The only time Ivy felt peace was when she painted. Every stroke of the brush seemed to soothe her spirit. She loved the beauty of color and light, the way they helped each other. She loved caressing the image, touch by touch, until it felt right to her soul.

She was trying to capture the arc of Briette's spine as she raised a long lighter to the hanging candelabra. Her yellow dress gave a muted glow against the gray stone walls of the castle. The flame at the end of the lighter stick dropped its shine on her honey-colored hair.

Ivy cherished the beauty of small moments. Briette sweeping the floor with her firm, snappy strokes. Heidel spearing the logs with a fire poker, wafting red embers into the air. Shulay brushing the dappled-gray coat of her horse, a loving hand on its flank. Ivy tried to capture these moments in her paintings, the hidden wonders of everyday life.

Her skirt doesn't look right, Ivy said. Too flat and yellow - like a wedge of cheese.

Giles laughed. Darken the shadows a little and try more texture. That brush might help. He pointed to one of the thicker brushes on Ivy's tool table. She kept her easel close to the brightest window of her room, while Giles sat on the deep sill to watch. Being invisible, she didn't have to worry about him blocking the light.

She switched the brush and coughed against her sleeve. The smell of the paint made her cough sometimes, as did the powders she used to mix them. They often itched the back of her throat. But the worst was when her lungs seemed to close and she could no longer pull in the air. That was when she panicked.

She coughed again.

Are you having trouble? Giles asked.

Ivy shook her head but it was impossible to lie to Giles. He knew her too well.

Why don't we go down for Heidel's tea? Before you take your rest.

Ivy grimaced. She didn't like Heidel's tea. It was made for health, not taste, and it worked. But she got tired of drinking it. She faced the painting and tried to ignore the tightness in her chest.

Let's go, Giles said gently.

Down all those stairs again. She could descend them almost as quickly as her sisters, but they winded her, and the long halls didn't help. By the time she reached the kitchen, her lungs had turned to iron, refusing to expand.

"Sit down! I'll get the tea," Heidel cried upon seeing her. Ivy climbed onto a stool beside Heidel's worktable and left Giles in the corner by the kitchen door. She couldn't speak to him with Heidel around. Fortunately, he understood.

"Be there in three seconds." Heidel grabbed a thick wooden mug off the shelf. She never complained or seemed annoyed, and always had the kettle of Ivy's tea ready, hanging over the fire. She filled the cup and turned around, setting it on the table. "Be careful."

Ivy pulled the cup toward her by the handle and bent over it, letting the thick, white steam rise into her nose. Even the smell of it was helpful. After a minute, she allowed herself a tiny sip, which burnt her tongue.

Heidel watched with folded arms. "Another sip. You're still blue."

Ivy felt the heat spreading through her chest, and soon after, the expanding of her airways. She sucked in the wonderful air. "Thank you."

Heidel nodded. "Drink up. I want an empty cup when I come back."

"Where are you going?"

"To the shed. Need to grind up some ginger." Heidel snapped open the back door of the kitchen, which led out to the garden. "Keep drinking!"

Ivy managed a few more sips of her terrible tea. As her symptoms waned, her thoughts returned to the last time she was in this kitchen with Heidel - when Willow had delivered the letter from Prince Roald. She had replied and that could not be undone. She only hoped he would listen and write back.

Trusting Heidel would not return for several minutes, Ivy tugged the letter out from inside her sleeve. She never wore loose or dangling sleeves, which might catch and cause her to trip. And snug sleeves were excellent for hiding things. She spread the letter on the table, reading it for the fourth time that day. She would not burn the letter until she'd memorized it.

My dear cousin Maelyn,

It may surprise you to receive a letter from me. I've never written to you before—I know. But I don't know where else to turn, and I am truly desperate.

I cannot marry the woman I am betrothed to. I simply cannot do it. But she is the fifth woman I've promised to marry in the last three years. My father has forbidden me to break this betrothal under threat of imprisonment. You know he does not make his threats idly.

It's my own fault. I am always too quick to become infatuated, offering marriage when I barely know the girl. Then I realize I don't truly love her and break it off. That's how it was with the first four. But now Father has selected this woman for me, saying the privilege of choice is no longer mine. And honestly, can I blame him?

To further solidify matters, he has had the lady moved into the castle, given her own wing and attendants. I must take my meals with her, walk with her, travel about the kingdom with her. The people have seen and accepted her as my wife-to-be.

Yet I simply cannot bear her.

I will try to be kind where I can. She's a handsome woman from the kingdom of Bella Reino, and carries herself like a queen. Her name is Teresina. She isn't cruel or mean-spirited, and in my heart, I wish her no harm.

But she has the most obnoxious personality I have ever experienced.

I'm a large man—as you know— and she has made it her personal quest to make me slender. Hence, she controls whatever goes onto my plate or into my mouth. She has forbidden me to have cheese, beef, pastries, milk, heavy breads, all fruits, and pork – my personal favorite. I now consume only chicken and boiled vegetables. She watches my plate with the eye of a falcon, snatching off whatever doesn't gain her approval, and telling me when I've had enough. All the while reassuring me this is for my benefit, and I will thank her one day.

It's not only the food. She never likes what I'm wearing and sends me back to change. She fluffs my hair with her fingers, claiming it doesn't have enough height. And she's just told me I must start growing a beard because it's a "much better look" for a future king. I swore to myself, years ago, that I would never grow a beard. It makes me look like my father.

Her conversation is even worse because she talks about the trivial and mundane. She can speak for twenty minutes about tablecloths, and while I know tablecloths have value, it is agonizing for me. She also constantly discusses our schedule, what we're doing now, what we're doing later, what we're doing tomorrow. Instructs, directs, and controls me as if she were my own mother rather than my future wife. To top it all, she calls me "Ro" instead of Roald.

I cannot go through with this marriage.

This next part is very difficult for me to say, but must be said. For many years now, cousin Maelyn, a heavy sadness has sat upon me, that never lifts or wanes. My mother and I suffered greatly at the hands of my father – her more than me. But I bore the burden of watching it. She often shielded me from my father's rage, then used oils and powders to conceal the welts. For me, the beatings came more from his words, and he often called me "pudding boy"— claiming I had inherited my mother's softness and weak nature. I dearly loved my mother. But to the very core of my being, I revile and loathe my father.

My poor mother is long gone. I now face a future of endless misery spent with my vicious father and my controlling wife. I will not do it, Maelyn, I will not. And I cannot run away—he would find me. I'm sure you know by now what happened with Dellan.

Ivy had paused on this when first reading the letter. No... they did not know what happened with Dellan!

Which brings me to the point of my letter, and I ask that you believe me when I say my words are true: I no longer wish to live my life. There is nothing here for me, nothing good awaiting me. No one would grieve my loss. I can easily make use of the towers of this castle to get the height that I need. I came very close last night.

Please accept my apology for the distant manner I have given to you and your sisters on the occasions we were together. My father had always strictly forbidden me to speak or interact with any of you, and once struck me very hard when he saw me smile at little Arialain. I wanted to know all of you better, but I was afraid. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I would be grateful for your thoughts on my current troubles. You have always struck me, Maelyn, as being smart and sensible, and I thought you might have some good words for me. I'm not ashamed to say that I am begging for your help.

I will wait the average time for your reply. If I don't receive one, then please give my love to your sisters, and ask them to remember me kindly.

With great respect,

-Prince Roald