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Yet I longed to see the strange lumber maiden again. I yearned for the prospect as much as I abhorred it, as only then might I find a way to extinguish these visions.

The bells cried, returning me to the present turmoil. The instruments’ distinct pattern, an explicit beat assigned since the days of old, signaled that something had gone missing from the castle. The shrillness corresponded to this injustice, the specifics of which we would soon be privy to. The outcry had summoned all high-ranking troops to service, rousing us from our bedchambers and dormitories.

Servants, merchants, and nobles emerged from thresholds and leaned over sills. Tanners and chandlers, consorts and the titled, all shouted, “What news? What news?”

A porcupine waddled by, taking refuge behind a tree. Fear, annoyance, and excitement permeated our surroundings, brewing with the scents of ale and brimstone.

I stopped, the mantles of men-and-women-in-arms swarming around me. Thrusting my face to the sky, I watched the tower pennants thrashing the air, a protest to whatever particular grievance the kingdom had befallen.

Magic did not exist in this world. Yet nature had its share of mysteries and secrets. The almighty Seasons had their inexplicable divinities.

When it came to this natural world, I rarely denied my intuitions.

“What is it, Sir Aire?” one of my men asked, halting beside me.

“A restless wind,” I mused. “It is searching, yearning for that which has been lost, what has been stolen beyond these walls.”

This verdict outraged my comrade. “Let’s go steal it back, then.”

We stormed up the stairs and reentered the castle through the main hall, the swiftest route to the throne room. Whatever had been robbed from the stronghold, leaving our monarchs bereft, it was precious. According to the wind, I sensed that it was personal and irreplaceable.

With every fiber of my being, I understood this breed of loss, the contours and shadows of it. Intangible though it might be, it ambushed the sufferer, shackling them in despair.

A terrible thought plagued my head. Did this have to do with the wooden girl?

It could not be thus, as that was a private battle, one customized for my burden, not for the Crown’s.

As such, the conclusion stoked an alternative suspicion, a concern that I’d voiced in the past to my sovereigns. Uneasy, I prayed to the Seasons that my hunch was wrong, though I would find out in due time, briefed in the company of Her Majesty and the court.

And find out, I did. For the missing thing was not athingat all, but rather a person: the princess and jester’s son.

Nicu had vanished.

This confirmed my previous dread. The boy’s simpleton mind and his precarious grasp on direction meant he could be anywhere, his destination unpredictable, unless someone had kidnapped him for ransom. It wouldn’t have been the first threat issued from unseen foes.

Her Majesty confined herself to the castle should the boy return, while the princess and jester set out with us, insistent upon joining the search.

We scoured the castle, looking for traces of the Royal Son’s whereabouts, his route, or his possible assailants. I led the troops, breaking the legion into groups, mindful of the colorful ribbons that Nicu used to navigate the halls.

As the night progressed, tremors slithered up my arms, bristling the hairs. Following a strand of yellow ribbons down one of the corridors, the foreboding mounted, my premonition growing wings. Under the torchlight, the garland led to the servants’ entrance on the fortress’s west side. Whereupon, I paused at the threshold.

It opened to the training yard, where I had felt the lumber maiden’s presence. The dubious sensation increased tenfold, so I followed it, letting the prickles across my flesh guide me. When I reached a secret passage—a certain tree, which required a certain stick key—it triggered a memory, the clarity of which stunned me to a standstill.

I had seen her before. Prior to the cemetery confrontation, I had seen her this morning.

There had been an altercation in one of the courtyards, an uproar because a stripling had pilfered marshmallows from a merchant. Inspecting the scene, I had glimpsed a girl across the quad, standing in the vicinity of this very tree and sporting a feathered hat similar to the one from the cemetery.

That had beenshe.

Somehow, she had acquired the key to this beech. In the cemetery, that evidence had fallen from her sack.

I clenched the hilt of my left sword. The wind lashed at the branches, stirring up a natural but eclectic brew, the dry taste of acorns, the greedy stench of melted sugar, and the crude texture of wood.

That girl had been here on the same day that the Royal Son had disappeared. None of this dared to be a coincidence, yet I had an inkling: There were more layers to this tale. Had she journeyed here for me? Or for the boy? Or for something else?

Ripping my sword from its sheath, I stepped back, spinning the blade and then stabbing it into the rift within the trunk. After doing so multiple times, at last it wedged open the hidden frame enough for me to pass through.

Too late, I realized my error.