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17

HENRIK

“You’re never allowedto be alone again,” Lawrence says to Clover, and for once, we’re in agreement.

We crowd around her as Pranmore heals the cut on her face, in the Woodmore’s quarters yet again. Each of us deals with our grief and belated terror differently. Ayan tells too many jokes, but his face is white, and he continually taps his finger on the table. Pranmore sheds silent tears as he heals Clover’s physical wounds—the emotional ones, he cannot touch. Those will have to heal on their own.

Audra and Lyredon stand at the side of the room, plotting additional ways to find Camellia’s physical location.

Bartholomew has asked Clover if she’s all right at least a dozen times, not believing her no matter how ardently she insists she is.

And I am trapped in my head, playing the horrifying scene over and over in my mind, imagining a thousand scenarios that will surely drive me mad.What if I hadn’t sensed something was wrong?What if I hadn’t climbed the wall, using the stones for footholds in the absence of the rope she promised? What if I hadn’t arrived in time, or if her window hadn’t shattered so easily?

I cannot think about it. That dark monster in my head has returned, along with fear and gut-wrenching guilt. It’s a dangerous combination, one that can make a man reckless. But I must not lose my head if I want to keep Clover safe. No matter how I want to rage, I must be objective.

And my objective brain is telling me I will never let Clover out of my sight again.

I close my eyes, leaning my forehead into my palm. It’s nearing four in the morning, and none of us have slept. The mortician was summoned again, and another dead necromancer is in his care.

I laugh to myself, and then I sense I’ve caught the room’s attention and open my eyes.

“What is it?” Lawrence asks.

“If I suspected your mortician was paid by the body, I might think he was allied with Camellia.”

The others respond with soft, morbid laughter, all of us needing some relief from this gnawing worry. My eyes meet Clover’s, and she offers me a smile.

But the sight of her half-healed brings another bout of shame, and I lower my eyes to the table. She’ll corner me after we’re done here, reminding me I’m not at fault yet again.

She’s all right, I tell myself.It’s all right.

Frantic voices sound from outside the door. Before I can make sense of it, a woman bursts into the room. Lawrence’s knights stand behind Clover’s mother, the four looking amusingly befuddled.

“Clover,” Lady Julianna breathes, crossing the room like a bear. She hugs her daughter fiercely from behind, crying.

“I’m fine,” Clover answers, but her voice wobbles.

Pranmore sits back, giving Clover permission to move as he gently says, “I’m finished.”

Clover rises and turns in one smooth movement, falling into her mother’s arms. The rest of us exchange glances, acknowledging that she’s not as all right as she wanted Bartholomew to believe.

My squire looks down, clearing his throat. Audra turns away from us all and brings her hands to her face.

“Clover told you not to tell your family yet,” Lawrence says to Denny quietly.

“I didn’t.” His knight extends his hands. “But the castle is in a state. Everyone’s talking about the attack. It was bound to make it back to my parents.”

“Where’s your father?”

“I’m here,” Count Flauret says, entering the room. An array of emotions swirl over the count’s face—fear, rage, helplessness.

Everything I feel is in his gaze.

He looks at Clover, his face crumpling for a moment, and then he focuses on me. Crossing the room, he says, “I understand you saved my daughter.”

“I was almost too late,” I say thickly. “That’s unacceptable.”

“She’s alive thanks to you. Whatever you wish, if it is within my power, I will grant it.”