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The urge to run to the cane nearly overpowered me, but I kept my pace even. I sensed their gazes on me from the old manor house, and not just Mom’s at the kitchen window. The Wise Mothers watched, were always watching. They’d just finished questioning me yet again to determine whether I was the next Empress.

For centuries, the descendants of the Wands had been awaiting the return of the Major Arcana. Of all the branches of Evie Greene Dominija Deveaux’s many lines, only one had generations of daughters only. The Wise Mothers had noted that and installed me and Mom at Haven years ago.

Lately they’d sensed that the game was about to start, so they’d sent a delegation here. That group of eight Wands was studying my speech and analyzing my mannerisms for similarities to the last Empress. And so many questions . . .

Have you had any strange dreams? Weren’t all dreams strange?

Do you long for Death or Jack Deveaux? I mean, from what I’d read—and I knew the Empress’s chronicles up and down—they sounded nice enough.

Have you had any show of powers? No. Not one.

On my way to the cane, I meandered through the laundry fluttering in the wind. I’d read about machines in the past that washed and dried clothes, but the idea seemed too fantastical.

Though some people wanted to bring back technology, the Wise Mothers and the regional governors had forbidden it, decreeing, “If a child abuses a privilege, you take it away.”

When I reached the rows of green stalks, I sighed with relief, skimming my fingers over the leaves. Mom wanted me to be on my best behavior with the Wands, but I struggled to conform. Always had. Sometimes I felt as if I were truly the Empress, a grown woman, a mother to several children.

In which case, to hell with all the constraints my own mother had placed on me! I glanced around guiltily, as if someone might hear my thoughts.

Other times, I felt like I was just a girl named Ivy.

Though I was eighteen, older than the Empress had been at the start of the last game, I had things in common with her. Both our fathers had died when we were young. Both of our mothers were strict.

All winter, Mom and I had been fighting. After she’d caught me sneaking out and breaking into the Arcana museum after hours, she’d put me on indefinite restriction. But the other night I’d climbed out of my window to meet friends in town, even though things were getting a little crazy in Acadi.

Tonight marked the eight hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Lethe, when the Empress had forgone victory in order to save the world. When the great Chariot had made it all possible with his last fateful trip. When their Arcana alliance had ended an apocalypse.

We knew from Death’s chronicles that no interim between the games had stretched this long. Did that mean we were safe from another Flash?

Or overdue for one?

After so many centuries of peace and prosperity, folks were getting scared.

Speaking of scared . . . I frowned, still spooked by my weird encounter the other night, when an ancient, gray-haired man in old-fashioned clothes had stopped short and stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost. Then he’d shuffled after me and my friends, muttering, “The End is beginning. . . .”

Clearly a Fool wannabe messing with me, probably drawn here like so many by the celebrations. Though he’d looked like he might keel over at any second, I’d kept my hand near my ever-present knife in my sheath. And I hadn’t gone back to town since. . . .

Dusk approached before the delegation filed out of the house toward a carriage that would take them to the temple for tonight’s anniversary ceremony.

Finally! I gave it a couple more minutes once they were gone, then made my way back to the house. I slipped inside—no sign of Mom—then up the stairs to my room to get dressed.

I closed the door behind me and released a pent-up breath—

Someone was in my bed! My eyes went wide. The creepy old man!

I drew my knife, but he murmured, “Tired, Empress.”

“I-I’m not the Empress. Why are you in my bed?” He lay under the covers, had made himself at home.

Though his voice was weak, exasperation laced his tone when he repeated, “Tired.” As if I was asking him silly questions. “You still listen poorly.”

“Okay, why not rest in your bed?” Maybe I should have been scared, but it wasn’t like he could geriatric me to death. Pity welled in me, and I sheathed my blade. “I need to get you a doctor.”

He shook his head. “No doctor.”

“You look like you’re at death’s door.”

He nodded somberly. “At Death’s door.” Some dying old man was in my bed. My mom was going to have a fit. I’d done my fair share to keep myself in trouble lately, but this predicament wasn’t my fault!