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Her voice came out rather squished. She itched to fiddle with the ends of her sleeves. But Brier would not fiddle with the ends of her sleeves.

The queen glanced at the painted burn on Thorn’s chest, still only half dry. “Tell me what happened in the mountains yesterday.”

Thorn did, describing everything Brier and Noro had told her—the bolt of lightning waiting for Brier on the plateau. Howthe bolt had kicked her off Noro’s back. The scorching hot pain of the burn. By the time she had finished, Thorn’s throat felt completely sucked dry.

Silence filled the throne room.

Then the queen spoke. “Lightning does not attack people.”

Brier would have smiled and said something clever and charming, something to sweep the gathered nobles off their feet and put them at ease.

But Brier was at home, in pain and alone.

Thorn tried not to think about that.

Instead she said simply, “This one did.”

Whispers and quiet laughter swept through the throne room, sending heat crawling up Thorn’s cheeks.

Princess Orelia glanced at her sister, then at Thorn, then back again.

The queen hardly moved. “You saw wrong.”

Thorn frowned. That wasn’t fair. Brier was at home with some horriblethingbranded on her skin, and the queen didn’t believe the truth? “I didn’t see wrong.”

Noro shifted from his left hooves to his right hooves. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“Your Majesty,” Thorn added quickly.

The queen waved a hand. “The eyes can play tricks.”

Thorn exploded. Words poured out of her. She couldn’t stop them.

“What if it was your sister, Orelia, who said she’d been attacked by lightning?” Thorn said. “Would you look at the burn onherchest and sayshewas lying?”

Even the mistbirds fell quiet. The lords and ladies of Queen Celestyna’s court were no longer laughing.

The queen’s eyes narrowed. “PrincessOrelia, I think you meant to say.”

Thorn looked down at her boots—Brier’s boots—and tried to keep her face from crumpling.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispered after a moment. “Princess Orelia. I’m... I’m sorry.”

For a moment no one moved. Thorn desperately wanted to grab on to Noro’s long mane, or turn around and hide in Bartos’s coat. Instead she made herself look up.

The rising sunlight shifted across the queen’s mass of silver, color-streaked hair. Cloud-colored, sunset-colored, storm-colored—save for two curls of bright crimson.

“Leave us,” commanded the queen. The clean cut of her voice made Thorn jump.

Only after the nobles had hurried out of the room, leaving the queen and her sister, and Bartos and the guards, and Thorn and Noro, and the queen’s silent adviser, did the queen speak again.

“You are a bold child, Brier Skystone,” she said. “I hope that boldness will serve you well. For your sake, and for ours.”

Noro tensed. “Your Majesty, I hope you don’t mean to—”

“The storms are fading. You know this.”

Thorn hesitated. “Yes, Your Majesty. At least, that’s what we all think. The harvesters and I.”