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“Hello, brother,” Camellia says to Lawrence, leaning in for a brief, superficial embrace.

“You’re sitting awfully pretty for an abductee,” he says quietly.

Feigning surprise, she dons a baffled expression. “Abductee?”

“Yes, sister. Believe it or not, when you suddenly vanish, leaving a dead body in your quarters, people jump to the conclusion that you’ve been kidnapped.”

“A dead body? How awful!” She touches Lawrence’s arm for emphasis, but it’s obvious she’s not genuinely surprised.

The idea of a corpse languishing amongst their gowns would send most women into a proper tizzy, and yet the princess doesn’t even look spooked. In fact, she seems irritated.

Shooting a look at Clover, she says, “Someone must have murdered him after I left. I hope you weren’t too worried about me.”

“I managed,” Lawrence deadpans.

Camellia turns to Bartholomew and presses her hand to the top of his head as if he’s a child. “And Bartholomew too. How loved I feel by your concern.”

Bartholomew gives her a half-sick smile.

Camellia then turns to Clover. The two women’s reunion is frosty at best. “Dear Clover, I didn’t know you cared enough to join a rescue party. How fortunate I am to have such a devoted lady-in-waiting.”

“More than anyone, I wanted to find you.” Clover smiles sweetly. “How glad I am you’re not locked in a damp, leech-infested cell guarded by ralnauths.”

Camellia narrows her eyes. “That’s very specific.”

Clover drops her voice as she leans forward to whisper, “I had a lot of time to think about all the horrible things the High Vales might do to you.”

A nasty smile flickers across the princess’s face. “I certainly hope my disappearance didn’t cause you any…trouble.”

“Oh, you know how I am—I always manage to survive.”

“Like a weed.” Camellia turns to me. “I don’t suppose she managed to deliver my letter to you?”

If I had any lingering doubt Camellia purposely tried to frame Clover, it’s gone now.

“It got destroyed.” Clover laughs as if just remembering. “Apparently, I’d make a wretched courier.” Then, pointedly, she says, “Good thing I was born alady.”

Camellia’s eyes flash with anger, and she says to me, “She never gave it to you?”

“I hope it wasn’t important,” I answer evenly, indirectly avoiding the question. “Whatever it is, you may tell me now that I am here.”

“Your Grace, the table is ready,” a maid interrupts.

Augmirian gestures toward the dais, and we follow him to our places.

Lawrence ends up on Augmirian’s left-hand side, with Clover next to him. I pause, realizing Bartholomew and Pranmore have already claimed the seats next to Audra and her mother. There is only one chair left.

“Sit next to me, Henrik,” Camellia purrs. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Uneasy, I take the seat by her side.

When the others are engrossed in conversations, she slips her hand onto my thigh and leans close. Under her breath, she says triumphantly, “I told my handmaid you’d come for me.”

The statement, and the conviction in which it was spoken, startles me.

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you,” she adds.

“Camellia, I don’t know what—”