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I hadn’t seen Titus again in the past two weeks, but he’d done his job and ruined any semblance of peace I’d found.

His words got under my skin—not just the threat, but the insinuation there was more to learn about the kingdom.

In the hours before daybreak, sleep constantly evaded me while guilt twisted in my gut.

It was a betrayal not to tell Raphael that King Stormblood’s spymaster was lurking in their midst, but I had no way to explain myself without casting suspicions on how I knew him.

Even if I managed a convincing lie, when confronted, Titus would tell them everything .

Hopefully, if Titus was going to do something, Amalthea would see it, and I wouldn’t have to intervene. That was the point of having an oracle, right?

That morning, as I lay in the nest I’d made under the bed, the guilt was especially terrible. My stomach seemed unable to unclench. I tried to sit up and everything seemed to shift. I slumped against my pillow, pulling my legs closer against me. Something felt really wrong.

I lifted the blanket.

Blood.

Between my thighs.

I’m going to be sick.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Samara? Open the door.”

Raphael. “One minute!” I called. I forced myself to ignore the pain and slid out from under the bed, grabbing my pillow and blanket.

Why it was critical to not let Raphael know I was sleeping under the bed while I wanted to curl into a ball and hold my stomach could only be attributed to whatever fragment of pride I still had.

My entire center of gravity seemed to shift as I stood, my feet wobbling as I started towards the barricaded door.

“I’m coming in,” he declared.

“Wait—”

But the locked door was already swinging open, the furniture I’d lodged against it splintering as he pushed his way inside .

Of course. Why had I deluded myself into thinking some measly wooden furniture would protect me from vampire strength? I felt like heaving. Raphael stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed, while I stood from halfway across the room with my loose bedclothes hanging off me.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Oh.”

And then he was gone, the door shut behind him.

I crumpled to the floor, bile in my throat, my stomach still miserably cramping.

My thoughts were fuzzy, like I was high in the air without the ability to draw a deep breath.

Instinct took over, and I rushed to the toilet.

I sank to my knees on the cool stone and heaved, expelling everything inside me.

Footsteps sounded beside me, and I tried to lift my head to react, but all at once there were fingers on my back, through my hair.

“It’s okay,” Raphael said. “You’re okay.”

“I’m bleeding,” I hissed. My lower area ached like a cramp rather than a cut.

He pulled my hair away, one hand on the small of my back as I clutched the sides of the basin. “I know. I’ve sent for a healer—a human one. She’ll be here soon. I can get Amalthea as well, if you’d find comfort in her presence.”

Finally, I lifted my head, but it was impossible to fully meet Raphael’s eyes. “Maybe later.”

It was mortifying enough to be like this around Raphael. I debated sending him away, but that was the last thing I wanted, and I didn’t have enough pride to push him away. He stayed at my side for several long moments until I felt certain I wouldn’t vomit again.

“There’s a change of clothes on the stool.” He gestured to the side of the room. “I’ll be right outside. Unless you want me to stay?”

I shook my head. Raphael left the room, and I took a few moments to note the blood seemed to have stopped.

Was it from training too hard? I’d never experienced anything like this before.

The cramps had eased slightly, but I wanted to get back under the bed as soon as possible.

Maybe I could rest a little more before training.

Just the thought of running through drills with Iademos made me want to vomit again.

I briefly washed my pelvis and thighs, then put on the loose dress he’d left me.

When I opened the door, there were two figures.

Raphael was joined by a woman with graying dark hair and an apron that had a dozen pockets so overflowing I wondered how it stayed up.

A thin sheen of sweat dotted her brow as she shifted on her feet, the scent of herbs wafting over me as she neared.

“Hello, dear. My name is Charlotte. Raphael says you had need of a healer?” She gestured to the bed for me to sit.

I went to the settee instead, but Raphael beat me there and dragged the massive piece of furniture away from the wall and over to the fireplace with startling ease.

I’d have marveled more if my abdomen wasn’t begging for me to sit down .

Once I settled on the plush cushion with Charlotte in front of me, Raphael was at my back. Just as well. I didn’t need to look at him while the healer examined me.

“I’m bleeding. But I wasn’t cut.” Confusion shaded my voice. In all my time at Greymere, nothing like that had happened, and I’d endured far worse than the past weeks of training.

