"I didn't know she kept a journal," Sigvard says.

"Multiple," I correct. "It's her second one."

"Why's it in here?" Sigvard flips to the next page in the leather-bound book. It's a detailed table of contents with entry page numbers and dates. He rifles through four pages like this until he reaches the last recorded entry.

"It's from five years ago," I note after scanning the dates. "See? The last entry was on the last day of 1571."

"Three months before she was sent to prison."

"Three months before she died."

Sigvard snaps his eyes to me. "We shouldn't be in here."

"Well, we are." I shove the silver book into his hands. "If you're so worried, put this back on the shelf." I sit on the couch, opening the journal across my lap.

Four years worth of curiosity rushes through me like a flood. Princess Odeia was my step-sister, the daughter of Queen Xenia, but she was always kind and lovely to be around. At times, she seemed to love me more than my own sister, Clemaina. That's why when she was convicted of murdering my mother, Queen Dianne, it shocked the entire palace. I never would've thought she'd do such a thing. Though she was executed, doubt always nagged at my mind.

Would she really have murdered the queen? Was she really as jealous of us stealing her father away as the court claimed? It's all just so confusing and mysterious. Perhaps this journal could give us a new look at Odeia, give us insight into where her head was before she committed such a heinous act. Perhaps she really was just a really good actress, biding time until she struck. Sadness wells inside me at the thought that the person I thought was my friend never existed.

"Aylo, this book is in a room we shouldn't be in. Therefore, maybe we shouldn't read it."

"Aren't you curious? I've always wondered about what happened to Odeia. She never seemed like a crazy, vengeful person to me."

"I know." Sigvard drops onto the seat beside me. "It's just—" He lets out a sigh. Reluctantly, his hand stretches to the journal. "Let me see it, too."

I move the book so it's between us. The pages are stiff to turn, as if this is the first time anyone attempted to read them. Decorative letters lace the first entry, with a tiny date in the upper left-hand corner and page numbers on the right. The heading consumes half the page but consists of a single word: One. I leaf through the book to find the next chapter.

"Hey! I wanted to read that!" Sigvard exclaims.

A smirk twists onto my face. "Even though it's from a room we shouldn't be in?"

"Well, since we're already in trouble, we might as well find out what's in it."

"We can. I just wanted to see the other chapters." I pause on the second chapter. The page is identical to the first, except it says "two" in the heading.

"Why?"

I shrug. "I don't know. What if 'one' doesn't refer to a number?" Sigvard's straight-set eyebrows and hawk nose scrunch in confusion. I heave a tiny sigh. "I wanted to know if 'one' was the chapter number or if it was some sort of title, indicating what's in the chapter."

"Why?"

"I don't know!" Irritated, I flip back to the first chapter.

We both stare at the page. Sigvard turns page after page, flipping three times faster than I can read. I don't stop him. I'm more entranced by the perfect curls of Odeia's penmanship. My writing still holds a degree of variation between letters. Then again, I hadn't grown up as a princess. She spent twenty years of her life surrounded by royal tutors. My family and I only came to the castle seven years ago.

"I didn't realize she was so... philosophical," Sigvard whispers.

"Huh?" I snap out of my thoughts, realizing that I hadn't been reading. He's at the beginning of the third chapter. How long was I zoned out for?

"Look at this." He points to a line at the bottom.

Suffering is but a state of the psyche, and thus, one ultimately brings suffering upon oneself.

I skim the rest of the page, realizing that the whole thing is musings about the causes of suffering.

"That's kind of weird," I say. Sadness shifts inside me as a thought crosses my mind. "Is that what the royal court meant? She murdered our mother because she was suffering from the loss of her own mother?"

Sigvard doesn't respond.

The next page continues with an analysis of various literature and artworks depicting suffering and its effects on the human psyche. Sigvard immerses himself in the text, while I continue to soak in the curls of her letters, as if studying it will improve my writing. Nine pages later, the last paragraph is a conclusion on the human condition. Sigvard looks up, first at the fireplace, then at me.

