Another two weeks have come and gone. Acting as a set of guards rather than a simple escort back to Gudgeon Docks, Gustus and Cloak fly me back to the edge of the village early in the morning, before the sun has risen and the entire world will know someone is fast approaching.

Gustus eases the dragon down into a meadow on the outskirts of the village, a small patch of freedom before the woods take over, separating my village from others and the Flower Foothills, a staple in the Farm Territory. Branches crack and weave, attempting to avoid the strong beat of wings bearing down on the land, but the sound of crashing brushwood is a welcome sound compared to the argument I had to endure on the way here.

Nothing that involved me—or anything important. Apparently, Cloak and Gustus have a strong difference when it comes to desserts. The latter prefers crepes with a sweet custard, and Cloak, on the other hand, would rather choose a dessert on the savory side. Nestled in between them, I listened to their bickering. Most of it included how something savory can't be a dessert, Cloak came back with, "Your gut can't tell the difference with the amount of sugar you ingest already."

That comment nearly started a brawl on a dragon in mid-flight if it wasn't for me reaching around and pinching Gustus's side as hard as I could until he yelped and promised to keep quiet. For hundreds of years spread between them, they behave like children.

It snowed last night. White flecks stick to the earth and cover the trees, weighing down the pine needles and bare branches. One set of prints cuts through the clean surface, heading towards the village and disappearing into the streets, rounding a corner that appears to lead into a butcher's shop. Crates and boxes that sat out all night, underneath the awning of a supply hold, are frozen. Flakes expand across the wood, sparkling against the rising sun that will soon thaw my home. The snow will melt from rooftops and ice, upon seeing the orb of heat raise its sword in challenge, will slither into the shadows and hide until night.

The large dragon, one of Theo's most obedient beasts, lowers her head to the ground. I place my hand against the side of her scaled neck, then grip onto an ash brown horn to guide myself the rest of the way. She huffs a deep sigh underneath her breath as if she's annoyed with the simplest of grazes.

Turning to face both princes, I know a lecture is coming before either of them opens their mouth. Both cross their arms over their chests, blocking any attempt I might make to break through their icy exteriors, and Cloak glances around like he's searching for more than dandelions in the small meadow. I see right through his secrets.

"I know it's hard to reach the palace when you're this far away, but I've taken the liberty of contacting your foreman, Ocanthio," Gustus says. "If you are to come to any harm, or if any beast decides you are a target against their rage, you are to go to him. I paid for transport in a carriage, guarded by those that work in the next village north."

To copy their movements, I cross my arms and puff out my chest. "That's not necessary," I clip, feeling a bit nauseated by the thought of the lengths Gustus is going to. "But I appreciate the effort. I doubt I'll require this—"

"Well, if you do." Cloak looks me up and down, eyes flecking to my chest. Looking for the pendant he has yet to make. A symbol best to hand out while everyone is watching, including Rylan, so they know the worth of what hangs from a leather cord.

He uncoils and attempts to ease the need to kill curdling in his stomach. Rylan will not arrive this morning, I am sure of that, but revealing that to the prince will only make him look harder for someone that doesn't wish to face a blow to the nose. And that's the least of what Cloak or Gustus will do.

Gustus forced Theo to stay at the palace. Out of everyone, Cloak included, he's the one that stands to lose the most if he steps out of line. He's not an official Terravale and marrying one doesn't ensure the lack of consequences when killing a lowly guard at the kingdom's most resourceful docks. Though the Raven Queen would be more than happy to see Rylan's head on a stake, the order must come from me. And me alone.

I rock back and forth on my heels, eager to see my family and tell them the news they've waited to hear in every letter, and searched for on my face after every return. I'll survive this. Just when I'm ready to depart, giving them a farewell that doesn't do justice for everything they've done to keep me safe; I spot a lost glimmer in Cloak's eyes. He stares at the ground instead of at me, his mouth turned down in a frown.

Similar to the face I memorized when we first met. Hidden underneath a veil of splattered blood and a fearless heart. So much scrambled underneath, fighting to get out, and this...sadness was something I hoped to never see again. I don't want to believe this a direct result of me leaving again, or having to face an uncertain fate over the next two weeks. When fear is on the line, two weeks stretch to two months.

