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Disappointed I won’t kiss her, Camellia looks down at her bandaged palm. It should be healed by now, but I’ve seen her frowning at the cut several times in the last few days.

“I won’t ask what spell you were concocting,” I say. “It’s in the past.”

“As long as you are faithful,” she reminds me.

I swallow and then jerk my head in agreement, heading toward the door. For the first time in days, Camellia leaves her room. The ladies look up, their eyes darting nervously between us.

In the light, Camellia looks ill. I hope others believe it’s because she’s been in deep mourning over the loss of her handmaid, but I know better. Though Hellebore’s betrayal broke Camellia, her pale face and the blue-tinged skin under her eyes are thanks to the blood magic. At one time, Hellebore took the ill effects into her body, protecting Camellia—or, more likely, keeping her undetectable. But now, Camellia has no elven companion to use as a tambrel stone.

Pranmore answers his door when we knock, startled when he sees the princess.

“Sit down,” I instruct Camellia, jerking my head to Pranmore’s table. She does as I ask without hesitance or reservation, more obedient than I’ve ever seen her.

Pranmore eyes the princess and then looks back at me. Quietly so she won’t overhear, he asks, “Why?”

“Camellia sliced her hand while performing a spell, and it won’t heal. I need you to tend it, perhaps mask the effects of the blood magic if you can.”

“Why would you request such a thing?” he asks quietly. “And she’s still practicing? Why haven’t you told Lawrence?”

“She won’t be anymore,” I say.

He glances at Camellia, unsure.

I square my shoulders. “If Clover learns Camellia continued her blood magic after Hellebore’s death, do you think she’ll marry Lawrence?”

“Henrik—”

“And if Clover doesn’t marry Lawrence, do you think Camellia will stay still?”

“But this…” He wrings his hands. “This iswrong.”

“Peace at the expense of truth,” I say. “That’s why I asked.”

“How do you know she’ll truly walk away from it?”

“I don’t.” I glance at Camellia. “But I know what she’ll do if Clover doesn’t marry Lawrence.”

Pranmore’s frown deepens. Finally relenting, he says, “You only want me to hide the effects of her magic?”

“That’s right.”

With a heavy sigh, he says, “I’ll try.”

He slowly turns to the table and takes a chair, placing it in front of Camellia. I sit nearby, watching the disgust pass over his face as he faces the princess.

Her expression mirrors his distaste. She watches Pranmore, her nose wrinkling as her eyes move to his antlers. Camellia has never liked Woodmores—she’s always said she finds their ways and features uncomfortable.

She’ll have to bear it now.

Pranmore studies Camellia for a minute or more before he nods to himself.

“Can you remove the residual magic?” she asks.

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t.” Pranmore’s expression sharpens. “You’ve invited it into your body, and there it must stay. But I can try to nudge it deeper and lessen the superficial effects.”

“Will it take long?” she asks in a bored tone, as if she has somewhere better to be.

“No.” Pranmore places his hands on either side of her head. “But it will be quite painful.”