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So upset I’m practically shaking, I begin to work the ties of my elaborate gown. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Henrik catches my hands. “Blast it all, Clover, keep your clothes on.”

I’m so irritated, a laugh burbles past my lips, but there’s no amusement in it. In fact, it’s close to turning into a sob. “Pranmore verified there’s no blood magic clinging to me—ask him. If you won’t believe him, and you won’t let me show you I have no stone, what else can I do to prove my innocence?”

The commander’s eyes soften, but I jerk away from him.

“Give me the letter,” I demand. “I’ll show it to the king myself. I have nothing to hide—I’ve donenothingwrong. My only misstep was letting myself believe I could trustyou.”

Henrik steps back like I slapped him.

I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”

“No.”

“Why?” Tears spring to my eyes. “Let me march myself to my death with my head held high. It’s the least you can do.”

Growling, Henrik jerks my cloak from the ground and steps close to drape it around my shoulders. After it’s in place, he makes me meet his gaze.

Once I give in, he quietly says, “We’re in this together now. I can’t very well let you take off with a letter that proves I lied to the king, can I?”

“Why did you do that?” I whisper, feeling like everything is falling apart around us. “If Algernon finds out, you could lose everything you’ve worked so hard for.”

Lowering his head, Henrik looks like a man defeated. “Because I want to believe you’re innocent.”

“You want to—or youdo?”

Henrik looks up. We study each other for several long seconds, and then the commander sighs. We both know his answer—despite everything we went through, no matter how I’ve tried to convince him, he still suspects me. And he likely will until we find Camellia.

A trumpet sounds from the distant courtyard, startling in the quiet garden.

“What is that?” I ask, turning toward the noise.

“Something’s happened.” Already starting toward the castle, Henrik gestures for me to follow him. “Come on.”

4

Henrik

Cloverand I stop short in the bailey when we spot the High Vale entourage. There are four elves, all on horseback, wearing the teal and white colors of their dukedom.

“What’s going on?” Clover whispers as the men pass through the crowds, sounding as uneasy as I am.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have waited to tell the king what we learned in the mountains.

The elves ride two-by-two, in perfect formation, their snowy white horses prancing under them. The men are silent, looking straight ahead, ignoring the crowd.

They come to a stop outside the innermost gatehouse, waiting for the guards to allow them entrance into the castle courtyard.

“We have come on official business,” the elf at the front states to no one in particular, appearing bored. His long, black hair hangs down his back. He wears it half up, as is the High Vale fashion, showing off the subtle points of his ears. “His Grace, Duke Augmirian of Ferradelle, has extended an invitation to the royal family.”

Clover’s father emerges from the crowd, wearing the long amber cloak that denotes his stature as a member of Algernon’s counsel. Count Flauret is a slim man—tall and lean. He was said to be a talented archer when he was younger, though I’ve never seen him shoot. He has a serene, deliberate nature. Slow to act or judge—responsible, fair.

It makes me think Clover took after her mother.

Count Flauret bows his head, showing respect to the elven visitors, and then he says, “Welcome, friends. Please, make yourself comfortable. We will take care of your horses, and I will personally speak with the king’s staff to ensure rooms are prepared.”

“We won’t be staying,” the elven spokesman says, casting a bored gaze at the crowd. “We only came to speak with Algernon.”