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“The dursel weed must have started blooming. Can you smell it on the breeze?”

Henrik smiles. “No one likes dursel weed.”

“I do,” I argue. “It smells like summer. Before I was sentenced to Camellia, I used to run through the meadows from sunup to sundown. My mother would join me sometimes, and we’d make flower crowns. It seems like a different life.”

Henrik’s smile fades.

“What is it?” I ask quietly, realizing I’ve somehow upset him.

He takes my elbow and steers me to a quiet alcove in the nearby garden. It’s a semi-private location, with a large ledgerberry shielding us. Sheltered behind its deep purple leaves, Henrik takes my hand. I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, running the tip of his finger over my knuckles.

“You’re worried,” I say.

He nods, pressing our palms together. “I want to see you in a meadow with our children, running like an elf, your hair loose. I want to kiss you on a moonlit balcony when they’re tucked into their beds, the smell of the wretched dursel weed on the breeze. I want so many things.”

“Henrik,” I whisper.

He looks up, his eyes reluctantly meeting mine. There’s worry circling in them, the storm clouds in his gaze matching the dusky blue color of his irises. “But mostly, I want to lock you away where Camellia can never touch you.”

I laugh softly, setting my hand on his cheek and rubbing his stubbled jaw with my thumb. “I’d fight you like a calnauth.”

He turns his head to kiss my palm. “I know you would.”

“It’s going to be all right,” I say without much conviction. “How difficult can it be to take down one dead princess?”

But the truth is, I’m anxious—not for myself, but Henrik. How far will Camellia go to break him?

16

CLOVER

“The Woodmore delegates are arriving,”Hyacinth says from the window.

Lavender pauses with her hands in my hair. She cranes her neck, though she’ll never be able to see anything at her angle. “Are any as handsome as Master Pranmore?”

She’s given up on him, realizing her time and effort are better placed elsewhere.

Hyacinth makes a noise, though I have no idea whether it’s a yes or a no.

“Let’s go look,” Lavender says to me, coaxing me out of my seat by my hair.

I roll my eyes, walking with her. It was her idea to fuss with it today, not mine. I’m happy wearing it down.

The maid who tended me before I became the stand-in princess just had a baby and cannot resume her duties. I don’t mind, but it finally got the best of Lavender, so she decided to braid it this afternoon.

“He’s sort of handsome,” Hyacinth says, pointing to a Woodmore with flaxen hair. “He looks tall too.”

I glance at Calla, wondering how she’s taking the girls’ gossip.

My friend sits in the corner of the sitting room, idly directing a marble through a wooden tabletop labyrinth. Her expression is a little sad, but mostly bored.

I think she’s doing better.

“When will the Boermin arrive?” Lavender asks as she tugs me and my hair back to our spot on the settee.

“Anytime now,” I say.

“I wish I could go to the assembly,” she says with a sigh. “You’re so lucky, Clover.”