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He shrugs through his many layers. “There was a woman once…but it didn’t work out.”

Clover makes a soft noise of understanding, apparently deciding not to push for more.

But without prompting, Pranmore says, “We were childhood friends. Even when we were young, I knew I was going to ask Elsette to marry me. But I never got the chance.”

“What happened?” Clover asks gently.

“She fell in love with someone else, and they were married this summer. I left for the Furlaskin Ruins after the celebration, feeling the need to travel for a while.”

Is that why Pranmore was so eager to swear his life to me? So he didn’t have to return home?

“Watching the woman you’re in love with marry another man…I wouldn’t wish it on anyone,” he says absently before he extends a hand from his blankets and leans forward to grab another short log for the fire. “What do you think? Add another, or is it too soon?”

Though far from dwindling coals, the flames have gone low, and the shelter has become cooler.

“Go ahead and put it in,” I say, trying not to dwell on the sudden memory of Clover and Lawrence laughing together in the bailey, standing close enough to casually touch, their eyes trained on each other.

Lawrence is no better than a leech, but the look of real affection he wore nags at me. Does the crown prince have feelings for Clover? Is her mission to snare him perhaps an easier one than even she realizes?

But no—the prince has had more casual trysts than I’ve had fruitless missions in search of my seal. Surely he won’t settle for one woman, not when there are so many.

And Clover wouldn’t really marry him, would she?

She might. More than anything, she wants to rise above Camellia, and Lawrence represents freedom.

And now that I know Camellia is out for Clover’s blood, I understand Clover’s dedication to her task. What I once assumed was a petty squabble between two bored noblewomen might go deeper. After all, it’s no small thing to accuse someone of sorcery.

If Camellia can somehow prove her accusation is true, Clover could be imprisoned for years—or worse, be put to death.

If Lawrence and Clover are genuinely friends, I still believe he will never let such a ridiculous thing come to pass—but it’s concerning all the same.

* * *

I dozeon and off throughout the night, adding wood to the fire as needed.

The snow lets up sometime in the early hours of the morning, but judging from the pitch-black forest, the clouds stay low and thick—a good thing, too. When the storm clears out, the temperature will drop further. It’s hard to say if the weather will return to mild once more. This storm might have heralded in an early winter in the mountains.

If that’s the case, we will have no choice but to return to the guard post with King Algernon’s question left unanswered.

As I sit here, my crossed legs asleep and my back aching from sitting on the hard ground for so long without being able to change position, I think about Gruebin’s story of Ayan’s arrival in their village.

If it were only one random High Vale wandering the woods, I don’t believe I’d feel this nagging concern. But why were there several of them?

It’s obvious Ayan committed some crime against his people. Did they chase him all the way from Ferradelle?

Clover mutters something, slouched against the rock wall. She must have fallen asleep.

Her position looks uncomfortable, and I work my jaw, wondering if I dare coax her toward me, where she’ll be warmer and more comfortable. But I risk waking her, and she won’t be pleased if I do.

Deciding her comfort is worth the risk, I gently wrap my arm around her shoulder and draw her to me.

She mumbles something incoherent but doesn’t rouse as I adjust our position as well as I am able.

I move just enough one of my numb legs comes back to life, and painful pinpricks make me ache to stretch.

But the temporary discomfort was worth it. Now we’re in a far more comfortable position, with me lying in the space once occupied by the two of us. Clover is tucked next to me, with my arm under her back and her head resting on my shoulder.

We’re separated by multiple layers of cloaks and fleece and the outer canvas of our bedrolls, but it feels so good lying with Clover in my arms, guilt tries to edge in.