"We'll see you in two weeks," Gustus says, already turning to head back to Theo's dragon. Over his shoulder, he adds, "Don't forget about Claiming's Eve."

Cloak hasn't moved, but at his brother's command, he takes one step back. "Wait," I blurt, sticking out my hand towards him. His head shoots towards me. Two weeks is too long, and if I lose any progress I've made with him over these past months, the Raven Queen might decide I didn't do my job completely. "Unless you'd like to stay. You haven't seen all of my life yet, there's still more I have to show you." I gesture towards the buildings on the village's outskirts. "We have an excellent butcher, and the dockworkers commonly speak of their travels."

I wring my hands. Cloak smiles in reply, white fangs flashing across the bottom half of his face. The sea churns in the distance, waves crashing against the rocks that border it, crawling up the shore and reaching for us with cold, salted hands. The beach is too wide, and the docks are too far.

Without looking to his brother for confirmation, Cloak says, "Pick me up in three days' time." His stare locks on the village, on what hides within. Rylan, my family, the docks.

I could've made a terrible mistake by asking this of him. Granting him three days of access to my husband and all the people that have wronged me in the village is like dangling meat in front of a wolf and expecting it not to pounce within seconds. But Cloak is no wolf, and I must remind himself that if he cares at all, he'll keep his hands to himself and off of Rylan's throat.

Craning his neck over Cloak's shoulder, Gustus shoots me a warning look. Don't allow him near Rylan. I nod, silently promising to steer clear of a deadly encounter, and the prince mounts himself onto the saddle to head back to the palace. Alone. Without his brother.

"Do you wish for guards?" he calls out.

Cloak stops himself short of laughing outright. "I don't need guards, brother."

"All right," Gustus grumbles under his breath, grabbing hold of the reins and stuffing his boots into the stirrups. "I'll see you in three days' time." He kicks the dragon in the sides, directly above her wings, and she shifts her weight skyward, spreading her wings wide and nearly missing the canopy of branches and thick brush.

Nose pointed to the rising sun, she wills strength into her lower half and pushes off, flapping the silky membrane of her wings to catch the sky's breeze. Gustus's figure disappears into the endless river of blue speckled in white, and just when I think I can't see him anymore, he extends his hand in a wave and departs over the tree line. The only thing left behind is the shuffling of the world reclaiming its former silence.

I drop my chin from the sky. Cloak hadn't watched his brother depart. The entire time, he stared towards the crumbling streets. "This village can benefit from new construction," he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "If they expand out towards the woods, they can reach a northern village and link together, expanding trade and resources."

Adjusting the satchel crossed around my body, the strap slung over my shoulder; I croak a laugh. "Tell that to every cheap fisherman and dockworker and developer of the village." Taking his arm, I lead him towards the docks. "We can't afford to expand out. We can hardly afford to repair what we have, as you can see."

"I'm certain I can find extra money lying around to repair some of this. We lost plenty of it after the war, but my mother has too much jewelry, anyway. One diamond necklace can repair this entire block."

I squint at the side of his face against the fast-approaching sun. "I'm not fond of stealing from the queen more than I already have."

He arches a brow. "You've stolen from the queen?"

I clamp my mouth shut. He does not know of your Luminary abilities, Gustus's voice rings out in my head. I slap myself internally, schooling my features back into neutrality, and shrug. Maybe I've grown to trust more than Gustus. The leader of the Panjandrum Corps is just as easy to side with. "I mean with all the free meals and living in the palace. That has to be worth something, right?"

"You live in a hole, Marie. I think she can afford to give you more than what was already granted."

Shrugging once more and tightening my hand into the crook of his elbow, I say, "I don't mind the servant passageways. At least I don't have to hear your drunk ballads every night, or Gustus's snoring through a thick wall."

Cloak tips his head back and laughs. I can't keep down my smile, it creeps up like summer's dawn. The farther we stroll into the village, the more it becomes clear that familiar faces are beginning to rise. Merchants gather their supplies and display them on tables in front of traveling wagons constructed of strong wood. Their construction gives them the advantage of closing up quickly so they can move onto the next village within an hour.

