It takes three weeks to fully recover. Stella starts physical therapy after the first week to get my muscles back into working shape. She also increases the solid food in my diet with a focus on rebuilding the muscle I lost on bed rest. Gradually, I feel stronger, my mind clearer, like my old self.

And then the day comes when Stella tells me I can return home. Conflicting emotions roil inside me. I never thought I'd miss having lessons, but on the many days that I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling with my thoughts spiraling out of control, I wished for any source of distraction.

But in the back of my mind, I know someone doesn't want me to return to the palace. There's someone who wants me dead.

I feel jittery on the day of my departure. Stella told me that my family was coming to escort me, no doubt bringing some guards along, too. Neither her news, nor the sunny-yellow gown I'm dressed in can brighten my spirits entirely. Voices carry outside my room around mid-morning, and Stella pokes her head into my room.

"They're here," she says.

Dread trickles into my stomach, but I pull satin slippers over my heels and say goodbye to the little wooden room. I have outgrown my shelter and now must face the dangers lying in wait for me.

I've only been inside Stella's conjoined living room and kitchen a couple times before. Together, both rooms are about the size of the West Wing Salon. Plenty of open space makes them appear larger than reality, though. The only furnishings are a corner table, ragged couch, and two chairs. The cottage has a total of three other rooms, one of which was my bedroom. I presume the other is Stella and her husband's room, and the final either for storage or a second infirmary.

Uncle Rothbart and Sigvard wait beside the couch, engrossed in conversation with Gustus, Stella's husband. He's a mediciner as well, though Stella oversaw my care, giving me daily herbs and leading my physical therapy.

Sigvard rushes to my side, encircling me in a hug. I stiffen, unable to return the gesture. My brother isn't a hugger.

He's putting on a show for everyone else. He's making it seem like he's happy to see me. Then they won't suspect it when he poisons me again.

He could be poisoning me right now. I shrink away from his touch.

Sigvard quickly pulls back, but he smiles with all the warmth a brother can offer. "I'm so glad you're coming home."

He sounds genuine, but I can't help but wonder his ulterior motive, why he's happy I'm returning home. Could it be that he plans to dispose of me once and for all? What lies behind the smile he wears?

"Let's head home," Uncle Rothbart says. "Thank you for all you've done for Aylo, Mr. and Mrs. Tharbort."

I can't move, can't breathe. Veins pulse under my skin, my heart rate escalating. I fear I might relapse. I fear I might faint.

"Tharbort?" I repeat absently. "As in Duke Tharbort?"

Stella rubs her hands nervously. "Yes. He's our son."

I want to smack myself, but my arms are too leaden. Of course! Sewale's parents are both mediciners. No wonder Sigvard had concerns about me staying with them. He doesn't like Sewale, though whether it's because of his association with Clemaina or if he just gives off a weird feeling I'm unsure.

I force my lips to twitch upward. "It's...nice to meet you. I didn't realize."

"Yes, well..." Stella exchanges a glance with Uncle Rothbart. "I suppose it never came up." My uncle gives a slight nod, and their silent conversation leaves me burning with curiosity.

"Well, you best be off," Gustus says. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Aylo. Take it easy the next few days. Be sure to rest and drink plenty of fluids. But you're almost as good as new." He gives a slight chuckle, more awkward than authentic.

"Thank you again for restoring our, uh, princess," Uncle Rothbart says with a wave.

I never knew a forest stretched outside the cottage. Sure, the fresh yet earthy scent strikes a familiar chord in my lungs. Stella opened my window plenty of times to remove the stale oxygen. But this is the most color I've seen in weeks, even though most are brown tree trunks, same as the cottage. Gorgeous pink petals opening to the thin beams of sunlight, roses and purple orchids disperse among green bushes and shrubs, and tiny wildflowers line a stone path leading away from the cottage.

"Why did no one tell me they were Sewale's parents?" I ask as we walk along the smooth gray stones.

"I've been wondering the same thing," Uncle Rothbart says, pointing his gaze at Sigvard. Nerves ripple through me.

"It was Sigvard's idea?"

"Yes, he insisted quite fervently." Uncle Rothbart narrows his blue eyes. If I didn't know my uncle so well, I'd say he is glaring. "I was too tired to argue with him, so I gave in. Though I think an explanation is in order."

"I thought she might sleep better if she didn't know their true identity," Sigvard says quietly.

"I don't see why," my uncle says with an edge to his voice. "The Tharborts are good people. I know neither of you are fond of Sewale, but he is a lord for a reason. And his trusted position is not to be taken lightly."

