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“Lawrence!” Clover growls.

The prince flashes her a grin. “I’ll console you while he’s gone. Don’t worry, I won’t let you get lonely.”

Biting my tongue only because he’s the prince, I take Clover by the shoulders. “Don’t forget what I told you.”

Even though she looks angry, she nods. “If he tries to kiss me, I’ll punch him.”

Ayan snorts.

Ignoring the elf, she says to me, “Don’t you dare let yourself fall into Camellia’s snare, you hear me?”

“I’ll be especially cautious,” I promise.

As I turn to leave, I see Bartholomew lower his gaze to the floor, looking particularly forlorn. I pause, but what can I say that won’t embarrass him in front of the group?

I’ve been neglecting my squire. I haven’t spent the time training him I should, but it’s been one thing after another since he was assigned to me.

Promising myself I’ll be a better mentor when we return to Cabaranth, I leave the estate and make my way into the back gardens. The ground is dry and solid here, quietly proclaiming how high up in the nobility Lady Ellaine is. Land is a precious commodity in Revalane.

I walk a path, pondering all I’ve learned in the last few days and trying not to worry about leaving Clover with Lawrence.

I remind myself he has the attention span of a flea—he’s harmless. And Clover has known him this long and not fallen for his smooth words.

But there is something about the way I’ve caught him looking at her on this mission—secret, lingering glimpses that last a few seconds too long, an affectionate smile cast her way when she isn’t paying attention.

Lawrence has feelings for Clover. He truly cares for her, and not only as a man cares for a friend.

Why has he kept it hidden?

The thought makes me feel inadequate. Who am I compared to a prince? What will happen when he finally confesses to her?

And have I placed myself as a stumbling block in her path to happiness?

The thoughts circle like vultures.

I’m so consumed with them, I almost jump when Hellebore emerges from the shadows.

As always, the elven woman is dressed in black, and she wears her hood to disguise her face. But I’d recognize the handmaid anywhere. She’s never far from Camellia, silent and watchful. Ever since I moved up enough in the ranks to have regular business in the castle, I’ve seen her about.

I bow my head to her. “Princess Camellia said you’d come for me. Shall I follow you?”

Unable to answer, the mute handmaid nods and turns down a path that slips into the darkness. Though I’m not easily spooked, she’s like following a death wraith.

When we reach the estate’s entrance, I pause. The entry guards are slumped at their posts, deep in an unnatural sleep. I hope they’re sleeping anyway.

I continue to follow Hellebore, reminding myself she is a High Vale with magic, and therefore more dangerous than I’ve ever given her credit. Though where her true loyalties lie, I do not know.

There’s not much to the slender woman, and even less now that she’s in Ferradelle. Has returning to her home province been difficult for her? I’ve never learned her story, but common sense says she was disgraced at some point. Why else would a High Vale end up raising a human princess?

Does Camellia know the woman’s history? Did she even pause to question whether bringing her would be cruel?

Of course she didn’t. Camellia has always been far more concerned with her own comfort than anyone else’s. I’d assumed it’s because she is young, but Clover is probably right.

“Madam?” I say quietly, purposely avoiding using the name snidely given to her by the people of the court—a difficult task when she’s never given us her real one.

Hellebore jumps when I touch her elbow, and she whirls around to face me.

“It’s late to be running such errands. I apologize.”