Willow realized he had a problem. How would he deliver Ivy's letter to Prince Roald? He had no message for King Jarrod this time, no excuse to go to the palace of Grunwold. If he went just for Roald, someone would notice.

He wracked his brain on the journey home but saw no solution. He could not play recklessly with this. Ivy had sounded convinced Roald was in great danger. He must be absolutely sure Roald received the letter in secret.

But he didn't know how.

Since he couldn't visit the palace without some kind of plan, Willow turned home instead. His mother's house stood near the western coast of Grunwold, not among the grand estates that boasted a breathtaking view of the sea, but in the dense streets behind them, one of many mid-sized manors held by the lesser nobles. He had grown up walking to the beach with his brothers to play in the waves, or watch merchant vessels departing for far-off kingdoms.

"I expected you sooner," his mother said after kissing him. "Did you have trouble?"

Willow shook his head. "Princess Maelyn had an errand for me." Which he'd miserably failed, of course. He hadn't made another attempt with the Book Miser and had carried Maelyn's second book home with him. He needed time to plan a strategy.

His mother followed him to the foot of the stairs. "Are you hungry?"

Willow shrugged. "Maybe a little. And tired."

"I'll bring a tray for you." His mother walked toward the kitchen and Willow frowned. That wasn't typical. Like a true lady, his mother expected the maids to carry trays, and seldom engaged in menial tasks herself. He wasn't left wondering for long, though.

"Prince Roald came to see me," she told him moments later. She had shut the door of his bedchamber, a mid-sized room made small due to stacks of papers and books. Willow sat on the bed, helping himself to the sausages and bread she'd delivered.

"It was a week ago," his mother said. "He came at night. I could not have been more shocked if it had been the king himself. He said you might have something for him when you returned?"

Willow nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn't understand the dread on his mother's face. She'd always looked older than her age, worn down by worries he never understood. Her hair had already gone white, and her habit of veiling it aged her more. She maintained rigid dignity in both posture and voice.

"He said you were to meet him at High Holy King."

"The church?" Willow asked in surprise. This was the neighborhood church he attended with his family, not the grand cathedral visited by the king.

His mother nodded. "He will wait for you on Friday at sundown. You are to enter a confession chamber—the one on the southeast corner." She smiled. "He'll be posing as a friar. You may give him the letter there. It's the only place where total privacy is guaranteed."

Willow felt relieved. Roald had probably made an agreement with the friars, or at least a donation large enough to guarantee their cooperation.

"Thank you," he said.

His mother had not lost her uneasy expression. She moved a book and sat on a wooden chair by Willow's desk. "How have you been? I feel as if I barely see you now."

"Tired." Willow speared the next sausage. "Not loving all the time I spend on a horse. But I do think I'm doing some good."

His mother's face didn't change. "You like the princesses?"

"Should I not?"

"I don't like you doing this at all. It should have been Alder. I even went to King Jarrod and asked him to reconsider."

"You what?" Willow cried. He loved his mother, but not the idea of her meddling in his affairs.

"It's taking you from your studies. You were supposed to be a scholar."

"I can still be a scholar. He doesn't need me every day."

"He has needed you too much already. And more will come."

"Why? What did he say?"

"Oh, he was very kind. Assured me you were the man he wanted. But he has a curiosity about you. Asked too many questions about when you were born, and who my midwife was. If he asks you the same, say it was Lucie. She birthed my other children."

Willow frowned. "You didn't tell him I was orphaned?"

"No!" his mother said. "Have you?"

"It never came up."

"Tell him nothing but what I said. Our stories must match."

"Why? You said my parents were friends of yours who died of Red Fever. No shame in that." He'd never understood his mother's discomfort with his adoption. He hadn't even known of it until his twelfth year when his older brother Rowan inadvertently let it slip. Since then, his mother had always dismissed it as irrelevant. "We're your family. Nothing else matters," she would say.

"Did King Jarrod know my parents?" Willow now asked. "Did they offend him in some way? Were they traitors to the crown? Secret spies for another kingdom? Did they try to assassinate him?"

"Goodness, the way you make stories," his mother said.

Willow waited, allowing silence to put pressure on his mother. She averted her eyes and her hands tightened in her lap.

"They weren't assassins," she said. "But yes, they fell out of Jarrod's favor. And I will never tell you their names until he is dead."

"What if you die first?" Willow asked.

"Then their names die with me!" His mother stood abruptly. "Enough of this. Bring your plate down when you're done with it. And return to your books."

Willow let her leave without answering. He seldom felt angry with his mother, but this seemed unfair. He deserved to know about his parents. He wondered how much Maelyn knew about her adoption, if she knew the names of her real parents. She probably wouldn't tell him if he asked, but someone in Runa must know the details. He wanted to know more about her, anyway.

Much more.