“How old are you, dear?”

“Twenty years.” At least, I didn’t think my birthday had passed yet. Why did it matter?

“And how are you feeling?” she asked.

It was so strange to have someone ask that. I didn’t want to appear weak. “I’m bleeding,” I repeated. “But I’m doing alright.” Kind of.

“The truth, dove,” Raphael interrupted.

I winced.

“I need to know how you’re doing to best help you, dear,” Charlotte assured me. “Do you know what your monthly cycle is?”

The words stirred some memories of my mother talking with her lady’s maids, but nothing specific. I shook my head.

Charlotte explained in short, factual sentences what a monthly cycle was, and the fact it apparently happened every month or so to mortals from a young age.

I wanted to vomit all over again. “Every month? But this has never happened to me before. ”

She pursed her lips as she studied me. “It’s… unusual, to say the least, for one of your age to have not yet had a cycle.”

“She didn’t have it because she was malnourished for the entirety of her adolescence,” Raphael interrupted. “I’d wager this is the first time in her life she’s properly eaten.”

“It’s best if the patient answers, Your Majesty.” It wasn’t quite a rebuke, but something like it. Charlotte focused her attention solely on me.

“I… it wasn’t possible to eat much these past years.” Another cramp seized my stomach. Raphael’s hand was immediately on my shoulder, gently pressing, distracting me from the pain.

“So how are you feeling now?” she asked again.

“Terrible, to be honest. My stomach hurts like someone is twisting a knife in it, my head feels like it’s going to float away, my back is sore, and I think I’d vomit again except there’s nothing left in my stomach.”

Charlotte just nodded along. “It’s to be expected, I’m afraid. I can mix you a drink to help abate the symptoms, but the body needs what it needs. I take it you don’t know much about handling your cycle?”

I shook my head once more. The healer launched into extensive details on symptomatology, expectations, and hygiene. By the time she finished, I was almost grateful to Greymere for keeping me so starved it had never happened before. Almost.

The healer mixed up a brew before going, and under her—and Raphael’s—watchful gaze I drained every foul-tasting drop.

I’d certainly had worse. Foul-tasting medicine was a novelty, though.

When sick as a child, a witch trained in healing magic would tend to me.

There was, of course, no such thing in Greymere, but there was no medicine either.

The bitter drink felt like a kind of penance, as though because I suffered through the foul taste I would deserve the healing it offered.

The healer departed with promises to check on me tomorrow. Or any time I needed, or wanted to be checked-on—“Even in the middle of the day,” she added, when Raphael didn’t look pleased with her answer.

“You should go to bed,” he said once the door shut.

I was exhausted, but there was no way I could sleep right now. Certainly no way I’d crawl under the bedframe with Raphael here. “Can you send for Amalthea?”

“If you wish. But both the healer and I advise you to rest.”

“Amalthea’s presence will help me rest.”

Raphael chortled. “The last thing Amalthea brings to any room is tranquility.” But he heeded my wishes all the same. He stepped out, summoning a messenger to fetch Amalthea, and stayed, lingering in the doorjamb until the seer arrived.

Amalthea arrived with a basket of gifts. She dismissed Raphael with a wave of her hand and strode into the room, dress billowing around her.

“I have just the thing,” she declared.

“The healer already gave me a brew.”

She waved my words away the same way she’d shooed Raphael from the room. “Bah. This is better than anything a healer could give you. Here.” She lifted a smaller box from the basket she’d set on the ground between us.

I took the box, curious, and lifted the lid. Rows of small brown desserts, decorated with different colored sugar, lined the bottom.

“It’s chocolate. Trust me,” she encouraged. Not knowing what those words meant for someone like me.

But… I did. At least in this. I took one and nibbled on an edge. An explosion of flavor coated my mouth, bitter yet enticing. I took another bite while Amalthea reached over and plopped one whole in her mouth.

I continued on the chocolates. I didn’t exactly like the taste, but I couldn’t stop eating them.

My fingers were quickly painted brown. Amalthea managed to avoid making such a mess, despite eating at least as many.

When the box was finally empty, I turned it over in my hands, antsy.

The pile of splintered furniture, my onetime source of protection, taunted me.

The hinges were askew, and from experience, I knew a lock brutishly opened like that would need delicate repair.