Willow left the throne room in good spirits, the book tucked under his arm. This was perfect—he had a free book to read. He would finish it by nightfall and speak to the miser tomorrow. He could hawk it so much better if he knew the story himself.

He was beginning to feel comfortable in this castle. Stopping at the junction where the west corridor met the east, he wondered if he could duck into the kitchen for a while. Thank Heidel for her remarkable salve.

No, that was too familiar. He'd be professional and leave at once.

"Psst!"

Willow stopped in the corridor. He saw no one.

"Psst! Sir Messenger!"

Willow turned around to face the wide stone staircase that topped the central corridor. The crippled princess—Ivy—stood on the landing with her crutch, beckoning to him.

He hurried up the steps, thinking she needed help. She stood where the staircase split right and left, leading to the upper regions of the castle.

"This way." Ivy gripped his sleeve and tugged him to the right-hand flight. Instead of climbing all the way, she surprised him by sitting down halfway up the staircase and inviting him to do the same.

"Are you alright?" Willow asked.

Ivy nodded, amber eyes on his face. The railing wall shielded them from anyone in the main corridor, but their privacy could not last. Anyone might come along.

"Willow... I believe you to be a man of good heart and noble intentions. Would you agree?"

"Uh..." Willow wasn't sure how to answer. "Well—I try. I make mistakes, though."

"What kind of mistakes?"

She had such trusting eyes. Sitting beside him, orange ponytail flopped on her shoulder, hands clasping the crutch across her knees, she suddenly felt like the younger sister Willow never had. Safe and familiar.

"I—I'm not a very good messenger," Willow said.

"Why do you think so?"

The confession came without resistance. "I read one of Princess Maelyn's letters. I wasn't snooping—just afraid of losing it. Can't lose what's in my head, right?"

Ivy smiled. "No you can't! Don't worry—I won't tell her. Because my transgression is even worse." She dropped her voice to barely audible. "I stole a letter that was meant for Maelyn. The one you delivered from Prince Roald. Remember?"

Of course he remembered. He now felt even worse. Roald had wanted that letter delivered straight to Maelyn, and he—Willow—had allowed Ivy to take it. He had dropped the first message Princess Maelyn had given him to carry. He hadn't figured out how a document for Arialain got into his bag.

He was the worst royal messenger in the history of the western realms.

"Don't feel bad!" Ivy touched his arm. "Something told me to take it. Do you ever have that happen, where you just know things, deep inside you? Things no one could tell you, but are simply revealed to your heart?"

"Not... often," Willow answered truthfully.

"Happens to me all the time."

"Can you give an example?" Willow asked with great interest. Was she a mystic or a visionary? He had heard of such people, but wasn't sure if they were real.

Ivy gave a light shrug. "I can read a person's mood with barely a sign and guess their thoughts. I've always known Maelyn doesn't like Prince Roald. I know he secretly hates being the son of Jarrod. He's been in danger for a long time."

"Danger? You mean from his father?"

Ivy shook her head. "He needs our help." She reached beneath her long skirt and fumbled for a minute before pulling out a sheet of parchment and a loose cord. Willow guessed she had tied the parchment around her lower leg so she could bring it to him unnoticed.

"I have replied in Maelyn's stead." She swiftly rolled the parchment again. "And I don't care at all if you read it. What matters is that my words reach him. Can you do that for me?"

"You are writing as Maelyn?"

"No—as myself. I explained this to him. I just need you to deliver it without Maelyn or Uncle Jarrod knowing about it." She placed the scroll in Willow's hand.

Willow nodded. "I can do it." He had also detected something worrisome in Prince Roald.

Ivy smiled. "Good—we have our agreement. I'll keep your secret, and you keep mine." She righted her crutch and stood, declining Willow's offer to help.

"Thank you for listening," she said.

"Of course. Anytime."

She drew back her ponytail, sliding it off her shoulder. "Do you think my hair is too orange? I don't tint it—this is how it is. Do you think it's too orange?"

Willow shook his head. "No, your hair is beautiful."

"That worries me too, because of the bandits. I haven't been going out since I heard about them. My bright hair could make me a target. Do you think I should cut it off so they won't attack me?"

"No!" Willow cried, realizing she was earnest. "No, no, no, that would be tragic."

Ivy smiled sadly. "You think I'm strange, don't you?"

"Not at all." Though her remarks were unusual, he saw nothing to mock and felt an ache of compassion in his chest. He promised to deliver her letter and took leave, thinking he might have to take a cautious peek at what she'd written.

She was very special,this girl. He would never let anyone hurt her. If that meant continuing to be abad messenger, well... so be it.