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“So painful.”

“How are we going to get through this?” I ask softly. “Everything is so…wrong.”

Lawrence releases me and turns to the window. “In some ways, I’m glad Father died. It would have broken his heart to see this.”

“How did Camellia become like this?” I ask, though I don’t expect an answer. “She was always wicked, yes, but does she seem the type to plot something like this?”

“I have no idea. But it’s occurred to me that I never knew my sister very well. She was always with Hellebore.”

The air goes still, and we slowly turn to look at each other.

“Hellebore,” I say quietly.

Lawrence wrinkles his nose as he thinks about it, nodding to himself.

“Pranmore said there is High Vale magic woven into the curse in the necklace.”

“Perhaps there is more to the handmaid than meets the eye,” Lawrence muses.

“Where did she come from? Who is she really?”

He shakes his head. “I have no idea.”

“Perhaps it might be wise to find out.” Feeling marginally better now that I have a task, I turn from the window. “I’m going to see if anyone knows.”

“Father would have known,” Lawrence says absently, his voice laced with sadness.

I turn back, hesitating before I set my hand on his shoulder. “You’ve played your part so well; I didn’t realize you’re still hurting.”

“I lost my entire family in one night. I feel like an orphan king. Pathetic.”

“Lawrence…”

Still facing the window, he softly steals my words as he says, “Do you remember when we were only friends? Before the engagement, before you realized I loved you?”

I bite my lip, stepping close. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his back.

“I will be your sister,” I vow. “I will be your family.”

He laughs, but there’s no happiness in his tone. “I don’t want you to be my sister, Clover.”

I don’t know what to say, so I hold him tighter, wishing I could give him what he wants. He places his hand over mine, and we both mourn in silence.

* * *

Today,it’s nice enough to shoot in the bailey with only a light cloak, and though the breeze is cool, the sun is warm and welcome. A few birds chirp from budding tree limbs, swooping down to the garden beds and searching for stray seeds they missed the autumn before.

The weather is a tease, though. Next week, it could snow.

As I draw my arrow back, focusing on the target, I half-listen to Lawrence and his knights. They were shooting as well, but now they’re gossiping about the comings and goings of court with my ladies.

“Your Majesty,” a soldier says with a bow of his head, interrupting the conversation. His arm pennant is green, and he wears a gold medallion upon it. He’s a commander, like Henrik. “We’ve just received a messenger pigeon from the Trimell guard post. Camellia’s retinue is headed south, toward Dulane.”

I lower my bow, turning toward the group.

“They must intend to come up through Forsten instead of Heistone,” Miguel says.

My heart begins to beat too quickly. “How long until they reach the port?”