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We ladies, however, are practically chained to Camellia’s side, only free to dance or eat whenshe’sdancing or eating. And since the princess is contrary, and undoubtedly enjoys making us suffer, she prefers to spend her time on her parents’ dais, with her pert nose raised in the air with disdain, looking down upon her people.

I didn’t pass out from hunger at the last ball only because Lawrence kept sneaking me cherry tartlets behind his sister’s back.

“I haven’t heard of a ball,” Minda says. “Though perhaps the princess knows something we do not?”

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

Quickly, I slip on my own gown, and then I leave, saying my goodbyes to the dressmaker.

“I’ll let you know when the dress is ready,” she calls. “Thank you, Clover!”

* * *

Several daysafter the final fitting, I knock on Camellia’s outer chamber door, growing impatient. Her gown is large and cumbersome, and if I so much as let the hem brush the floor, the princess will send it down for cleaning.

“You’re sure she’s in there?” I ask Cortana, the guard unfortunate enough to be stationed outside Camellia’s room.

“She retired after lunch, claiming she had a headache.”

I shift from one foot to the other, weighing my options.

If I leave, the gown will be late, and Minda will bear the brunt of Camellia’s wrath.

But since I’m one of the princess’s ladies, Cortana will let me in if I ask. I could slip the dress into Camellia’s sitting room and leave it without having to disturb the princess—or talk to her, which is even better.

Liking the second option the best, I say to Cortana, “I think I’ll just tiptoe inside quietly.”

Nodding, Cortana opens the door, revealing the opulent antechamber that leads into Camellia’s rooms. I walk through the entry and into Camellia’s sitting room, immediately greeted by a massive portrait of the princess herself. It hangs above a red velvet chaise longue, where she often reclines in the afternoons.

Relieved to find her favorite lounging spot unoccupied, I lay the dress upon the settee by the fireplace.

But then I frown at it, worried it might crease while Camellia whiles the day away in bed.

After several moments of indecision, I decide it’s worth the risk to sneak into Camellia’s bedchamber and fetch the dress form.

But when I step into Camellia’s room, I find the drapes wide open and the bed unoccupied.

I’ve barely paused to wonder where the princess is when raised voices drift from Camellia’s closet.

Though I can’t make out the conversation, one of the voices is distinctly the princess’s. The other is low and scratchy, and it sounds vaguely masculine.

But that can’t be right—Henrik has been gone for days. So, who’s in the closet with Camellia?

And for that matter,whatare they doing in there?

Shaking my head, I decide it’s none of my business—and I’d like to keep it that way.

“I don’t want any blacksmith,” Camellia says loudly enough I can just hear her. “I want Henrik.”

Well, that’s odd.

Working quickly, I slip the gown over the dress form and give the garment a few good tugs to coax it into place. Then I turn toward the door, prepared to sneak from the room before I’m caught.

But then the closet door opens.

Left with no choice but to look oblivious, I quickly turn back to the dress and run my hand down the skirt as if tidying it.

“Clover,” Camellia says sharply when she finds me in her bedchamber. “What are you doing in here?”