I wake to sunlight behind my curtains. The lace material is still drawn across my closed window. No birds welcome me to a new day; Matilda wouldn't be foolish enough to open my window after what happened last night. I wouldn't hear their morning song anyway. Though blurred by bleary eyes, the hands of the grandfather clock point to eleven.

I push the covers to the foot of my bed and stumble across the floor. The cool wood is strange under my bare feet. I'm used to the warmth radiating from the Tharbort's home. I open my wardrobe, and a blue skirt and blouse hangs on the inside of the door, just like usual.

With my brain half asleep, I exchange my nightgown for today's outfit. My fingers work quickly on the shirt's buttons, slipping each one into a notch, until I reach the top and the satin fabric feels lopsided. When I turn to my mirror, I see the button I skipped along the way. I sigh, fixing my mistake. I run a brush through my hair several times before leaving my room.

The halls are disconcertingly quiet after the raucous I'd become accustomed to. But it's a welcome change to be in an environment akin to the Tharbort's. If people bustled to and fro, heels clicking on the ground, voices stirring the air, I'd get a headache.

I round the corner to the West Wing. Although I was bored to tears during my recovery, I don't think I have the stamina for lessons today. The fact that no one woke me earlier is a point in my favor.

Soft chatter greets me inside, and I find Sigvard and Benno sitting on opposite couches. Between them, the table holds a chessboard. Both boys hunch over it, so engrossed in the game they don't notice me. Anonymity doesn't last long. Several paces away, two maids dust the paintings on the walls across from the dining table. They catch sight of me and curtsy.

"Good morning, Princess Aylo," one says. Sigvard and Benno's heads snap to me.

"You're up!" Sigvard cries. "You slept for a long time."

"Would you like some breakfast?" the other maid asks.

"Yes, please."

The maids scurry off, and I take my right hand seat at the table. To my disappointment, Sigvard fills the space beside me.

"I'm glad you're alright," Benno says, awkwardly shuffling after us.

It dawns on me that he's still here, despite all the other royals leaving. "I thought all the palace guests had left."

"Yeah," he mumbles, shifting his weight. "Most did, but I asked my parents if I could stay a little longer, just to make sure you're alright. They said it's fine so long as I resume my lessons."

"You have your lesson materials with you?"

"No, we didn't, uh, plan for it. But we found many of the same materials in the palace libraries, and I'm continuing my training with Lord Edgar."

The maids return with two silver platters full of toast, sausages, and fruit. I should take advantage of the opportunity to eat as much as I want. But only I pick one piece of toast, a sausage, and several strawberries for my plate.

"Is that all you're eating?" Sigvard asks.

"I'm not very hungry," I say. I think part of it's Sigvard's fault. His presence in the room sets me on edge. I only dare to touch the food on the side of the platter closest to me, even though Sigvard certainly hadn't poisoned it in the two minutes it'd been out.

"That's a first." Sigvard tries to turn it into a joke, but I can hear the worry lacing his voice. He seems sincere, but I can't trust him, not yet.

I stare at the toast I nibble on, unable to face Sigvard or Benno, though their gazes bear into me. Halfway through a strawberry, Sigvard leans over. The sweet fruit turns sour. My feet bob under the table, wanting to push my chair back.

"I have some news," he says. "It's regarding the letters sent to the news outlets. I got us a meeting with Draco Roben, head of the newspaper The Truth Sings."

I glance at him in spite of myself. Part of me still wants, needs, closure with the case. "When?"

"It's this afternoon. Will you be up to going into town?" His brown eyes beg me to agree.

"Maybe. I'm still kind of tired."

"I wanted to get the meeting over with soon," Sigvard explains. "Before they force us to continue our lessons and stuff."

Today might be my only chance to talk with them. And I didn't want to use Sigvard as a gatekeeper for Draco's information. I had to talk with him myself.

"What time should I be ready?" I ask.

Sigvard grins. "Two hours. We'll meet in the forbidden garden."

