Page 6

Maisel glares at me. “Calendula is likely worrying herself to death, hoping someone’s taking care of you—making sure you’re eating, tending your wound, keeping you clothed. I’m doing this for her, not you.”

Eyeing the gnome with a tight frown, I yank the tunic from her hands and then pull off my brigandine. I slide the knitted garment over my shirt, giving her a pointed look to ask if she’s happy.

She studies me. “Hold out your arms.”

I do as she asks, and she shakes her head as if disgusted. Looking at my wrists where the fabric has pulled up, she says, “Too short. All right, take it off.”

Glad to be free of the itchy, hot fabric, I tug it over my head and thrust it back at her. Then I walk to the balcony door and stand outside, drawing in several gulps of sticky southern air.

It’s Sempra now. It could be snowing at home.

The image of Lawrence and Clover cozy by a fire, her head on his shoulder and his hand stroking her back makes my stomach revolt.

They’re engaged—officially. Royally. And now the date of their wedding is set.

Groaning, I shove my good hand into my hair, and my fingers twist in the strands as I try to force the image out of my mind. With a groan, I lean forward and rest my forehead on the iron rail. I give myself just a few seconds to mourn everything I’ve lost, and then I straighten and return inside.

I can’t dwell on events that haven’t yet come to pass, especially when I have very present worries.

3

CLOVER

The thwack the arrow makes when it meets the target is highly satisfying, and I shoot again and again, ignoring the way the cold bites at my numbing fingers and makes my lungs feel like I’m breathing in shards of frozen air.

It hasn’t snowed yet, but I smell it coming. The clouds are thick and dark, scented with a crisp brightness that can only mean it’s imminent.

“It’s cold,” Pranmore says from my side, huddled under his heavy cloak. “You should go inside.”

After spending most of his life in temperate Dulane, the Woodmore still hasn’t adjusted to the cooler region.

I eye him curiously. “Pranmore, how is it you are comfortable wearing wool?”

Looking frozen half to death, he answers, “I thanked the sheep for its gift, and all is fine. It went on its merry way, and I went on mine.”

I blink at him. “Is that one of your poems?”

“It’s an old Woodmore saying.”

I’m not sure what to make of that, but then again, Pranmore still baffles me more often than not. I’m grateful for him, though. So grateful.

“You’ll freeze out here, Your Highness.”

I pull another arrow from my quiver and nock it into my bow. “Don’t call me that.”

“Even if I use your name, it doesn’t change who you are,” he answers.

Now that I’m engaged to Lawrence, my rank has been honorarily elevated. It’s a strange human tradition, one that came from our ancestors’ kingdom of Calendria. I am now a princess of Caldenbauer, in title if not blood.

No one less is worthy of marrying our king.

At one time, I would have lorded my new status over Camellia, but now…everything is different.

“I don’t feel like a princess.” I shoot, but this time the arrow misses its mark, and the sting in my hand becomes too painful to ignore.

“You look like one.”

Hesitantly, I touch the circlet nestled into my hair, burdened by its presence. It’s just a simple gold band, nothing ornate, but people treat me differently because of it. “I’m an imposter.”