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“What’s the point?

Lawrence shrugs, “If we can fix something, shouldn’t we?”

Angry, I look back at him. “Do you honestly believe Camellia will turn from her dark magic and allow you to lead her back into her place like a lamb?”

“No.” Lawrence rolls his eyes at the thought. “But I believe she can be bought. Find out what she wants so we can placate her. She’s wicked, but she’s not stupid. Pranmore’s suggestion is generous, and the women she’s snared need to be our priority.”

I think of Brielle’s screams, torn between justice and my sister’s freedom.

Lawrence stands, stepping in front of me and suddenly looking very much like a king. “If you pull this off, I will give you your seal.”

Perhaps I should feel joy or relief—my life’s goal is finally within my grasp.

But instead, I feel nothing.

“Henrik,” Lawrence says solemnly. “If you pull this off, I’ll give you Clover.”

I meet his eyes, irritated he’s bringing her into this. “You realize she’s already mine, don’t you?”

Lawrence grins, clasping my shoulder. “Her heart, perhaps, but I hold her hand. If you want it, convince Camellia to retract the magic from the necklaces. Then I will give the two of you my royal blessing. I’ll even stand at your wedding, posing as your friend since you have none.”

“I’m going to hold you to it.”

Lawrence takes a step back and extends his hand. “You have my word.”

I stare at him for several seconds, and then I clasp his hand, sealing the agreement.

* * *

When there’sno answer at Camellia’s bedchamber door, I glance at the princess’s ladies. “Are you sure she’s in there?”

Lily clasps her hands at her waist. “She hasn’t left her room all day, and she’s refused food and company.”

“Has anyone gone in to check on her?”

“We haven’t dared,” Dahlia whispers.

Nodding, I step inside, closing the door behind me.

I fumble through the dark, searching for the lamp. When I locate it and spark the flame, Camellia groans from atop her bed and rolls away from the light.

“What time is it?” she asks groggily.

“After eight. Have you been in bed all day?”

She makes a noncommittal noise, almost as if she doesn’t want to admit it.

“There will be a small funeral held for Mairea tomorrow,” I tell her, sitting in a nearby chair that faces the bed.

Camellia sits up. She still wears the same nightgown as before, and the fabric is wrinkled. Her golden waves are a riot of tangles, and her eyes are puffy from crying.

She was closer to Hellebore than I would have ever guessed.

“Lawrence is giving her a funeral?” Camellia asks, narrowing her eyes. “Why would he do that? By now, he must know the things she plotted. If you didn’t tell him, surely the Woodmore did.”

“He knows,” I say heavily, hating my task more than any other I’ve been given.

“Then why?”