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“Enough.” Celestyna’s cheeks were on fire. Her heart kicked and fumed. She was gratified to see Farver Pickery flinch.

Lord Dellier cleared his throat and stepped forward. He had fair, wrinkled skin and grave brown eyes. In recent months, his neat cropped hair had turned gray. Celestyna tried not to think about that too much.

“Perhaps,” said Lord Dellier, “it is time to send word east, to the Star Lands.” He paused. “You’ll recall, Your Majesty, the stories our scouts have told us about the two young witches who fought—”

“I saidenough.” Celestyna glared at Lord Dellier until he looked away. Her head pulsed with panic.Shewould be the one to save the Vale, not some upstart pair of eastern witches nobody had ever met.

“Witches made the Break,” Celestyna said, raising her voice until every piece of glass in the throne room rang with it. “We don’t need any more witches here, especially not outsiders who don’t understand the Vale and everything we have endured.”

She lifted her chin and glared at her court. “Bring Brier Skystone to me at the dawn bells, or I’ll banish all of you to the bogs of Estar and hunt the lightning we need myself.”

Her harsh voice startled the mistbirds into a flurry. A few feathers of lilac and dew silver drifted to the floor. The courtiers ran for them; there was no better hair ornament than a genuine mistbird tail feather.

Celestyna stormed down from her throne, her armored guards clanking at her heels. The ladies nearest her hurried away, laughing nervously.

She pointed to the doors at the far end of the throne room, hoping she looked taller and more frightening than she felt. “Get out. All of you, get out.Now.”

Celestyna stood with her arms rigid at her sides and herhead held high, watching her court flood out the doors. They stared at her over their shoulders. They whispered and laughed and cursed and shook their heads. Lord Dellier hesitated, but Celestyna stared him down until he too turned and left. A pang seized her heart as she watched him walk away, his dear gray head looking grayer than ever. He was the only person in this castle who seemed as tired as she was. He didn’t deserve her glares.

But Celestyna couldn’t bear for even Lord Dellier to see her in that moment. Once the room was empty of everyone but her two armored guards, she returned to her throne. There she sat, breathing tightly—head high, eyes hot, mouth wobbling, jaw tight.

If she opened her mouth, she might cry, or scream until her voice ran out. Her guards waited at her sides, patient and silent. She wished they would let her cry upon their shoulders, and nearly commanded them to do so. She wished they would leave her alone but then quickly banished the thought. It was a fear that often kept her from sleep—that she would awaken someday to find her castle empty, everyone fled north or south to other lands. The Break would open wide to swallow her city, and she would be the only one left when her country fell at last into darkness.

She stared at her reflections until her tears were gone. Dusk had fallen, and at this time of day, her imagination always gotthe best of her. In the nearest window, her reflection changed. She no longer saw her own image, but instead that of an old witch, huddled at the mouth of a cave. Wrapped in chains. Dusted with snow.

A single word came to Celestyna’s mind, one of the last her mother had whispered:

Fetterwitch.

Some people’s nightmares were full of monsters and murderers.

Celestyna’s worst dreams were of the cave witch who lived in the mountains behind her castle.

Shivering, she rose in the shadows, turned away from the darkening windows, and left the throne room, her guards in step behind her.

In the west wing of the castle, in the private parlor where not even her flustered clutch of huffing, puffing ladies-in-waiting dared follow, Celestyna sat down to supper. Beside her, arched windows overlooked the Westlin mountains. Above them stretched a thick gray sky. She stared at it, too tired to eat.

“So many clouds,” she whispered to herself. “So little lightning.”

The next instant, the parlor door flew open and her sister hurried inside—Princess Orelia, twelve years old, wide-eyed and determined, with silver ribbons fluttering in her long golden hair.

Orelia’s tutor bustled behind, waving a fistful of papers. “Your Highness, we are not quite finished yet!”

Orelia whirled around and shut the door in the old woman’s face with an impertinent little curtsy. Then she went at once to Celestyna and held her hands.

“What was that all about?” Orelia said quietly, looking hard at Celestyna’s stony face. “I was there, you know, in the throne room. I saw what happened, before Madame Berrie fetched me. I got free of her as soon as I could.” She blew out a tiny sharp breath. “I saw your face, Tyna. You almost cried in front of everyone.”

Celestyna did not answer. She held herself very still.

Orelia pressed on, gently. “Oh, Tyna. You look so sad. What is it? Say something, won’t you?” She paused, then sat on the velvet-cushioned bench beside Celestyna. “Mama said never to cry, not when you’re queen. Remember? But here, with us two, we can do whatever we want.”

Celestyna laughed only once. She pulled Orelia close, so hersister would not see her face. She could never be too sure what it would show—especially when Orelia brought up their parents.

“Mama said many things about being queen,” Celestyna murmured.

“She said, ‘Don’t ever yell,’” Orelia began, doing a fair impression of their mother’s voice.

Celestyna shut her eyes against memories so horrible she could never look directly at them. “And she said, ‘Don’t ever cry,’” she added.