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Her thumb gently swept against the back of my hand. I looked up to meet her gaze. For a split second, the world was still and peaceful, and all I could see were her dove-gray eyes. They were so full, so easy for me to read.Love, I thought.This has to be love. It has to be me.

Please, my desperate heart whispered as if she might hear it.Please say it’s me.

“My lady,” she said, “I know you. You are not quick to give up under any circumstances. I don’t think anything, even a king, will be enough to stop you from finding your mother.”

I wished I was as strong as she thought me to be.

Trumpets sounded, ringing through the hall. At their music, the hundredfold nobles fell silent. Standing on my tiptoes, I could see a soldier on either side of the doors, each dressed in the finery of a courtier, except for the silver breastplates over their blue uniforms.

The first soldier beat the staff of his halberd against the floor. “Vive le roi!”

“Long live the king!” we replied.

The second soldier repeated the gesture, the boom of the halberd like a clap of thunder. “¡Que viva el rey!”

“Long live the king!” we repeated.

As the doors opened, the world grew silent, like everyone in the room was holding their breath at once. I stood as tall as I could and tried to nudge people aside so that I could seehim.

Suddenly, like the crowd was one great wave, they moved as one, bowing and curtsying. I followed along, and when I stood, I turned my attention, like all the others, toward a wall covered in jewel-toned tapestries.

“Friends!” came the voice of a man. Warm and welcoming. “How glad I am to be with you again. Please, dance, enjoy yourselves. I am happiest when I see you rejoicing inthe pleasures of my court. Carry on!”

At the sound of his command, the courtiers scattered, some admiring the gardens, some sampling the wines carried on trays by servants, others lining up in the middle of the room for a minuet.

Musicians started up a joyful melody, with strings and harpsichord and a strumming lute.

The courtiers began to dance, arms raised in perfect arcs, sweeping their legs, twirling, leaping, bowing. With Lope by my side, I walked around the group of dancers, trying desperately to catch a glance of him.

There—past the sea of silver dancers, a strange flash of gold. I could think of only one person who’d be allowed to stand out in this crowd.

With Lope’s hand in mine, I wove through the throng of onlookers, inching closer and closer to the king. My breath was whirling and tight as a storm in my chest. Again and again, I prepared my words in my mind as I focused on the gleam of gold ahead of me. The king. My father.

Your Majesty, I’d say, bowing,my mother is Marisol de Forestier. What would come next would be either a fairy tale or a nightmare.

The nobles grumbled and gasped as I pushed past them, each of them also craning their neck to catch their own glimpse at His Majesty. With each person I bumped aside, I could see more and more of the man in gold.

Until there he was.

He sat in a golden throne, watching the dancers serenely from atop a dais. On either side, he was flanked with guards, their hands against their rapiers.

Between the current of dancers, the spectators, and the throne, the floor was empty, like there was some invisible wall keeping the courtiers from coming too near to the king. Some were so brave as to extend their hands, to wave, to blow a kiss—but no one dared enter that sacred space surrounding this gods-blessed man.

I took one final look at the soldiers and their rapiers, twinkling in the light. Crammed in among the crowd of nobility, I turned to Lope, both of us pressed up against each other. She gripped tight to my arms, as if to keep me from falling over.

“You don’t have to speak to him,” she said. “We can just... enjoy the party. Or write him a note.”

I knew it was foolish. I knew it was dangerous. I didn’t think the soldiers would run me through with their blades in front of all the partygoers, but... Mother always said the ways of this court were different. And perilous.

I shut my eyes and thought of her. On bright mornings, we would sit in the garden and bathe in the sunshine, and she would brush my hair and sing me folk songs. She let me watch her paint portraits and landscapes; whatever I asked of her, she could paint it. Some days, she’d ask for my thoughts—ifa shade of green was too bright, if a person’s pose looked natural. In every bit of her life, she made a place for me. She was even willing to give up whatever fear or grudge she had with this palace, all so we could be safe again.

“I need to find her,” I told Lope, nodding. “He may be the only one who can help us.”

Her face was severe, but her gray eyes seemed to smile. She had always looked at me like that—with the eyes of a lover. My heart ached; I tipped closer, hoping—

“You are exceptionally brave, my lady,” she said.

Something invisible pricked my heart.My lady, still. How could someone write such poetry about me yet still refer to me so coldly? Had I been mistaken? Were her sweet words meant for another?