Page 17 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

I ran shaky hands down my gown, then cursed myself for the mistake. Showing nerves was to show weakness.

And standing atop this staircase—alone for the first time—I couldn’t afford to look weak.

A confectionery shop had spilled its bounty across the ballroom today.

Caramel-spun towers bursting with cream puffs.

Candy pearls dripping from chandeliers. Glacé fruits and syrupy sunlight and powdered sugar in the air.

Servers weaved between partygoers, carrying potted desserts that would’ve made Father anxious.

What do we do with the pots when we finish?

I imagined him saying. Put them in our pockets?

My heart wrenched at the thought of him. But I made myself ignore the pain.

“Heron disappoints me,” Garret drawled, his near presence startling me. “I thought he would’ve tried confining you to your chambers. Or at least elbowed his way into that carriage with you.”

Surprisingly, Father had done neither. While Amarie had pleaded with me tirelessly—for she’d known about Father’s business with the Capewells all these years—Father had locked himself in his study, and even my departure hadn’t roused him to face me.

But every night since our argument, a shadow had pooled under my door. I’d heard the floorboards creaking, and I’d imagined him raising a fist to knock.

And every night, he’d lost his nerve, leaving me feeling hollow and slightly ashamed.

“Why are you here?” I asked. Like all the Capewells, Garret’s alias as a merchant afforded him entry into every event of the season.

But I hadn’t expected him here today, defiant of his purpling bruises, cutting a dapper figure with his freshly pressed trousers and freshly trimmed hair.

Only his blazer appeared less crisp, slightly limp from overuse.

As he offered his elbow, I caught its stale citrus-and-lavender scent and realized this was the blazer he’d draped around me when I’d been unconscious at Capewell Manor.

The blazer that must have absorbed the scent of my perfume... and had apparently been spared from the washboard.

“I’m here,” Garret said, quieter now, “so you wouldn’t be alone.”

The words sent a needle through me—acute and startling—and it struck me anew that I hadn’t known who Garret truly was for the last seven years. My perception had centered around our divide when I’d seen his oath band and believed he’d chosen the Hunters over me.

Now, unshackled from the task of protecting me, he was still offering an arm.

My defenses shuddered. Softened.

I remembered how painful it had been when Garret had stopped feeling like my home. But what had Garret been feeling back then, alone? Having been forced to walk away, how difficult had it been to stop looking at me as his home?

As I studied the memory from a new angle, I suddenly ached to think of the path we might have taken without my father’s interference. Because I knew, deep down, that if we’d kept growing up toward each other, we would have inevitably intertwined.

And now I couldn’t help wondering, as Garret patiently awaited my hand, if he also resented the loss of a future neither of us would ever see.

Feeling strangely mournful, I reached up to accept Garret’s arm. His eyes flickered in surprise; he stood straighter, holding his breath. My fingers were just skimming him when I noticed the slight ridge in his blazer. The crease of a weapon, sheathed under the front seam.

I paused. And as my specter hardened with the memory of his double-edged knife, so, too, did my defenses.

Garret appeared quietly defeated—but unsurprised—as I descended into the crowd without anyone on my arm.

In their most recent Hunting, the copycats had targeted the Jacombs’ household, slaughtering their two dozen employees. On my last visit here, news of the mass Hunting had shaken me—had driven me home early. Today, it fueled me.

I’d planned my ensemble like a general designing battle armor: a plunging crystal-beaded bodice; A-line tulle skirts, sparkling with penny-blossom dye; diamond earrings peeking through my loosely waved hair.

I’d always wanted to stand apart from the satin and brocade of Henthornian fashion, but as a Wielder-in-hiding, standing apart had its own sinister consequences.

The outfit had never been worth the risk.

Now the risk was worth the outfit.

Wray Capewell had supposedly been lured to his death by a ruling noble—a noble who’d accidentally left their palace chamber key at the scene.

My first task here would be to test the key along the nobles’ halls; if the locks hadn’t changed, I could discover whose chambers it opened.

Until then, I’d planned to learn as much as possible about my suspects.

Five families presided over Daradon’s provinces: the Brogues of Creak, the Jacombs of Dawning, the Byrds of Avanford, the Kaulters of Parrey, and the Paines of Vereen. Excluding my own, that left four families to investigate.

This ballroom swelled with enough information about those families to sink a ship.

