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“It is not a request, Clover. You will take this to Henrik.”

With an aggravated sigh, I slam my book shut and push my chair from the table, accidentally creating an awful scratching noise that makes the scribes in attendance glare at me.

I know what this is. It’s punishment for interrupting…

Whatever it is I interrupted.

My eyes drift to Camellia’s hand, and she immediately crosses her arms, hiding her now-bandaged palm from sight.

Frowning, I snatch the letter from the table. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“You’ll leave now.”

I glance out the wall of arched windows. A storm has settled in, thoroughly soaking the valley. Rain runs down the windowpanes, and the sky is a miserable gray.

It doesn’t show signs of letting up soon.

“It’s raining,” I needlessly say, waving listlessly toward the dreary day.

“Wear a cloak.”

With a flick of her hair over her shoulder, Camellia turns to leave. As she goes, she warns, “He’ll check the seal—no snooping.”

As if I want to read whatever flowery, nauseating drivel she penned.

I turn the envelope, studying Camellia’s phoenix crest that’s pressed into the red wax. If Henrik’s truly gone, who exactly was in the closet with Camellia and Hellebore, andwhatwere they doing?

I assumed it was an afternoon tryst, but with her handmaid present? And I’m sure that was blood…

No.

No, no, no.

I’m not involving myself in this. Absolutely not.

But…if I didn’t know better, I would say Camellia has taken up necromancy and that she and her maid were offing someone in the privacy of her closet.

As soon as I allow myself to think it, I laugh at the idea of Camellia dirtying her hands with the dark blood magic and push the ridiculous thought away.

The princess may be many vile things, but she’s far too vain to dabble in sorcery. She’d never give up her beauty for power.

* * *

“Clover!”Lawrence hollers from across the courtyard.

I pause in the middle of the downpour, watching as the prince runs across the cobblestones. He holds a hand over his eyes to block the rain from dripping down his face, but his hair is already wet.

I smile, acknowledging that he makes a dashing figure, even when half-drenched.

“Where are you going in this weather?” he asks when he reaches me, jerking his head toward my horse.

“Your lovely sister is sending me on an errand.”

“To where?” he demands. “And surely it can wait until the storm passes.”

I shrug a bored shoulder. “Apparently, it’s urgent.”

“What could possibly be this pressing?”