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“We’ve already been over this—I’m not a necromancer.” I grasp hold of the rope and drag my feet on the ground to stop swinging. “Camellia is the sorceress, not me.”

“You’re not a witch?” Henrik turns the swing so I have no choice but to face him, causing the ropes to cross above my head. His hand finds my waist, and his fingers press into my sides. “Can it be true?”

“I’m not,” I breathe, beseeching him with my eyes to believe me. “I swear.”

Henrik suddenly lifts me from the swing and into his strong arms, pressing me against him. Our lips are inches apart, and this time I know it’s going to happen.

He’s going to kiss me.

“Clover,” he says on a groan. “I was a fool to doubt you.”

“You believe me now—that’s all that matters,” I assure him breathlessly, clinging to him like my life depends on it. “Does this mean we can be together?”

“Forever,” he swears. “You’re all I want.”

“What about your seal?”

“Cursethe seal.” His stormy blue eyes convey the depths of his feelings. “I would give up everything for you.”

“Then kiss me,” I beg. “Please—I can wait no longer.”

With a growl that makes my stomach flutter, Henrik angles his face to mine and…

“Clover, are you still asleep?” Lawrence hollers, jolting me awake. His voice is muffled through the door that separates us.

I blink several times, staring at my hand, which lies in front of my face on the pillow…and then I nearly scream with frustration.

Did Lawrence have to wake me rightnow? We were so close…

So close.

“Go away,” I snarl, my voice thick and groggy.

“Hurry up. Henrik the Punctual wants to leave.”

If Henrik was that punctual, he would have kissed me in my dream already. He isfarbehind schedule.

I groan, rolling my face into the pillow and fisting my hands in the covers. The dreams are just getting ridiculous now.

By the time I make it downstairs, the men are almost finished with their breakfast. All eyes turn on me as I walk into the room, including Henrik’s.

I’m still irrationally angry with him for not kissing me in my dream, so I avoid his gaze.

Bartholomew pauses with a piece of half-buttered toast in his hand. “Lady Clover…are you all right?”

Immediately, my hand flies to my face. My cheek doesn’t feel puffy, nor does it hurt. Is the bruise still there? Did Pranmore’s magic fail me—do I look grotesque?

I barely glanced in the mirror while brushing my hair, too caught up in my disappointment.

“I think so…” I say warily. “Why?”

“You look exhausted.” Lawrence pulls out the empty chair next to him. “Was the bed not to your liking? You were more than welcome to join—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” As I sit, I flick the back of his head.

He moans as if he’s in intense pain, obviously suffering from the choices he made the night before. Clutching his face, he says, “You forget who I am, Lady Clover.”

“Sorry.” I reach for the breadbasket in front of me, choosing a scone. “Don’t finish that sentence,Your Highness.”