"Now what do you think?" he asks.

"She has exquisite handwriting," I say.

"Did you read even a single word?"

"Of course. She's obsessed with suffering. I don't need to read nine pages about that."

"But she isn't."

"Isn't what?"

"Obsessed with suffering. She only analyzed the minds of both real and fictional people, determining that one ultimately brings suffering upon oneself."

"So?"

"So!" Disbelief cracks Sigvard's face. "She isn't a crazy, self-absorbed person mulling over her plight of having a new Queen in the castle. Not a word is about our mother, not a word about her mother. She doesn't speak of her own grief or trials regarding her mother's death. Instead, she analyzes why others bring unhappiness upon themselves, often by not letting go of the past. And she ends with peaceful solutions to alleviate suffering."

"Do any of those solutions involve murder?"

Sigvard shoves the book in my face. "Of course not! Read for yourself."

I skim over the paragraphs. No warning signs flash from her solutions.

"Why is she analyzing suffering as an entry in her journal?" I wonder aloud.

"It doesn't matter! What matters is what's in the book. What's in the book reflects her mental state. And her mental state does not align with what they told us."

They, meaning the royal officials who incarcerated Odeia. They, including the King.

"This was more than a year before the incident," I say. I turn to the beginning of chapter three, pointing to the date. "See? It was on January tenth."

"You really think she'd regress like that?" Sigvard says. "Time usually brings healing."

"Usually."

Sigvard scowls. "I thought you were on her side."

I pause, defenseless. I thought I was on her side, too. But right now, I'm spewing everything the court told us. And in my opinion, journaling about suffering isn't the definition of normal behavior.

"You're right," I say. "It's kind of odd, very odd. But what does it mean if Odeia never had ill feelings toward our mother?"

"I don't know." Sigvard's words hang in the air, like moisture on a humid day. They cling to my brain, both a fog and a lens. My whole world tilts on its axis, though I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps time will tell, along with Odeia's journals.

Brisk footsteps shatter the stillness. "Aylo? Sigvard?"

Wolfgang is looking for us. The realization shoots adrenaline through my veins. Sigvard yanks the journal from my hand and ducks under the couch while I start toward the bookcase. But in the corner of my eye, I notice the door is unlocked. I scurry to it on the balls of my feet to avoid making any noise. I twist the lock into place, then tiptoe to my hiding spot.

"Where are you two?" Wolfgang's voice is closer now. I suck in a breath at the faint creaking of a door, making eye contact with Sigvard. His eyes freeze into unnaturally large circles.

The slow clack of Wolfgang's dress shoes grows louder, then halts. My muscles go rigid. I swear he's right outside the lounge door. I press myself into the wall as much as I can without becoming part of it.

The locked doorknob rattles once, twice, three times. There's a long pause, only filled by the pulse drumming in my veins. He's going to find us. Sigvard covers his head in a military position for when there's an explosion or gunfire. I press my lips together, bracing myself for the door to crash open.

Finally, the footsteps resume, dissipating into the distance. Slowly, my lungs release the air inside them. Several minutes pass, or at least it feels that way, before Sigvard pokes his head out.

"Is he gone?" he whispers.

"I think so." I inhale another breath, trying to calm my frantic heartbeat.

Sigvard crawls from under the couch and sags against its wooden frame. "That was way too close." His brown eyes pierce mine. "Did you hear that? Way. Too. Close." He speaks in a hushed tone, yet there's enough force behind each word to destroy an army.

"We're leaving," I say. I step from my hiding spot, headed straight for the door. A swivel of my head shows me that Sigvard hasn't moved. He remains on the ground, focused on the journal in his hands. It takes a moment for his attention to settle on me.

"What do we do with this?" he asks, motioning to the leather book.

I think for a moment. "Bring it. No one comes in here, anyway."