In a place between sleep and wakefulness, where dreams entwine with visions from the mind-world, I find myself in the Ruby Palace throne room. Except, I am not standing at the bottom of the dais steps behind the Prince and the Duke, as I did last night when the Queen questioned us for over an hour. I am beside the King's empty throne seat, near the three royal council members wearing billowing robes.

A strange wind gusts into the enormous hall, carrying voices. Wailing, mournful voices. Voices that scream and writhe as though a thousand minds have been trapped and crushed together.

I should not be able to hear the voices, and it is important no one discovers I can. So I pretend I'm listening to the disagreement surging between the Queen and the Duke. The Queen presses for information about the whereabouts of the men who survived the attack on the Prince's escort. The Duke wants to discuss how they will reinforce the Carucan army and drive back the Eteans who sack villages all along the western border.

The voices in the wind grow louder, spiralling around me. All the giant candles lighting the great hall blow out, and a faint voice howls my name.

I wake, heart thumping, the back of my skull prickling. Kel's cry echoes in my head beneath a chorus of insects, clicking and scratching outside my window.

I roll over and am at once reminded of my bruised rib, by a sharp pain. In my mind's eye, I recall the marbled umber and cinnamon pillars of the throne room, the elaborate floor designs, the dais with its empty throne, and the Queen calling me forward to describe the events of the bird-men attack.

Though last night she did not question the Duke's reason for my presence, it was clear she did not believe I was in the Ruby Palace to find a husband. She permitted my guardian, Tug, to stay in nearby quarters, but I was certain she'd be adding reinforcements. A sentiment already confirmed by the two unfamiliar minds lingering outside my chambers.

I kick off the bed throw and get up from the floor, avoiding abrupt movements. My loose nightshirt stops mid-way down my calves. I check my short knife is still strapped to my thigh. The familiar feel of it in my palm is reassuring. Tug has finally returned my weapons. A symbol of the fact he wants us to trust each other?

I move to the arched frame, which opens onto an ochre-tiled balcony. Heat rises through my feet as I step into the breeze. I inhale the fresh, warm air, pushing down thoughts of the strange dream-memory. Then I take in the dizzying view.

My guest room is in a high, domed tower that almost topples off the side of the palace. A vast mountain range stretches across the horizon. The east side of the mountain, unlike the west with its stepped terraces and streets winding to the summit, has a thousand-foot vertical drop. One or two houses cling to the cliff, but the terraces start so far below, the houses and people resemble children's toys.

The angle of the high sun signals it is near noon. I can't believe I have slept so long, and so well, despite the distraction of so many minds, and my own fears of this new, gossamer-threaded spider-web world.

I throw the blankets back on the bed so it looks slept in, put on a light shawl and peer into the corridor.

A maid and a soldier stand in the marble sheen. She is laughing; his hand is almost touching hers. The moment they notice me, they pull apart. Her cheeks flame. His face slackens, body rigid as his arms fall to his sides, and he stands to attention.

The maid scurries to my door, picks up a tea tray, and curtsies. "I was told to let you rest. I hope that was right."

A third mind moves towards us, appearing around the curved balustrade at the end of the corridor. Diaphanous blue cloth obscures all but the woman's heavy-lidded eyes. She carries a basket, and I have the sense she's been waiting for me.

The maid speaks. "Would you like me to serve your tea and dress you now, Lady Mirra?"

The woman slips past the soldier, lowering her headscarf. From the simple shape and feel of her mind, I would never have guessed at her beauty. Contrasted with her long, black hair, her eyes are as pale as glaciers. The skin on her symmetrical face is as smooth and fine as powder snow.

"I have been sent to look at you," the woman says. "I am a healer."

The maid turns, sees the young woman, blushes again and moves aside with a curtsey, gaze fixed on my legs. The sudden fear the woman has sparked in the maid, captures my interest.

"I do not need a healer," I say. During the Queen's inquisition of the bird-men attack, neither the Prince, Tug nor I revealed my injury, and the Duke, knowing nothing of it, could not. Why would the Queen send a healer?

"I have already seen the Prince," the woman says, stepping closer. Between slim fingers she holds a fold of paper, flicks it up so only I can see it. It bears the seal of the Prince's royal signet ring. "It is also his wish I check on you."

A message from the Prince? When the Queen questioned Jakut in the throne room, it was clear his every move would be scrutinized from now on. The guard allocated for his protection was one of her spies. Any attempt at contacting each other will raise suspicions about our relationship and my presence in the palace. The healer may be our best chance of arranging how and where we will exchange information.

For a brief moment, I wonder how Jakut is coping. While I am swamped by information, memories dancing in a non-stop whirling ballet, he advances through a tenebrous landscape. Every step he takes, there is a risk the ground beneath will give way.

