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I drank in as much of the design as I could, quitting as figures on the lawn stole my attention. Target mannequins—or puppets—each one made of wood or stuffed with hay, propped and exposed in the yard. I grimaced at them.

A castle entrance for the soldiers stood nearby, accessible from a colonnade. Adjacent to that, I spotted the servants’ door, through which I’d passed when the Crown had summoned me the day before.

My eyes flickered toward the soldiers’ entry, wondering what greeted them beyond those doors. What direction did the First Knight take whenever he stepped into this stronghold? Which weapons did he practice with? How did his hands grip them?

Aire. My mouth quirked at the name.

He’d so thoroughly swallowed my words before he passed out. A dopey part of me felt disappointment that he’d remember me as only a fancy. A dream encounter. An invention in his mind.

Not a real girl. But a fake one.

A guard with skin like a flaky crust had posted himself at the servants’ passage, a poleaxe in his meaty fist. Punk circled through the sky in a delightful dance that caught his attention. She swooped, rippling her feathers and orange razor head to dazzling effect, spiraling around the length of an upright maul, flitting around pennants. The man stepped closer, amused by the performance.

I crawled along the training yard fence. The wool lining my soles and the softness of my clothes masked the sounds my woodskin made, though the man did jolt, hearing some of it. He was about to turn when Punk smacked her beak into a target board, knocking it over. On reflex, the man jerked toward the thud.

I scuttled behind him, passing over the threshold, and hastened into the corridor. Pausing in the gloom, I exhaled, my head falling forward. Okay.

A moment later, the woodpecker slipped into the hall beside me.

With a grin, I whispered, “I think you had fun doing that.”

She made a righteous noise, totally denying it.

I padded down the passageway, retracing my steps from the last time I’d been here. Mother had been commissioned for a secret project, which had required a series of trips to the castle, to meet with Queen Avalea. I hadn’t been allowed to go until the final visit, when I’d had to venture here alone, when I’d had to deliver the finished commission in Mother’s stead.

She’d been too...unwell to do it.

I’d already known for a week that she wouldn’t be able to make the last trip, and that’s when the idea came to me—an idea about taking what I needed. I’d used those days, plus yesterday’s delivery, as an opportunity to prep for tonight.

During the delivery, my escort had blindfolded me, leading me to the vault where the commissioned item would be stored. For confidential reasons, the Royals hadn’t wished for me to know where that room was located. Apparently, only the most trusted few knew.

The Royals hadn’t known that a blindfold wouldn’t keep me from retracing my steps. Not when I had woodskin to help, plus a woodpecker with a solid memory who’d tagged behind my oblivious escort.

Torch flames jumped. Voices floated from distant areas.

I crossed a network of walkways. Punk took up the front, alerting me when to duck and when to keep going. We followed the route from my visit until I reached the point when the blindfold had come on.

Snatching a lit taper from a sconce, I aimed it at the floor, searching and finding. A lone splinter on the ground, and another up ahead, followed by another. A discrete path leading into the darkness. I’d peeled them from my arm before the delivery, then dropped them along the route as the guard had led me through the castle.

Doing so had stung like crazy. Afterward, it had taken a ridiculously long time to polish my arm back to its original state. But it had been worth it.

My own trail. A safety measure, in case Punk forgot where to go or decided not to join this mission. We tracked the thin strips of wood down a winding stairwell, a draft flying through my clothes. The flames danced even here, making me wonder how much wax it took to keep this fortress lit every day.

At the end of the stairs, the splinter trail ended, beyond which a set of double doors loomed. An iron crest of Mista leaves decorated the surface. This had to be it!

No hulking padlocks, chains, or clasps. No need for a key.

Instead, the vault required a code, which came from the pattern of square wood flooring that led to the doors.

While blinded, I’d heard my escort’s gait, the arrangement of their steps. It hadn’t sounded like they walked in a straight line. And I knew the sound of wood, from my fairytale birth to the very skin that covered me. And I had a master carpenter mother. I lived and breathed timber.

It’s why I’d been able to replicate the stick key.

Punk settled opposite me, at the base of the doors. Because she’d been following my escort yesterday, she’d seen the pattern, had confirmed my suspicion.

Hmm. I had to get this right, the correct path and in the correct order, or the square planks would likely trap me somehow. From the layout, design, and exposed joinery, one wrong choice might trigger a mechanism, which might clamp around my ankle until the cavalry came.

Heat—but not sweat—broke out over my forehead. Gulping, I made eye contact with Punk and lifted my foot over a tile. She tweeted, and I stepped.