I nod and continue eating. Sigvard and Benno exchange glances in the silence, but I don't engage in further conversation. Finally, Benno rises from his seat.

"I'm going to go read today's science chapter," he says. "I'll see you in a couple hours." He leaves the room, and the room's tension tightens like a corset.

The quiet shatters with an exhale from Sigvard. "Aylo, are you mad at me for some reason?"

"No."

"You've been acting kind of weird."

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." He tips his chair backward, and I tamp down a warning for him to be careful. As if in punishment, I keep imagining him falling onto the carpet. "You just seem distant."

"I guess I haven't really been myself since the poisoning," I whisper through the doughy paste in my mouth.

"It started before the poisoning," Sigvard says. "Even at the ball you seemed distant. What's going on?"

"Nothing." My brother opens his mouth to speak again, but I get up from my chair, strawberries cradled in my palm. I can't sit here any longer with him.

"See, there you go. You're leaving mid-conversation. What's going on?"

I shrug. "I'm just tired. See you later." I turn my back on Sigvard's confused face, escaping the room as quickly as possible.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☀. :☆ﾟ｡･ ───

A twinge of excitement boosts my energy as we walk along the dirt road leading to town. Maybe we'll get a real lead from the news reporter on who killed my mother. Whoever tipped off the reporters with letters containing evidence against Odeia must've been in on the plot. We'll be one step closer to the truth.

We may also be one step closer to the person who poisoned me. That part sends a shudder coursing through me.

Sigvard and our two guard escorts sync into a pace faster than mine. Benno slows down so that he walks beside me. We remain silent until several more yards separate us from the others.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks, bridging the conversation.

"A bit. But it'll take time to return to normal." There's a chance I'll never be the same.

"I...I just wanted to set things straight. You know, from the ball. I guess you know by now what was going on."

"Yes. My father invited you."

"Yes."

We fall into awkward silence. I don't know how I should interact with him anymore.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm staying as a friend, not to get in your good graces or anything," Benno says at last. "I do care about you, Aylo. But you're free to decide if you want to stay friends or if you want us to...change."

I get what he's implying. We both are set for an arranged marriage in the not-so-hazy future. Eventually, I have to come to terms with the fact. It's just weird that I'm sixteen, still a teenager, and my father was trying to navigate marital alliances.

"Let's keep it as friends for now," I say. "It's been a lot the past few weeks..."

"Yes, I understand. In fact, I kind of agree. I was mainly just doing what my parents told me to. They said there was potential here, and..." He trails off, his gaze flicking around as he searches for words.

"I understand," I cut in. "I was almost doing the same thing, attending tea parties and receiving escorts around the garden. It's our duty as royals, I suppose."

Neither of us speak for a long while. Sigvard doesn't notice we've dropped back, the distance between us growing with every footstep.

"So we're good? Just friends?"

"Just friends. I won't be looking for anything more for several years, regardless of what my uncle thinks."

"It was your father's idea, not Uncle Rothbart's."

It was, but I'm concerned that Uncle Rothbart might try to honor my father's final wishes for me. Clemaina might pose more of a threat, though. I'm sure she can't wait to get me out of her kingdom.

Sigvard is such a speck in the distance that it takes many minutes for me to realize he stopped forging ahead. When he comes into focus again, his hands are crossed over his jacket, and he angles a tired glare at us.

"Why so slow?"

"I'm trying to take it easy," I say.

"And I was keeping her company," Benno says.

"Nothing more?" Sigvard asks, a grin threatening his annoyed facade. "I found out why all the guests in the house were princes."

"So did I."

Sigvard's enthusiasm dampens, but not totally.

"We've decided we're just friends," Benno interjects before Sigvard comments further.

"And I'm not participating in any marriage alliance for at least two more years," I say.

Sigvard turns around, but I hear him murmur, "Might not have a choice."

