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My chest feels tight. I sit still while Jossalyn pours water over my head to rinse my hair, and I imagine my eyes are burning from the suds instead of everything else.

What does he want? Why would he want to see me?

Jossalyn laces me into a gown with fabric softer than I’ve ever felt against my skin. The bodice and underskirt are a rich purple, but the material stretched over top is sheer and white, floating in a dozen layers to create a finished product in lavender. The neckline curves gently across my collarbones.

Jossalyn lays a towel across my shoulders and unbinds my wet hair. “Come,” she says. “Your breakfast awaits.”

The food looks every bit as delicious as it did last night. Maybe more so. But I only nibble at a bit of sliced fruit because my abdomen is so tense. The room is so silent, with Jossalyn combing through my damp hair while the guards stand near the doorway.

This almost feels worse than prison.

No. That’s such a stupid thought. The Hold would be awful. Probably.

“Be sure to take your elixir,” Jossalyn says, and my eyes fall on the small glass cup near my plate. The color is dark amber, so much richer than what we mix in the workshop, which barely colors the water at all.

I take a sip. It never tastes good, but concentrated, it’s worse than usual. I can’t believe they drink this three times a day. I hope they don’t make me do that.

Such a waste.

Jossalyn weaves my hair into a complicated braid that she pins in loops to the back of my head. Then she ignores my eating and begins smoothing a creamy lotion into my cheeks. I wonder if she’s used to doing this, preparing women in the palace while they go about ordinary tasks like eating. I get the sense that I could be spinning in circles or having a lively conversation, and she’d be right there, patiently applying cosmetics.

Invisible, the way people were in the streets yesterday.

I glance at her and try to hold still while she works. I’m technically a prisoner, but she isn’t treating me like one. She spared me any rough treatment from the guards, which I’m sure further hesitations would have caused. “Thank you,” I say softly. “For your kindness.”

“Yes, miss,” she says absently, but I feel her hand hesitate as if I’ve surprised her.

“Do you . . .” I clear my throat. “Do you know if I . . . ?if I’m meeting with the king alone?” Her eyes meet mine, questioning, and I clarify, “Will Corrick be there?”

Her hands go still, and she glances at the guards, then back at me. “I do not know the agenda of His Highness, Prince Corrick.” She says these last words with gentle emphasis. “Though Master Quint should, and you can inquire when he arrives.” She dabs at my eyelids with her fingertips.

His Highness, Prince Corrick. I’ve never had to consider royal protocol, and even though I know Weston Lark was all a farce, it’s hard to remember that I can’t just call him Corrick either. I swallow. “And . . . ?how do I address the king?”

Her voice drops, and she swipes a small brush through a pot of pink powder. “You address him as Your Majesty, though you should wait for him to address you first.” Her eyes meet mine for a moment. “No one addresses the king by name unless they have been invited to do so.”

I nod quickly.

She shifts slightly closer, and her voice drops further. “It’s intriguing to hear that you’re an apothecary. The girls have been talking all morning about how you’ve brought news of a new elixir.”

“I—what?” I think of Quint’s musings last night, his need for spin.

“Surely it isn’t a secret. The guards are the worst gossips anyway. My sister says they earn extra coin for whatever they bring back to their captain.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. When I followed the serving girls yesterday, they were chattering about Consul Cherry and Consul Pelham, something about a scandalous carriage ride.

With a start, I realize I know Consul Cherry. Corrick called her Arella—the woman who spoke for me when he was being so cruel. She seemed forthright and determined—not the type to be embroiled in a scandal.

Then again, she was speaking in my defense—in defense of a presumed smuggler. Maybe that’s all it takes to generate a scandal around here.

“Jossalyn,” says the older man by the door.

She doesn’t even flinch, simply brushing a stroke of pink along my eyelid. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Master Quint inquires as to your progress.”

“Nearly done.” She sets the pot of powder aside and reaches for another.

The door opens anyway, and Quint enters the room. He’s carrying what looks like a folded booklet. His jacket is buttoned nearly to his throat this morning, but he still needs a shave, and his red hair is already slightly untamed. “Tessa,” he says. “I hope you’ve eaten.”