I sense Sigvard looking at me, but I don't meet his gaze. He's my brother, my closest friend since we moved into the palace. Yet my trust in him has shattered. I don't know who he is anymore. I'm not sure if I want to find out the truth, either.

Guards wait several yards away, bearing horses for each of us, and we gallup the rest of the way home. It's a welcome change. My previous forest excursions involved meandering between tree trunks until my feet ached.

I feel winded as the horses slow to a trot inside the palace gates. Nothing like horseback riding, in which the hose is putting in the most effort, to show how out of shape a person is. I even stumble dismounting the horse, and a guard grabs my arm to stabilize me. I thank him, straightening my posture the way I've been taught.

Iron doors open to the palace foyer. It's strangely quiet; I'm used to the bustling of servants, the noisy buzz that filled the palace when the guests were here. Come to think of it, more than fifty royals and nobles might've been here, all vying for a marriage to their son.

A marriage to me. I can barely fathom the idea.

"Have all the royals gone back to their kingdoms?" I shift closer to my uncle, away from Sigvard on my right.

"Yes," he says. "After what happened, it made little sense for them to stay. Though I think some plan to return." He looks down at me with his blue eyes. "Myro told me what happened, by the way. I'm sorry I didn't tell you what was going on before."

"It's alright," I say with a sigh. The irritation I felt at the mysterious princes pales in comparison to snake poison.

"Your father didn't want you to know what was going on. He hoped an organic attraction would occur with one of the royals you met." Uncle Rothbart turns his blue eyes to the chandelier above. "I should've said something about him sending out so many invitations. He sent one to every family of royal or noble blood in our allies' kingdoms. I believe you only met true princes, heirs to thrones." His blue irises glance at me. "Best for strengthening our alliances."

I flash back to what Lady Avrilaya said. She's right, once I come of age, I'll be married off to another kingdom. Never has anything so true hurt so much. The royal court brought me back to life as a symbol of Saursi, a token of good faith. That's my only purpose to fulfill, the reason I'm alive.

"Even at the time," Uncle Rothbart continues, "I thought he was going overboard. But I suppose I trusted his judgment. And I also never anticipated I'd be the one dealing with the...aftermath of his choice." I hadn't noticed he looked away until his eyes returned to mine. "I'm sorry it spiraled out of control. And I'm sorry about what happened to you. I'm sure it was quite a shock to find out. If you need anything, ask any of the maids or talk to me. I'll be in my study." He pats my shoulder before walking away.

As his boots echo on the stairs, I realize something. He's trying to pretend that I wasn't poisoned. Based on what he just said, he wants me to believe that I fainted from shock. The thought makes me uncomfortable. I can't just pretend that whatever happened was an accident. The news was surprising, but not enough to make me ill for three weeks.

My mind returns to Sigvard. He's the one who told me I was poisoned. If he were the one who did it, wouldn't he want to keep that quiet? Why would he tell me? I shake my head as if to clear it. Nothing makes sense. Everything's backwards and upside down.

The next time I blink, I notice Sigvard's unwavering gaze on me. Bumps rise on my arms. A draft has swept through the room, or maybe just through me. I advance toward the stairs at an even pace, stifling the urge to run.

"Aylo?" The vaulted ceiling echoes Sigvard's voice, and my feet quicken on the steps. I don't dare look back.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ｡･ ───

That night, I lay awake in my bed. The mortar ceiling is unfamiliar to me, and so are the precisely sewed quilts, wardrobe, desk, and curtains. I'm used to wood as the backdrop to the nightly cycles my mind falls into. Mother, Father, Odeia, Clemaina, Sigvard, Sewale. Just our family, former family, or soon-to-be family. Only one of these people can get to the throne. Two already have completed that duty.

Four stood to benefit from the deaths. Sigvard lingers in my head the longest, and each time his name pops into my head, I stifle the tears that prick my eyes. My little brother can't poison me. He can't be that deranged.

I roll over again, now facing my wardrobe. Crickets sing outside, clear and bright. Do I dare wish to hear Odeia's voice lull me to sleep? After all we went through for her, what if she did kill my mother?

What about Evlyn? What role does she play in the deaths? I force myself to focus on her. She could've slipped into the palace without any of the guards noticing. Perhaps she was in a disguise. The fact that she wasn't anywhere near the palace during the festival, when the celebratory gates are open to all, implies that she might've had a reason for not being seen.

I runs through the people again. Clemaina had a piece of satin cloth inside father's room. She also was around while mother was ill. She could have slipped the poison into mother's cup while Evlyn wasn't looking. And she admitted to going into father's study the night of his death.

