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Celestyna’s eyes opened. She felt the wrongness in the air at once. The curse sent its thousand tiny tongues out into the castle and brought back information.

There were people in Castle Stratiara who did not belong there.

Fifteen people, in fact.

Running, slipping around corners, whispering warnings:quiet. Hurry.

This way.

Celestyna unfolded herself from her bed, hair falling down her back in silver and gray and lavender and sky-blue curls.

Cursed hair.

She passed the mirror on the wall and saw the two thick crimson curls that fell against her cheek. They’d started growing the day she’d stood at her parents’ bedside, her hands trembling around an empty bowl.

At first she’d tried cutting the curls. They reminded her of things she did not wish to remember. She would cut them every night before bed, right down to their roots, but when she hurried to the mirror the next morning, there they would be—bold and cascading once more.

Now Celestyna found that she liked the sight of them. They were a marker of her strength. The collar around her neck allowed her mind to see things clearly. What a delight it was, this collar. And the curse too. One to give her power, the other to calm her mind so she could use it. A pair of delights, like candies she could roll around her mouth.

Regrettable, that the Fetterwitch was dead. Celestyna wished she could thank her.

She padded barefoot down the hall, past Orelia’s bedroom.

A pang of something poked Celestyna’s ribs. She hesitated, listening to Orelia cry.

But then the curse whispered up her arms, raising all the fine hairs at her elbows and shoulders and nape.

Hurry. The children are here.

Celestyna continued down the hall and the first set of stairs, past the guards standing at the bottom step, into the corridor just outside the royal wing.

She grabbed a sword from the wall. It had been welded to a fixture for display, but came away easily, because the curse, oh, it was a clever thing, and it had clever, sly fingers, and a clever, sly will.

Her guards flinched and gazed at her in wonder.

Sword in hand, Celestyna knocked on Lord Dellier’s door. He opened it after a moment, wrapped in a dressing gown, a nightcap on his head, a pink mark on his cheek from the press of his pillow. He blinked in surprise.

“There are invaders in the castle,” Celestyna said. Her words unfurled, slow and toneless. “Follow me. I can show you right where they are.”

Lord Dellier frowned. “Who?”

She tilted her head. “The children I’m going to kill.”

Lord Dellier’s tired eyes fell to Celestyna’s withered hand. “Your Majesty, how are you feeling? Is the collar helping?”

For an instant, it felt like someone had ripped the rug out from under Celestyna. Her knees knocked together. She swayed a little and wished she was back in her bed, with Orelia safe beside her.

But then the feeling passed. The curse whispered faintly,Focus, Queenie.Celestyna stroked her blackened wrist.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” she replied, “though I’m perturbed that a group of children have come into my home without invitation—”

Celestyna froze, listening. The curse was speaking to her. There were ants running fast along her bones, black and hard shelled, and they told her, in a thousand tiny whispering voices:

The children are stormwitches.

Except one.

Heat flared inside Celestyna like a forest going up in flames. The collar was no match for the curse’s growing anger.