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I’m not sure lucky is the word I’d use.

Lavender continues twisting the strands, creating an intricate braid. I sit like a doll, having nothing better to do at the moment. Henrik and the others are busy preparing for the assembly.

“We’re going to the dinner tonight,” Hyacinth reminds her. “You can ogle the delegates then.”

Lavender brightens at the thought, and Calla scoffs softly.

“How will you wear your hair tomorrow?” Lavender asks when she’s finished, inspecting her work. “Mother says I must go with her to visit my aunt while Father is at the assembly.”

“I’ll probably leave it down.”

Lavender frowns. “That won’t do—not for such a momentous occasion. I’ll send my maid to your quarters.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Isn’t she the one who smacked your arm with the brush when you sneezed?”

“She’s a little stern,” Lavender admits. “But she only did that once when I was little.”

“I’ll manage on my own.”

“Clover,” she says with a sigh. “You’re not a princess anymore, but you’re…”

She turns to Hyacinth, looking for help. But Hyacinth only shakes her head.

“I’m just me,” I argue.

“Well, you’re an important you, and I’m sending my maid tomorrow.”

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But if she hits me with a brush—”

“She won’t,” Lavender giggles.

Calla looks up, finally cracking a smile. “Maybe you should borrow Henrik’s armor just in case.”

* * *

The maid Lavender loaned me brushes my hair in my bedchamber, helping me prepare for tonight’s assembly. The High Vale delegates arrived a few hours ago, joining the Woodmores and the Boermin. The gnomes are absent, but no one expects them to attend. Most people don’t even realize they exist.

The last few weeks have passed slowly. There have been no more attacks, and no more golems carry secret messages, though a total of seventy-two have been confiscated across the kingdom. Most have been smelted down, but some have joined the first in the royal storeroom.

The lack of conflict puts everyone on edge as we wait for Camellia to make her next move. I’m sure even this stretch of calm is a form of torture she’s using against us.

None of the people arrested with the golems know precisely where their illicit orders came from. Each trail is a tangled path that always leads to a clueless necromancer. Sorcerers, witches, warlocks—all claim they have no recollection of the golems when they’re brought into custody. If we hadn’t seen Della with our own eyes, we wouldn’t have believed them.

“Sorry, my lady,” the maid says as she hits a particular painful snarl.

I look at her in the mirror, wincing as she attacks it again. She has a stern face, with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense expression. I can’t tell if her lips are thin, or if they just appear that way because she has them so tightly pursed. And she doesn’t look particularly remorseful.

“Your name is Cythia?” I ask her.

She nods tightly, yanking on a section of my hair as she begins to plait the long strands into a half crown.

“I appreciate your help,” I say, hoping a little extra kindness might convince her she wants to braid my hair and not rip it from my scalp—or hit me with her brush.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door, followed by Colter announcing himself. Thankful for the distraction, I call him inside and then smile at him in the mirror’s reflection.

“Are you almost done here?” he asks, eyeing my hair.

I wince as Cythia tugs my head to the side. “I hope so.”