How easy will it be to manipulate him if someone like Lady Calmi discovers he does not remember who he is? She could tell him anything about his past self. What would Lord Strik or Queen Usas do with such information?

Thoughts of the Lady Calmi and Queen Usas spur me to action. I have much to do if I am to scan both their memories of the last year. I do not even know yet where Lady Calmi lives in the vast palace, or if she has tried to speak to the Prince.

I turn to my maid and take the tea tray. "I would very much like a pair of trousers and over-shirt like the Queen's."

"The baggy trousers and loose shirt are Tmàn costume," the maid says, shocked.

"Perhaps you could find out for me who makes them and ask them to call on me?"

"The departing ceremony is in two hours."

"Then you had better hurry."

With a flustered curtsey, she hurries away, shooting one final look at the soldier. I stretch out my awareness through the tower, but do not sense Tug.

"Has my guardian passed by to see me?" I ask the soldier.

"No, My Lady."

My eyes meet the healer's. Nothing untoward stirs in the mind-world. I stand back and let her in.

The healer waits in the center of the bedroom as I pour myself a cup of lukewarm tea. I sip my tea and take a green fruit from a bowl set on a carved wooden table that twists around like a screw. I bite into the fruit. Tangy sweetness bursts across my tongue. I savour the flavour, smiling at the woman so she does not notice my careful examination.

Poised, elegant, she demonstrates the perfect balance of restraint and receptiveness Deadran tried to teach me. Her expression is open, but not curious. She is not anxious, or watchful, and her long simple dress could not easily conceal a weapon.

"You have a message for me?" I ask.

"I know you are suffering," she says. "Let me examine you first. Pull up your shirt."

"My rib is bruised. There is nothing to see."

She sets her basket on the long table near the cream embroidered divan. The hamper overflows with pouches and medicine bottles. "I am not in pain," I say, stamping on that little voice in the back of my head that whines and implores for more Nocturne Melody.

"Then at least let me give you something to reduce the internal swelling and help you heal faster." She opens a pouch and withdraws a handful of dried yellow flowers. Their appearance is similar to the star-petalled snow arnica Pa occasionally bought when he returned to Blackfoot Forest with supplies. Except the petals are yellow, the seeds bigger.

The woman takes out a mortar and pestle and grinds the flowers. Then she pours a little into a miniature bowl and hands it to me. I smell, rub a pinch of powder onto my teeth. It tastes similar to snow arnica.

"I will leave you the rest," she says. "It is to be taken four times a day. You can stir it into the tea if you prefer." She packs away the herbs.

"Your message for me?"

She nods, retrieves the fold of paper from her skirt. I turn it over, checking the seal is not broken. I do not open it. The Prince may have confided his note into her hands, but that does not mean we can trust her.

"Thank you," I say, dipping my fruit into the flower grain and chewing down a little more of the clean, fragrant mix.

She stands in the center of the room without a shimmer of movement. If the Carucan Gods existed, she would be their earthly incarnation, barely of this world with her allure and grace.

"You do not wish me to take an answer?"

I am about to decline when my heartbeat flutters. I glance at the flowers, then at the tea. Stepping back to the bed, I search the healer's face for signs of deceit. Nothing. Not in her calm expression, nor in the mind-world. I tear open the seal on the Prince's note and unfold the paper.

It is as blank as her face.

My knife is in my hand in a second. But the woman still doesn't move.

"An interesting response for a Baroness," she says, staring.

"What have you given me?"

"I think you are probably more interested in what it will do to you. But I have given you summer arnica soaked in an undetectable snake poison. The poison is slowing your heart. In a minute it will paralyse the muscles in your arms and legs, in another twenty, your organs will shut down and your heart will stop beating."

One fist pressed to my chest, the other clenching the knife, I jerk sideways for the door.

"Call your guard," she says, "and by the time he has found another healer, you will be dead. I, on the other hand, have the antidote."

"What do you want?"

"First, I want you to answer my questions."

My eyes dart to her basket, the herb pouches and bottles. Even if I could get my hands on them, I have no idea what to look for.

My legs and arms tingle. How long before I lose muscle control? My instinct is to leap forward and jab her in the throat with the heel of my knife. She may be taller, but she is not lithe and agile like the Queen. I think it's safe to assume she is no Tmàn warrior, and I could have her at the point of my blade in seconds.

I shake my hands. The tingling grows stronger, creeping into my shoulders.

But she is clever. If I hold her at knifepoint, she knows in sixty—ninety—a hundred heartbeats I'll be defenceless. And even if she believed I was capable of slitting her throat in cold blood, we both know I will not, else we die together.

I lower my knife. "Who are you?"

She does not gloat at my submission. Her mild manner conveys none of her intention.

"I am Lady Calmi."

NEXT UPDATE ON TUESDAY :) THANKS FOR READING XOX