. Like me, she watched her soulmate die. And also like me, she survived the ordeal.

“Get Temper,” I command one of the guards as I’m led to the throne room.

I might not have wanted the sorceress’s company as I fell apart, but I want her by my side for everything else.

The soldiers lead me to the throne room, and my throat bobs a little when I notice the single chair waiting for me. Someone discreetly removed the second one.

I take a seat, ignoring the room full of nobles and officials, here for one reason or another. My hands squeeze the armrests.

I’m barely breathing; I have no clue how I’m supposed to rule when I can hardly hold myself together.

The doors at the other end of the room are thrown open, and a retinue carries an ornate, velvet chair on slats. Sitting in it is the Flora Queen.

Her cheeks are gaunt, her flaming red hair has dulled, and the flowers growing in them are wilted, the edges of them browned.

The sight of her withering away, is sobering. Yet her chin is still raised in that haughty defiance I remember.

The retinue comes to a stop, their final footfalls echoing throughout the room, and the fairies carrying her cart now set it down.

In the silence that follows, one of the Flora guards trailing behind the procession steps forward.

“Her Majesty,” he announces, “Our Lady of Life, Mistress of the Harvest, Queen of the Flora Kingdom and All that Grows, Mara Verdana.”