I whack his arm, and for a second, it's like things are back to normal. He's my little brother who always looks up to me. I'm his older sister, bossing him around.

He isn't a murderer. He'd never try to kill me.

If I repeat it enough, maybe it'll be true.

The marketplace is busy as ever, the smell of spices, smoked meat, and vegetables thick in the air. We stop at a vendor's station, and Benno begins his order. When the guards' attention is diverted, Sigvard pulls me into the crowd. I nearly scream, but clamp it down, remembering the plan he whispered to me earlier. Benno will occupy the guards, enabling us to slip away and speak with Draco.

That doesn't stop my chest from constricting the entire time his hand encircles my wrist. He releases it once we're past the crowd in the open town streets. The marketplace's raucous fades to children's squeals, whinnying of horses, the grind of carts on the stone road. I watch him closely in my peripheral the whole way through the tangled streets. It calms a few drops of apprehension that prickle my skin.

At last, salt laces the air. I drink in the scent. A year has passed since I last relaxed at the seashore. I stay at the palace most of the year, the exception being trips into town and a few visits to other inland kingdoms. And the recent palace nonsense with deaths and princes has prevented me from enjoying the sea.

"He's on a houseboat called The Ennerso Skipper," Sigvard says. He points to a cottage atop a wooden platform bobbing in the waves. A large butterfly is carved onto the side, wings extending to the square side's four corners. It resembles a butterfly I learned in my science lessons that originated in the Ennerso region of Saursi. I wonder if Draco's from there, too. "I think that's it."

As I walk along a plank leading aboard, panic grips me. What if this is a trap? What if this whole time, Sigvard has been trying to get me away from the palace so he can dispose of me once and for all? He can make it look like an accident. He'll say I ran away from the marketplace, and by the time he found me, I'd drowned in the sea. But Benno will pipe up with the truth, right? He's not also against me, right?

My feet continue forward, even though part of me is screaming to run away. I follow Sigvard to a woman sitting out the small, beige door. Two needles dive over each other as she knits a long red scarf.

"How can I help you today?" she asks, though her gruff voice sounds anything but wanting to help.

"The wind's on the high sea are cool today," Sigvard says.

"Quite so. Follow me." The woman opens the door for us. My knees shake as I enter a dingy, tight-spaced room. Candlesticks cast an eerie glow on two old couches and end tables. One man occupies an armchair facing a fireplace. Dark, cold coals turn it from a place of warmth to a black hole.

It'd be easier to steady myself if the air didn't carry mold and must. There's no reason to be nervous. Nothing is going to happen to you.

"Good afternoon, your highnesses," the man says. "I am Draco Roben, the head of The Truth Sings. You have some questions for me in exchange for a breaking story?" He finally turns around, though half his face still hides under a brown beard. Not a wrinkle creases the rest of his sun-stamped face.

"We certainly do," Sigvard says. I suddenly realize that I don't know this part of the plan. Nerves flare through me, and I feel my hands start to shake again. It would be about me, wouldn't it? My poisoning is the only news I think Draco would be interested in.

"Do sit down." Draco motions to the couch perpendicular to his chair. I sit on the edge of the discolored cushions. "Now, what is this story?"

"Our questions first," Sigvard says.

"Very well. What do you want to know?"

"Now, four years ago, what was the biggest news story you printed?"

Draco doesn't even pause before responding. "Anyone living in Saursi would know the answer to that."

"Then answer it." Sigvard matches Draco's expression, cool and calm. I can tell he's rehearsed this entire conversation.

"It was the story about Odeia, who murdered her step-mother for revenge."

I itch to correct him. Weeks ago, I might've. But not now.

"If I'm correct," Sigvard continues, "And I know I am, someone sent you letters giving you this information."

"You're right."

"I'd like to see them."

Draco shakes his head. "Sorry, no-can-do. Even if I still had them, my informant's privacy comes first."

"Even at the request of your prince? Even at the expense of a story?" Sigvard juts his chin out in defiance.

