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Blue. She had loved that color. The shade belonged to Winter, yet that hadn’t mattered to her. She had once said that a color was a color, not a kingdom’s possession.

Whether or not my words had the power to reach her, I yearned to say that I missed her, though I also found myself longing to say something else, to ask ifshemissedme.

Had she forgiven me enough to miss me?

I’d left my horse grazing within the woods, out of sight. My wife had been afraid of horses, including my own, and so I’d had no wish to bring the animal here and disturb her rest.

The shaft of moonlight receded from my ring, the iridescent beams journeying elsewhere in the cemetery. At this hour, under the inked sky, the castle would be twinkling in thought. In the lower town, gourds would grace the windows, each one displaying a flickering candle, in prelude to the celebration of Hallo Fest.

During this annual tradition, the flaming squash welcomed children who searched for treats at the doors of townsfolk. The youths traipsed from building to building while dressed in costumes, earning their sweets.

That activity had been an addition to Autumn’s customary bonfires. It had been prompted by the Court Jester. The Princess’s lover hailed originally from Spring, the land of art and play, home to performers and the Lark’s Day carnival.

Poet was a good man, devoted in his love for Princess Briar, as she was to him. Unorthodox as their class differences still appeared, none could doubt their mutual adoration, nor their strength as a couple. It had taken years for them to prove as much, and their relationship reigned as strong as ever.

However, the problem of late was their son. The jester’s illegitimate progeny had been conceived during a youthful tryst, long before the jester had met the princess. When the child was four, Poet and Briar fell in love while she’d been a guest in Spring; the princess had adopted Nicu as her own, and they became a happy Autumn family.

Nicu had since come of age. I recalled the break of dawn, when I’d been summoned to the throne room. I’d arrived too soon, sensing turmoil even before overhearing male voices behind the doors, father and son quarreling once again.

Poet and Nicu snapped at one another while Princess Briar strove to pacify them. The boy had reached his seventeenth year and wished for more independence, a liberty that the jester did not support as keenly as his princess.

It had little to do with Nicu’s trustworthiness and everything to do with his mental condition.

I’d stepped back when the door had swung open. Nicu strode past me, then halted, radiating such frustration that he lost his way not three steps from the throne room. His head flipped up, the layers of hair having defied nature’s law, lightening over time from a childhood raven to a warm brown. He nibbled on his lower lip while tossing me a turbulent look, his green eyes flashing in helplessness.

I had assisted him, wordlessly pointing the way, indicating the ribbons tied to the rafters, hanging there to guide him.

This had been Nicu’s disadvantage since infancy: his inability to grasp direction and space. That, in addition to his face, which mirrored his affliction.

Occasionally, people still looked at him, struck by his disproportionate elf-like features.

Although Nicu had departed, following the garlands, he’d neglected to shut the iron-banded doors. Through the sliver, I saw Her Highness and the Court Jester embracing. He faced a window, his head falling forward in defeat, while the princess wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades and whispering words of comfort.

Princess Briar had already warned Poet of the consequences in being overly protective of their son. If the jester wasn’t careful, Nicu would be compelled to do something rash, seizing his independence by force.

I had closed the throne room doors quietly, giving the couple their privacy.

I shook off the memory of that scene and directed my mind back to the present. Beyond the birches, I had a view of the castle, the citadel, and the lower town. Surrounding all that, swathes of waving oat stalks and mazes of amber corn stretched, traveling from the harvest fields, past the neighboring villages to other corners of Mista—to the fox dell, the pumpkin wood, and farther to outlying hamlets and deserted places.

As a breeze swatted my cloak, my breathing deepened at last, catching the scent of burning wood, likely from the town’s residential quarters. With that, my mind changed direction, tripping down an unwelcome route, returning me to the training yard, to that strange dawn a few days ago.

I recalled the puppet that I’d severed and then incinerated with my peers. The resurrection of that scene caused me to shift in discomfort. On that day, I’d wanted to take my frustration out on something. I had sought to kill the lie and strengthen the truth, the impersonation of life versus the reality of lifelessness.

These thoughts had distracted me, affecting my hours since, delaying my visit to the grave. My gaze slid to the headstone. No, I should not have arrived so late, too late.

I am here, beloved. I shall not forsake you again.

This pledge, I made. Though I did not speak it aloud, in case she truly heard me, in case I turned out to be wrong and failed her once more.

I would not lie to her.

Rising to my feet, I bore the weight of that promise while discarding further thoughts of the puppet. I crossed the cemetery, intending to retrieve my horse. While striding through the foliage, I flexed my hand, my ring catching another pinch of night light.

I had forgotten my glove. From a distance, my horse whinnied, the noise skittering through the boughs, and if I didn’t know better, I would have said the courser sounded aggravated. Nevertheless, I drifted back through the underbrush without haste, for my ride could wait an extra moment without falling prey to thieves.

Halfway there, I halted. A sense of urgency mounted the air, prowling though the trees and enshrouding me. I felt a presence—a rather vexed one.

My ears picked up the rustling of leaves and a feminine oath, the angry voice sounding out of breath, as if being pursued...or in pursuit.