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He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even bothered trying, for James had known his mind would give him not an ounce of peace after what he’d done.

His father’s voice filled his head: Your brother gets to make mistakes, but not you. William is Alexandra’s son, heir to the throne, and that means the only individual who will ever question him, ever judge him, is me. Whereas you were born out of wedlock to a Cardiffian woman whom half the kingdom believed to be a witch, so everyone questions you. Everyone judges you. If you are perfect, they will see only my son. But the moment you err, all they will see is your mother’s eyes staring out of your face, and they will turn on you, sure and true. If that happens, everything your mother dreamed and fought and died for will be lost.

Last night had been one error piled on the next, culminating with his mad decision to kiss Ahnna fucking Kertell.

In the light of day, James did not understand why he had done it or what he’d been thinking, only that the compulsion to make Ahnna his had overwhelmed every drop of common sense in his body.

Ask yourself whether this is a matter of me not being wanted, or of you wanting something well beyond your reach, Ahnna’s voice whispered, and James turned his face to the misting sky, the words striking truer than she’d known because the answer was both.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

James jerked, finding Ahnna descending the steps of Fernleigh toward the waiting carriage. Her hair was woven into a tight coronet of braids that emphasized the hard lines of her face. Regal. Fierce.

Beautiful.

But not his. Never his.

“Good morning,” he said, opening the door of the coach. “We’ll need to travel all through the day to reach the inn at Willowford, where we will stay the night.”

“I look forward to seeing the country,” she said, then climbed into the coach. It rocked again as her guardsman, Jor, climbed onto the buckboard, the old man pressing his sleeve to his mouth as he coughed violently.

“Flux?” the coachman asked.

“Your shitty weather,” Jor responded, then broke into another bout of coughing.

Bronwyn and Taryn appeared, and James watched their faces closely for any sign that Ahnna had told them what had happened the prior night, but their expressions showed nothing as they greeted him and climbed in next to Ahnna. Hazel was the last member of the party to join them, the young maid carrying a picnic basket, which she set on the floor of the coach before climbing inside.

Taking the reins of a horse from a footman, James mounted and pulled the hood of his cloak forward, nodding at the coachman to proceed, the twelve soldiers accompanying them forming up ahead and behind.

They rode through the dawn streets of Sableton, but as they reached the edge of the city, James saw a familiar figure standing on a street corner, soldiers passing him by without a second glance. His uncle Cormac wore Harendellian clothes, but how anyone could mistake him as anything but Cardiffian—with his height and breadth and wildness —James didn’t know. His uncle’s eyes locked on his, and James heard the message as surely as if his uncle had screamed the words.

Get rid of her.