If one of them was using the compass to direct the copycats, I would employ every tool in my arsenal to stop them.

As fresh trays flooded the crowd, I glimpsed a long-legged server with a thick braid swishing beyond her waist. The light caught her copper-brown skin and high cheekbones. Her straight nose and clever eyes.

My confidence curdled into horror as I hauled Tari into a dim alcove. “What are you doing here?”

The custard tarts wobbled on her tray. My best friend righted them with a scowl. “Do you mind? I’m working.”

“You don’t work here,” I said, gaping at her servant’s garb: black pinafore trousers over a billowing white blouse. The silver-plated lotus pin—her eternal tribute to Bormia—winked at her collar.

“I do now.” She flicked her braid. “My friend recruits palace staff, and—”

“Your friend?”

“I do have other friends, you know.” At the look I gave her, Tari sighed. “Fine. She’s one of Mama’s patients. I asked about Rose Season openings, and she said a servant had fallen ill after some... bad soup.” She averted her eyes.

“You poisoned someone?” I hissed.

“Just a little wayleaf for gastric relief,” she said quickly. “She’ll be fine by morning... or in a week.” She screwed her face. “Or three.”

My mouth flopped open.

“All right, so I was unintentionally heavy-handed with the wayleaf. But getting the right dosage is harder than you’d think!”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’ve never poisoned anyone.”

Tari put a hand on her hip. “This is your fault. You can’t tease me with an espionage scheme and expect me not to come. Besides, I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“Do I look happy?”

“You look like you’re about to pop a vein. Does that count?”

I folded my arms. “Go home.”

“You don’t have the authority to dismiss me.”

“I’m the lady of Vereen.”

Tari snorted. “And I’m the queen of Daradon.” She swooped her tray under my nose, turned, and said over her shoulder, “Now that I’m here, I can sneak you extra desserts. Though I doubt you’d find room, with that pole stuck so far up your—”

She squeaked, her tarts almost toppling as a figure appeared at the alcove’s threshold.

I saw the distinctive crimson ringlets first, bouncing above glitter-dusted shoulders.

Then canary-yellow satin, slinking off a generous hourglass figure—a sleek twist on Henthornian fashion nobody else had dared to emulate.

But it was the jewelry that stole my breath.

Huge yellow diamonds dripped down her wrists, her neck, her fingers—loudly declaring her status at court.

Princess Carmen of Daradon. King Erik’s first cousin. And next in line to the throne.

The princess angled her head around Tari and looked me over. “ That’s the ensemble they’re all fainting over?” A crooning, toffee-sweet voice. “Our last queen threw women in the dungeons for upstaging the royals. I can think of ten more creative ways to make you suffer.”

Tari stiffened. But I put myself between her and the princess, and matched that treacly tone. “Like forcing me to wear that instead?”

Carmen arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

Then she cackled and crushed me in a vanilla-scented embrace.

Tari relaxed, and I shot her a glance that said, We’re not finished talking about this , before she could stride away.

“Just a moment, peach.” Carmen halted her with a light touch to her wrist, then plucked a tart off Tari’s tray and popped it into her scarlet mouth.

Tari flushed, either at the casual term of endearment or the way Carmen licked the crumbs off her fingers one by one.

I rolled my eyes.

With an eruption of sunshine fabrics and a constellation of golden freckles, Carmen Vard possessed an uncanny magnetism that drew people into orbit around her.

On her first visit to Vereen—aged seven—she’d charmed Father out of his garnet-inlaid pocket watch and had the cooks whipping up her favorite desserts, all within an hour.

I’d decided then that she was the brightest girl I’d ever met.

Carmen threw Tari a parting wink that only deepened my friend’s blush; then the princess linked our arms and drew me back into the roaring party.

“You’re a wretch,” she declared, mock-frowning. “You told me you weren’t joining court this year.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Bah! What if I’d worn silver today? We’d have clashed, and I really would have thrown you in the dungeons!”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Have I missed much?”

“Well, Rupert drank a case of spoiled rum and couldn’t leave his chambers for two days. That gave the gentry a good laugh.”

“That’s awful.”

“Oh, I know. You’d think the Kaulters’ own distillery would churn out finer products.”

I didn’t bother telling her I was referring to the gentry. Having grown up at court, Carmen was too accustomed to their cruel humor.

“And of course,” Carmen said, more serious, “there was the Jacombs’ trial.”