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The page’s eyes widen, but he asks me to wait in an adjoining receiving room while he goes to relay the message. Kyros stands behind me as I seat myself on a plush sofa. We are there no longer than ten minutes before the page returns, which is a relief.

“The queen bids me to take you to her private receiving room. She will meet you there as soon as she can. This way, please.”

I know Alessandra left an open invitation in her last letter, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t change her mind. Or be in a bad mood today. Or any number of other reasons.

I’m nervous and jittery. I’m about to turn over the man I’d come to l—

The man I’d grown fond of. The one I was prepared to give up what I wanted most for. And it hurts, even if this is the right choice.

We’re led through the palace corridors, past beautiful wooden furniture with roses and thorns etched into the sides. Midnight-black carpets line the floors and the upholstery is mostly done in crimson.

This is my sister’s home. Once, I envied her. I envied all of this. But now it’s obvious that I never would have been happy in this dark castle. I much prefer the pinks and golds of my estate. A home in the country, away from prying eyes.

Any remaining anger I might have felt toward my sister evaporates at the realization. I was jealous because she snagged herself a king while I only managed a duke. But she has duties and responsibilities heaped upon her every day. How could I have let myself think that I ever wanted that?

Because I didn’t know any better. I had no chance to really figure out what I wanted for myself. I was too focused on securing my own freedom. And once I had it, I knew what I wanted. To never have to put on an act again. To not have people expecting things from me. To just be me.

I will have that again.

So long as Alessandra is willing to listen to me.

We’re finally led into a massive receiving room. It’s lovely. A vase of fresh flowers rests atop a grand piano. One wall is covered in stained glass depicting a forest teeming with life. The whole scene glows faintly, as though lit candles from behind were brightening the glass. I seat myself upon one of the sofas, and the page nods respectfully before shutting us within the room.

Kyros and I wait in silence for all of five minutes before I rise to explore the room more thoroughly, tracing my fingers over the beautiful stained glass. When I grow bored, I dare to open the adjoiningrooms. I wonder if Alessandra suspected I would do just this. If she wanted me to see all her fine possessions. I don’t care, I’m going to look anyway.

Kyros draws in a breath when I let myself into my sister’s bedroom, but what I find is surprising. “The king and queen share a bedroom!” I call back to Kyros.

“Chrysantha, I don’t think you should—”

“He really loves her. Look at all these outrageously expensive perfumes. Kyros, come smell this one.”

“No, thank you,” he says, and I think I can hear his eyes rolling.

Her wardrobe is more full than even mine. She’s been sewing, for none of these designs can be found at the modiste’s. The vanity is covered in face paints and lip stains. I read the labels of several, noting scents and colors I like. When that ceases to entertain me, I return to the receiving room, much to Kyros’s relief, and fidget some more on one of the beautiful sofas.

“It’s been half an hour,” Kyros says after a moment.

“We did spring this on her. She’s a queen. Probably very busy.”

My legs bounce. My fingers tap on the upholstery, and I cannot believe I’m here. What if Eryx is onto me? What if he had Argus and Dyson follow me? Every minute that goes by is a chance of me being found out.

“He doesn’t know,” Kyros whispers, as though reading my thoughts. “It’ll be okay.”

“He could notice at any moment that his correspondences are missing. I still have no idea how Mr. Tomaras managed to snag them.”

“It’s his job to be good at that sort of thing. It will be all right, Chrysantha. Just breathe.”

“I’m breathing!”

The door opens.

And my sister, Queen Alessandra Stathos Maheras, steps into the room.

She wears black pants under an open skirt in deep red, as though she thought to match her very surroundings. Some sort of corset-looking top attaches to the open skirt, black with red ribbons. Her hair is the same shade as mine in deepest ebony, though mine has a natural curl to it while hers is more wavy. She wears hers down, while mine is up.

“Chrysantha,” my sister says in greeting.

“Alessandra.”