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He delivered the next words with empty pity. “You lied to yourself.”

“Aire.” I shuffled to the door, grasping the bars.

He strode backward. “Did you once regret misleading me? Did you ever once care for me?”

That question. Oh, that question. But he deserved better than me, the kind of better that he’d once had in a former life.

“Aspen,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Did you care for me at all?”

You’ve restored my heart.

My nose couldn’t grow anymore, but anyway, I was finished with lying. Yes, I cared for him. I cared for him so much.

But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. If he believed that I’d pretended, he could walk away without a problem. He could recover from me.

I dragged the answer from my gut. “Would you believe me if I said I had?”

Heartbreak. A twitch of his cheekbones and chin, the tremble of his irises, everything caving in on itself.

Mission accomplished. He whirled and left, storming into the light while leaving me in the darkness.

On a sob, I hunkered against the wall and slid to the ground, tucking myself in like a drawer.

***

It started with the cell door opening and “Let’s go.”

It continued with another door opening and “Bring her here.”

It ended with hands shoving me to my knees and “Look up, Aspen.”

I’d landed on a parquet floor—with the shape of a broad leaf inlaid in the center—and slumped in a heap, the manacles clattering worse than my woodskin ever had.

Amber and vetiver plucked at my nostrils. I’d grown up not far from Merchant Alley, amongst shops and stalls. Those fragrances infusing the room cost money. Lots of it.

Whipping the knotted fibers of my hair out of my face, I gaped at the riches. The woodland tapestries. The pillars holding a hundred candles. The mullioned windows framed by velvet draperies.

The layers of titian fabric swishing inches from my face. The hem of a priceless garment, dyed a priceless shade, which splashed to the floor in a regal puddle. I followed the cascade of a gown, voluptuous curves similar to my own, and craned my head toward the voice that had spoken. An eloquent, aged voice that I’d heard once before, when I delivered the presentation case to her in the vault.

She reigned over me, a great monument of a woman.

Freckles dotted her ivory nose. Her hair had been twisted up into rust plaits, which blended with her off-the-shoulder gown, creating one high tower of color.

A crown circled her head. An ancient glossed wood, long extinct in Mista, crafted with delicacy, the spears coiling into branches.

Avalea of Mista. Queen of Autumn.

Her hands folded in front of her, in the same manner as her daughter.

Speaking of which, Princess Briar stood a few feet behind. She was draped in a hazelnut gown with a delicate lace bodice that appeared backless, the floor-length leather skirt ending in a train. The tail of her loose side-braid hung over her shoulder. Around her wrist, the scarlet ribbon bracelet seemed out of place with the rest of her finery.

On the queen’s other side, modeling a glory of clothing, stood the Court Jester.

Actually, standing wasn’t the right word. He posed, doing so with natural aplomb, one hand in the pocket of his dark pants.

The rest of him? A dandified mishmash of black suede, even blacker leather, and brown silk. Ruffles, buttons, the works. The ebony material rescued the ensemble from looking gaudy.

An onyx spade had been painted under his right eye. Based on the glaring emeralds of his irises, and from the mildly cynical cut of his lips, I half expected him to tell a joke or spout a rhyme—or skewer me with the quicksilver lance of his tongue.