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“Is she going to be all right?” she demands.

Pranmore studies Hellebore, frowning. “You’ve used her in place of a tambrel stone, haven’t you, Your Grace? She’s been harboring the ill effects of your blood magic for you.”

Camellia’s lips part with surprise—she looks almost scared. Horrified, she whispers, “How could you know that?”

“I’m a Woodmore,” he says simply.

“She said it wouldn’t harm her,” Camellia insists, her voice shaking. “She said she could dilute the effects with her own magic.”

“She was wrong.”

The woman on the bed moans, drawing our attention as she wakes.

“Mairea,” Camellia breathes, clutching the High Vale woman’s hand. “I’m here.”

“Camellia,” Hellebore says in a voice that’s like a nail scraping against a piece of slate. It’s almost inhuman. “My son is alive.”

Apparently, she’s not mute…at least not completely. But it’s no wonder she chose not to talk. It sounds painful, like each word is cruelly ripped from her throat.

“What?” Camellia asks, shocked.

“I saw him,” the elf manages, clutching Camellia’s hand, growing hysterical. “He’shere.”

“That’s impossible,” Camellia protests, aghast. “Augmirian sent men after him, and they swore he was dead—” Camellia comes to a stop, gasping softly when she realizes her mistake.

Hellebore jerks away from the princess. “You knew?”

“No,” Camellia says in a rush, reaching for the elven woman again. “I mean, I heard rumors that someone claiming to be Ayanleon returned, but it was before I ever went to Revalane!”

Pranmore and I share a startled look, but we both stay silent.

“You knew there was a chance he was alive, and you didn’t tell me,” Hellebore accuses in a harsh, grating whisper. The elf’s eyes flash with anger. “Get out.”

“Mairea, please,” Camellia cries, bending over the woman as she begs. “There was no way to know he was your true son! You said he died as a baby, didn’t you?”

“OUT!” Hellebore screeches, suddenly sending a ball of magic directly into Camellia’s chest.

The princess screams as she rears back, startled by the attack. She stumbles from her chair and throws herself at me, cowering from the woman who raised her.

Hellebore pushes up to her elbows, trembling with fury. “I gave you Ferradelle, I gave youmagic, and you dare keep this from me?”

“I’m sorry,” Camellia sobs.

“You worthless, ungrateful girl.” Hellebore falls back, wheezing with each breath. “Get out of my sight.”

I grasp Camellia by the shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Before I can coax the princess out the door, Camellia rips away from me, new anger shining through her tears. “I have been a daughter to you, doing everything you have ever asked of me—stealing the dukedom away from Augmirian and destroying Lillianna’s legacy, just as you wanted. I’ve sacrificed for you, and now you think you can toss me away because you’ve caught a glimpse of someone whomightbe your dead son?”

Hellebore makes a choking noise, and her pale face turns red. Camellia lets out a horrified mew as the woman’s eyes flutter. The elven woman gasps and shakes, and then she falls back onto the pillow…and goes still.

“Mairea?” Camellia whispers. “Mairea!”

The woman doesn’t move. She lies like a discarded rag doll, eyes closed, gray and skeletal, her face still red from the taxing argument.

Clutching my arm with horror, Camellia whispers, “Is she…”

Pranmore steps up to Hellebore, blocking her from Camellia’s view. After a moment, he turns back to the princess. Gently, he says, “I’m sorry.”