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Clover

I wake in a cold sweat.My nightdress is twisted around my legs, and the cool linen of the sheets is soft against my skin, reminding me where I am. The lingering dream leaves my pulse racing and fills me with dread.

It wasn’t a nightmare, though I wish it had been. It was worse—I dreamed about Henrik again.

It’s happened every night this week, even though he’s barely spoken to me since we left Fort Lintanry. The dream is always the same. I beg him to believe I didn’t have anything to do with Camellia’s disappearance—and hedoes.

The handsome commander then takes me into his arms, holding me like he did that cold night upon the rock outcrop in the middle of the Dorian Mountains, and…

Andnothing. It always ends there, right before the good part.

It’s the hope I feel when I first wake, followed by the crushing disappointment when I realize it was no more than a dream, that makes me want to scream into my pillow. Or, more accurately, it makes me want to march into Henrik’s room andmakehim believe me.

But I don’t cause turmoil tonight. Instead, I roll onto my back and stare at the beam that runs across the middle of the room's ceiling in my aunt’s estate. It’s still night, but I can just make out the furniture in the dark.

We’re in Roversten, only a day’s ride from the king’s city of Cabaranth. Whether I’m here for an entire summer, or only a single night like tonight, I always stay in this room when I visit. I have since I was a little girl. Aunt Arabeth keeps it ready for me just in case I need to escape the city. (Or Camellia.)

Maybe I should stay here, ask my brothers and Lawrence to continue home with Henrik, where they can figure out this mess themselves.

But I can’t ignore the situation. How long will Henrik stay silent about Camellia’s letter? As far as I know, he hasn’t shown it to a soul even though the princess has framed me for her disappearance. Of course he wouldn’t—not when we’re traveling with my brothers and Lawrence.

But what about when we return to the castle?

“Necromancy,” I scoff under my breath, so mad I could hit something. Camellia is trying to use me to cover her crimes—and doing a fair job of it. Everything points to me—the dead body, the timing, the motive.

It’s no secret there is little love between Camellia and me, even if I am one of her ladies-in-waiting.

As I lie here, I suddenly shiver.

Camellia and Helleborekilleda man. Possibly while I was standing in the room, straining to hear the conversation. I knew Camellia was wicked, but I didn’t know she was actually evil. Hellebore, too. Though I suppose that’s not so much of a shock. The handmaid has always been terrifying—hence how she acquired the awful nickname.

Where has the princess gone off to? What is she plotting?

These are both things I must find out—preferably before I find myself hanging from a noose.

* * *

“Lady Clover, you’re barely eating,”Bartholomew says from across the breakfast table, worrying like a mother hen.

Ever since he learned about the disappearance of Camellia and several of her ladies, the seventeen-year-old duke has been especially attentive—as if he thinks I’ll be spirited away by a nefarious someone right from under his nose.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “Just…”

Heartbroken. As livid as a calnauth when they wake during the spring thaw. And honestly, a little scared. HowdareHenrik believe Camellia? Did the time we spent together mean nothing? Not that we weretogether. We were just…together. Like friendly acquaintances.

Friendly acquaintances whose lips have briefly met a few times. (Though neither of those moments was as satisfying as they could have been.)

Lamely, I finish, “I’m just tired.”

Henrik glances up from next to Bartholomew, briefly studying me before he returns to his meal—looking as if he believes my exhaustion is just another sign of my apparent guilt. He probably thinks I was dancing in the moonlight all night, cackling as I killed innocent bunnies and cast spells with my blood magic.

I stare daggers at his head, wishing he’d at least admit his suspicions to my face. Instead, he’s playing the part of an enigmatic soldier, speaking only when spoken to, trapped in that overthinking head of his.

“It’s true,” Colter says from my right, jabbing his elbow into my side. “You usually eat like a horse.”

I swing my head toward my brother, giving him a look of death. Naturally, that only makes him laugh.