Draco sits back in his chair, thinking. "I suppose I can describe to you what I remember." Sigvard nods for him to go ahead. "These were unique letters, hand delivered by a ragged old woman instead of the mail boy. In the succeeding weeks, I heard the other news reporters received their information the same way."

"Can you remember any details about her?" Sigvard asks. "Scars, stature, clothing, anything identifiable?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Draco says. "Her hair was more of a gray rat's nest, wore the same color potato sack for clothes and around her head. Her face was haggard and wrinkled, her back hunched over. Not the most pleasant woman to walk through my doors." My skin crawls as his eyes drift up and down my body.

"What about the letters?" Sigvard asks. "Anything remarkable about the paper or ink?"

"As a matter of fact, I believe there was." Draco frowns in concentration. "You see, whenever I receive tips from the palace—" My face must betray my surprise because he says, "Yes, Princess Aylo, I receive many more tips than you realize from servants and guards. After many years in the business, I've discovered that any message written on a particular type of cream-colored paper originates from the palace. In fact, I received one just last week. You might be particularly interested, Princess Aylo."

He walks to a desk on the other side of the room. The dark mahogany blends into the shadows, so I hadn't even noticed it until now. Draco's jingle in the lock, and the drawers screech open and shut. He hands me a thin paper, cream-colored like he described yet coarse in texture.

Is Princess Aylo ill, or is she fraternizing with foreign princes? She hasn't been seen at the palace since dancing with Prince Myro of the Eastern Isls. Rumors around the castle wonder if she's gone back to their kingdom to check out the potential for a marriage alliance.

Their insinuations set my cheeks ablaze. I hand the letter to Sigvard, unable to read more.

"I haven't printed the story," Draco says. "Too much speculation. But based on your reaction, Princess Aylo, perhaps I should." My tongue glues to my mouth, and I can't respond.

"How do these stories work?" Sigvard asks, unfazed by what he stares at.

"Someone sends in a tip. If I use it, I send over the money they ask for."

I glance over Sigvard's shoulder, scanning until my eyes hit the money—fifty saurs in exchange for gossip. My embarrassment turns into flaming-hot anger.

Sigvard arches an eyebrow. "They trust you to pay up?"

"It's a surprisingly honest business," Draco says with a shrug, kindling my rage.

"How much did the old woman request?" Sigvard asks.

"Delivery people don't get paid, unless they're official mail boys," Draco says. "But the letter didn't request any payment in return."

It confirms our suspicions—that letter was only sent to ensure Odeia's conviction. More than likely, the person who wrote it wasn't concerned about it seeming legit, either. Otherwise, a price would've been listed.

"You've been most helpful," Sigvard says, handing the letter over.

"And now for your story?" Draco grins. "Don't think that I've forgotten."

"Ah yes. Well, are you interested in learning when the coronation will be rescheduled?"

Rescheduled? The coronation already happened.

Draco's eyes light up. He leans forward, a predator ready to pounce. "Do tell."

"Uncle Rothbart said it'll happen within the next two weeks," Sigvard says.

"Without spectacle?"

"Probably, unless they can pull something together real fast."

"That is a story," Draco says. "I'm assuming it's exclusive?"

"You answered our questions truthfully?" Sigvard fires back.

"Naturally."

"Good." Sigvard stands, and I follow suit. "Then we have no reason to speak to anyone else."

I forget any nerves around Sigvard as we leave. In a hoarse whisper, I ask, "Is Clemaina not Queen?"

"Not yet," Sigvard says. "Soon, though. Uncle Rothbart postponed it since we had to get you over to the healer."

"But it's been three weeks. Surely they could've held another coronation." It's been nearly two months since Saursi had a crowned ruler in charge.

"Do you want to hail Clemaina as your Queen?" Sigvard spits. "Cause I don't."

I shrink away back, an arm's length of distance between us. Of course he doesn't want Clemaina crowned. He wants the throne for himself.