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“An imposter?” Pranmore asks, following me to the target. He assists me as I pull arrows from the coiled straw mat, replacing them in my quiver himself.

“I have no intention of marrying the king.”

He watches me with his dark brown eyes, too knowing for my liking.

“Lawrence isn’t the king yet,” Bartholomew says from a few spots down, fighting to nock an arrow in his bow. Despite the fumbling, he’s getting better. He almost hit the bullseye today. “Not until tonight.”

We’re mere hours away from Lawrence’s coronation. He’s been locked away with his council for most of the day. I should be with him, but I claimed a headache and napped for less than fifteen minutes before I escaped to the bailey for fresh air.

It wasn’t an excuse. The tension still sits heavy on my shoulders, radiating up my neck and into the back of my skull. Pranmore warned the cold air could make it worse, and he was right as usual.

“You’re bleeding,” Pranmore says mildly.

Startled, I look down at my hand. Sure enough, the long practice was too much.

“Let’s go inside, and I’ll tend it for you,” Pranmore urges.

Bartholomew follows us. Together, we leave the practice yard, and people watch as we enter the castle through the side entrance.

From the looks we get, I imagine we make a funny group, but I don’t care. Pranmore and Bartholomew understand. They are the only people who miss Henrik like I do.

Well, maybe not exactly like I do, but just as much.

No one questions their constant presence at my side, likely because Lawrence approves. He knows he has nothing to fear from the Woodmore elf or his young cousin.

We enter the quarters Lawrence gave Pranmore—a spacious trio of rooms in the physician’s wing.

Pranmore pauses when we step inside, startled to find someone waiting for him.

Minda rises from the bench near the window, her hands fluttering self-consciously at her waist. The Woodmore elf is like Pranmore, with pretty freckled spots on her temples and fawnish brown hair. She has antlers as well, but hers are two petite spikes that poke out from her hair, where Pranmore sports a full, impressive rack.

Though, believe me, you don’t want to comment on them.

“Hello, Minda,” Pranmore says when he recovers from his surprise, ushering Bartholomew and me inside. “Are you injured or feeling ill? Have you come for treatment?”

It’s not a shock she’s here. Pranmore opened this entertaining area for waiting patients, though many in the castle are still wary of the elf.

“I thought you might like to join me…” Minda’s eyes move to me as if looking for support, and I give her an encouraging nod. She swallows and looks back at Pranmore. In a horrible rush, she finishes, “I was hoping you might like to walk in the tea garden—but it seems you’ve just been outside, and I imagine you’re chilled, and it’s already so late, and I need to go.”

She hurries from the room, leaving Pranmore looking befuddled. When she’s gone, he turns to me. “What…what was that about?”

I want to tell him not to be daft, but Minda is shy enough she might never forgive me if I explain to Pranmore exactly why she’s like that around him.

Bartholomew only shrugs as he takes Minda’s recently vacated seat and stares out the window at the sleeping garden below. The colorful autumn foliage has fallen from the trees and bushes, leaving branches bare, and the summer flowers have gone brown. It looks like winter now.

“Sit down, Clover,” Pranmore instructs, gesturing toward a chair at the small tea table. “I’ll fix your hand.”

I wince as he works, never quite growing used to the pinch and pull of his magic.

Once he’s finished, Pranmore releases my hand and sits back. “You should consider wearing gloves next time.”

I nod absently, thinking of the pair of soft leather ones Mother bought for me when I turned seventeen. She said a lady shouldn’t have calloused hands. I suppose a princess shouldn’t either.

A queen even more so.

I shudder at the thought, acknowledging how close I’ve come to my life’s goal. Apparently, I set the plan into action even better than I realized.

Pranmore studies me, and the furrow in his brow betrays he doesn’t like what he sees. “Why don’t you lie down? This evening will be tiring.”