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“See there? Now we’re friends. Friends don’t keep secrets from each other, Della.”

Slowly, she looks up, suspicion written all over her face. “What do you want from me?”

“I already said. I want to know if you had contact with Camellia before she passed away. We already know you practice blood magic—your fancy tambrel stone gave that away.”

Della pales.

Lawrence continues with a smile, “I don’t know how you all interact, and I’m curious. Are there monthly necromancer meetings? Parties? Soirées? Maybe you all get together and knit.”

Hatred slowly leaks into her features, and she presses her lips together.

“Well?”

“Before she left for Ferradelle, I was one of her acolytes,” Della admits. “But I don’t know why that makes a difference now.”

“Because she’s using you to spy on us,” Lawrence says calmly. “And I don’t care for that. Not at all.”

The chill in his words makes the room feel cooler, and I glance at Pranmore.

Della lets out a staccato laugh, looking at the king like he’s lost his mind. “Your sister is dead, Your Majesty. You think she’s using me from the afterlife?”

“Are you familiar with the Kivear concoction?” I ask, observing her carefully. When her eyes widen marginally, I say, “You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

The girl laughs again, but now there’s fear in her tone. “The Kivear concoction doesn’t exist—it’s a tale. Even if it were real, the magic it requires would destroy a tambrel stone. Camellia couldn’t have hidden it.”

“But Camellia didn’t use a tambrel stone, did she?” Lawrence asks.

Confusion flickers across Della’s face, making me think she didn’t know about Hellebore and their strange connection.

“We’re going to try something,” Lawrence says. “We would like your cooperation.”

Della leans back, fear flashing in her eyes as she subconsciously reaches for her pendant. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Henrik would like to talk to Camellia.”

She blinks at him, huffing out a breath.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he assures her. “Just sit there quietly.”

“Move to the foot of the bed,” Pranmore instructs Della before she can protest. “Lawrence, we’ll stand at the head so Camellia can’t see us. Della, don’t turn around. Only look at Henrik.”

Uncomfortable with this ludicrous scheme, I roll my shoulders.

“Henrik, take the chair and sit right in front of her,” Pranmore continues.

I reluctantly do as I’m told.

“You’re too far away,” Lawrence chides.

I send a look his way, silently telling him Clover won’t like it. He sends one right back, telling me he doesn’t care.

“How’s this?” I ask, scooting the chair close enough my knees almost touch Della’s. I won’t go closer.

“That’s fine,” Pranmore says before Lawrence can protest.

The girl’s eyes dart up from her lap, and then she averts her gaze to the wall. She’s uncomfortable as well.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask stiffly.