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A s it was already nearly sunset, we took the precaution of retreating a short distance into the trees so Aric wouldn’t transform in front of inquiring eyes. A few minutes later, as the colors of dusk were bruising the horizon, we crossed the road and headed for the inn.

The building’s courtyard was quiet, no other travelers in sight. A girl emerged to take our horses: a hostler, though she couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She looked confused at the sight of Aric carrying a saddle with no steed in sight, but took it from him without question and promised to store it with the rest of the guests’ tack.

I stopped her with a touch to the shoulder as she started to leave. “Are there any guests here from Damaria? A young woman, about my age and build?”

The girl’s expression lit with recognition. “Oh yes. The lady said she was expecting a visitor. She was right—you do look like her. Though I expected someone more…”

Her voice faded, her cheeks flushing dark. I became suddenly, critically aware of the state of my clothes. Travel had done me no favors. My hair was a bird’s nest, and I’d acquired a layer of grime that felt as indelible as varnish. The hostler didn’t need to finish her sentence. I might share Tatiana’s face, but I didn’t look like a noble.

It didn’t matter. My sister was here; that was the important part. She would plot a way out of this mess, just as she’d schemed her way into mischief dozens of times when we were younger. And despite my exhaustion and the nausea lapping at the periphery of my awareness, I felt lighter just at the thought of seeing her.

“Where can I find her?” I asked.

“She’s staying on the second floor.”

I left the girl to her duties and started towards the inn’s front door. Halfway across the courtyard, I realized Aric hadn’t followed.

I turned back to face him. “Aren’t you coming?”

He cast a dubious look at the sky, where the first stars were brightening the vault. “Considering what happened the last time I entered an inn, I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“Tatiana’s here,” I said. “She can fix this before sunrise. Come with me.”

I took his hand. Aric was resistant at first, but then wrapped his fingers around mine and let me draw him after me. The warmth of his palm was as welcome as a fire on a cold night.

The inn was clean, bright, lit by both the hearth and a host of pewter-backed candles lining the walls. It was early to light so many tapers, but as the glass-paned windows indicated, the place was doing well for itself. As the only inn at one of the few border crossings between Damaria and Gildenheim, they must pull in plenty of business from wealthy travelers. Like Tatiana.

The main room wasn’t as busy as I’d feared; but again, it was barely after sunset. More travelers would probably file in with the arrival of proper darkness. Still, I held Aric’s hand more tightly and headed towards the stairs, eager to be out of sight. I couldn’t forget how we’d been targeted the last time we stayed at an inn—although, small mercy, we looked decidedly less royal now: Aric in his homespun from the greenwitch and I in garments so begrimed they might have been brown to begin with.

At the top of the stairs, I hesitated, surveying a hallway lined with identical doors. I should have asked the hostler which room was Tatiana’s.

But I didn’t wonder for long. The next instant the door at the end of the hall flew open and my sister hurtled down the corridor towards us, a whirlwind of diaphanous skirts.

“Little bee!”

She flung her arms around me so hard the air whooshed out of my chest. My ribcage shrieked with agony.

“Tatiana,” I wheezed. “Too tight.”

She bounced back on her heels, holding me at arm’s length. “Is it your condition? You are looking a little green—” Her eyes traveled over my shoulder and found Aric. They widened, then abruptly narrowed into what I knew from experience was Tatiana’s most baleful stare.

“Your Majesty.” Her tone had cooled at least ten degrees. “I wasn’t expecting the pleasure.”

“Yes, I told you I would explain in my letter,” I said hurriedly. I cast a nervous glance over my shoulder. How far did sound carry in these halls? “Could we please go to your room, so I can fill you in and we can set things straight before my husband turns into a horse in the middle of the hallway?”

To her credit, my sister didn’t question. She merely turned on her heel and led us to her chamber, where she closed the door behind us with a definitive click. Then she spun to face me, her composed expression dissolving into a private look of concern.

“Thank the seas you’re all right. Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I’ve been pacing this room for two days straight, ready to pull my nails out. When you sent me that extremely cryptic message via barnacle goose—”

I couldn’t spare the energy to wonder why of all the birds in existence, Evito had chosen a barnacle goose as his first messenger. I sank down on the settee, my head spinning. “Wait. Two days? How did you get here so early? And where are your guards, for that matter?”

I’d sent my message—apparently, entrusted to the delivery skills of barnyard fowl—the day before Tatiana arrived here, if my count was right. I wasn’t certain of the traveling speed of a goose, but it should have taken at least a day for the letter to reach Tatiana, and another three or so for her to travel to the border.

My sister’s entire expression lit up. I braced myself.

“You recall the legend of the seven-league boots?”

“Yes?” I said warily. Tatiana had always been particularly fond of that tale—traveling seven leagues from our parents in a single step had an undeniable appeal, especially when we were younger.

“Well, I was tinkering around and decided to put my own spin on them.” Tatiana rummaged in one of her satchels and emerged triumphantly holding what appeared to be a chamber pot. If, that is, a chamber pot were made of brass, encrusted with enamel, and clearly fashioned for public display.

“Tatiana,” I said. “That is a spittoon.”

“I know!” she said brightly. “It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Seven-league spittoon? Don’t worry, it’s been thoroughly cleaned.” She frowned pensively at the enchanted cuspidor. “Although it does have quite a kick to it. Threw off my entire retinue in the palace courtyard. They didn’t even make it a single step, poor souls. Perhaps that’s for the best—I’d hate for them to be strewn across the road to Gildenheim like a string of sausages. Or maybe like breadcrumbs? That’s a much nicer thought… although I suppose it implies that they would be broken up into little pieces?”

Virtue of Patience. Under normal circumstances I was happy to listen to my sister’s rambling theories about her various magical mishaps, but now was not the moment.

“Never mind the spittoon,” I said. “We don’t have much time. At sunrise, my husband is going to turn back into a horse. A very large horse with a propensity for breaking bed frames.”

Tatiana arched a brow at me. “Breaking bed frames? Really, Bianca?”

Heat rushed to my face. “It’s not like that—”

“Agreed,” Aric put in hastily, spots of color flaring in his own cheeks, “it would be ideal to end the curse before I risk losing another pair of clothes.”

“Another—” Tatiana began.

“ Anyway, ” I forged on, my cheeks on fire, “the relevant point is that we need you to undo your enchantment before Aric turns back into a horse.”

Tatiana looked at me, for once without a ready response. Then she set the spittoon carefully on the bed and folded her arms across her chest.

“Explain. From the very beginning.”

I did, as fast as I was able—Aric offering the occasional quiet addition, Tatiana pacing the floor as if determined to wear a hole through the boards. I left out the part about sleeping with Aric, my words faltering over the gap in my tale, and Tatiana’s eyes flickered between us in a way that told me she missed nothing. I continued, blushing, and related the rest as clearly as I could.

By the time I was done, the sky was spangled with stars and my tongue was dry as beach sand.

“—and that’s the sum of it,” I finished. “Now you just need to undo the spell so we can get back to Arnhelm before Varin takes the crown.”

I fished the empty locket from where it hung below my neckline, drew the chain over my head, and held it out to my sister.

Tatiana, most unlike herself, had fallen silent. She looked at me, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

I braced myself. I knew that expression—it was the same she’d worn when she accidentally turned our mother’s favorite diadem into a puddle of very liquid gold.

“I’m sorry,” Tatiana said. “I can’t.”