But some points just don't add up. Why would she want to kill the king? She didn't have anything to gain from his death. She's already going to be queen. In fact, she was already crowned—an absurd thought I haven't touched in the past weeks. Based on Evlyn's testimony, Clemaina wasn't in the room most of the time while she was getting the honey, which eliminated most of her opportunity to slip the poison into mother's drink.

What about Sewale? He could gain from mother's death, but not from father's. He was already in line for the throne. And he had an alibi for my mother's death, unless Lord Johnan was lying. But why would he lie? What could he gain from aiding Sewale?

I feel the pulse of air circulating, as if the night were coming into my room. It fuels my spiral of speculation.

Sigvard had the most to gain from both deaths. He could've slipped into mother's room while no one was looking. I've never heard him talk about an alibi for that night. He could've implicated Odeia and Clemaina for mother and father's deaths, his modus operandi, which would take both of them out without directly pointing back to him. The only death that could be pinned on him would be my own, but who would suspect it when we're so close?

Something rustles outside, and I lift my head from my pillow. The dark outline of my curtains is moving. A sliver of moon shines tonight, so I can't see what the source is. I relax my head back into fluff, but my pulse thrums in my veins.

Nothing is there. Stop overreacting.

Three weeks ago, I might've marched up to the window to find out what the disturbance was. Now, fear turns my breathing ragged and my limbs to stone.

A figure emerges from behind the curtain, and something glints in the moonlight.

It's a knife.

Terror spikes in my chest. I grip my quilt so hard, the bones in my hands feel like they're going to crack. Adrenaline clouds everything out except the person inching closer and closer. They're past my desk, nine steps away from me, eight, seven.

I feel paralyzed, yet I cannot lie here and do nothing. I won't die silently.

I scream, long and loud. The intense vibrations rip my already dry throat raw. But when my lungs expel all the air inside them, I take another gulp and scream more, longer, louder, more insistent, until my door flies open. A guard rushes inside, sword in hand. I cower under my covers, the weapon firing off my nerves.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" he shouts.

"There's some in my room," I whisper. Screaming has chafed my throat.

"What?" The guard storms around the room. I peek at him as he pulls back the curtains, hurries around checking behind the desk and wardrobe, then finishes looking in my bathroom. "I'm sorry I don't see anything."

"Check the window," I say. I swallow, an ineffective attempt to rehydrate my throat. As my heart rate decelerates, I finally feel the tears that wet my cheeks.

A few maids enter the scene. "What's going on?" one asks.

"What is that noise?" another groggy voice exclaims, very annoyed. I prop myself up in bed to see Clemaina standing in the doorway, arms folded across a silken robe. Her face holds a scowl, and I remember that she sleeps right down the hall from me. Not the best greeting I could've received considering I haven't seen her since her coronation.

"The window is locked," the guard reports.

"But that's impossible," I say. I push myself completely upright. "Someone came in through that window, and it doesn't lock from the outside."

"What's going on?" Uncle Rothbart's at my door now.

"Aylo thought someone was in her room," Clemaina says, half-tired, half in disbelief. The lack of sleep and low lighting must be playing tricks on my mind because I could swear she has dark circles under her eyes.

Uncle Rothbart takes in the scene—my tear-streaked face, the maids, the guard's resigned face. "Perhaps it was just a bad dream," my uncle says at last.

I shake my head fervently. "It wasn't. I—I saw a knife glinting in the person's hand."

Uncle Rothbart appears even more concerned. I think he might take me seriously, but then he says, "Aylo, I think you may be suffering from hallucinations. No one's after you or trying to kill you. You've been through a traumatic experience, and sometimes when you don't get enough sleep, you start to imagine things. We'll station a guard outside your door, but try to get some rest."

I shake my head, and more tears trickle down my cheeks. "What about the window?"

"It's locked."

"If someone got in before, it can be done again."

Uncle Rothbart looks at the guard, who's neck bobs with a swallow.

"I'll put a bolt on it," he says. "No one will be able to get in without making a lot of noise."

"Good." My uncle gives a nod of approval. "Let's all go back to bed. If you need anything more, Aylo, let us know."

They're not taking me seriously. They think I just imagined it. But how could Uncle Rothbart be so casual about things when I've just been poisoned? Maybe he doesn't want me to worry. Maybe he really is concerned about my mental well-being. He knows I can't sleep if I'm scared. Even if I saw something real tonight, sleep-deprivation may create delusions. That's no good for anyone.

The locksmith comes and bolts my window. After, I'm plunged back into darkness. My brain fights for sleep while another part tries to stay alert, ready for an attack. In the end, it's my exhaustion that wins, tugging me into dreamless slumber.