Women carry buckets of water over their shoulders, sacks of grain on their heads, and a baby on their bosom. A mother sits on her front porch, rocking back and forth in a chair, the shoulder of her dress pushed down to grant access to a fussy child in search of breakfast. She shushes him carefully, and he wraps his small hand around her finger.

Bells ring from the port, signaling that the workday has started. Ocanthio doesn't expect me back until tomorrow, but surprising him and Chaska with a prince will be a welcoming sight before Claiming's Eve. Besides, I need to focus on something to shake my nerves about a prince staying in Theoden's home for the next three days.

Tourists and travelers walk the sides of the streets, peering into boarded-up shops or swinging open the doors of what the village provides. An inn, a simple restaurant that serves crappy ale, and all the salted meat they can think of. Most of it is sent overseas to Hasteaston, but what the kingdom reaps—nothing else compares.

Chaska hasn't yet arrived to her post at the docks. Always one for being late, I snatch an apron for her, and one for myself. When I hand one over to Cloak, he stares at the tattered fabric incredulously. "What is this for?" he asks.

"Do you wish to ruin your doublet with fish blood?" I tilt my head to the side, all the while tying the complicated knot on the back of my apron. One that'll last until the sun sets if I play my cards right. "You stick out like a sore thumb, Cloak. If you wear that apron while you're cleaning fish, you might fit in a little more."

His stare flattens, eyes drooping. "I'm not here to clean fish," he deadpans. "I have other—"

"What, like confronting Rylan?"

I snatch the apron from his hands and raise the loop over his head, struggling to reach past the horns. He bats my hands away and does it himself, twisting so I can tie the apron against his waist. I bite my lip to keep from grinning too wide; he looks positively ghastly.

"Well, if you suggest I do such a thing, then I just might." He scans the docks once more, eyes memorizing every fisherman and dockworker there is to name. Completely ignoring Eligius leaning against a wooden post, smoking a pipe, the prince's stare lands on me standing before him, my arms crossed over my chest.

"Stop fishing for an excuse. I won't give you one," I threaten.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine."

After gathering a bucket of freshly caught fish and greeting Chaska in another late-morning arrival supplemented with a sugary-drink to ease her into a workday, I gather a salmon and drop it onto the table in front of us. From the next table over, Chaska watches Cloak fondly. I shoot her a glare and tell her to keep her thoughts about him kissing the back of her hand to herself, but she winks at me and continues to stare at his arms like a drooling girl.

Cloak doesn't seem to notice, or he's doing a halfway decent job of hiding unavoidable awkwardness.

The knives rattle when the fish makes contact with the table, slipping on the thin layer of ice and nearly falling to the other side of the table if not for me pinching the tail between two fingers. "Salmon!" I exclaim, gesturing to the silver-sheened body on the table in front of us. The prince doesn't match my excitement.

I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Chaska focusing on her own fish. Then, I realize Ocanthio is standing outside his office, watching us with a curious eye. Knowing I have to work before he snaps at me to do so, I take the cold handle of the cleaver knife, twist it in my grip, and slam the blade down onto the fish's head.

It severs, cleanly, and I chuck the head to the side. Gulls spread their wings, cawing threats at the others that come too close, and a battle breaks out between two as they peck at the lifeless eyes.

"I'll do the first so you know how to do it," I say, twisting the fish's body towards me.

The second time around, the lingering stares from those around the docks doesn't intimidate me as it should. Fishermen aren't speaking to each other as much, and the orders they normally shout in harsh tones come out softer and easier to decipher for virgin ears of those that have never heard strained voices smelling of mead calling out to each other from an unfathomably large distance.

As Ocanthio monitors us, not a single cleaner dares step out of line to spend time with the prince rather than do their jobs. The sweepers rush by hurriedly, pushing away fish guts and ice so piles don't build up on the stone underneath our feet. Barrels roll by, towards the docks, and discover their final destination in the hull of a ship.

Everything moves as it should, except for the prince standing at my shoulder and Eligius watching form the shadows of a building, chewing on a frozen apple.

Chaska has already sent many warning glares his way.

Taking the filleting knife, I angle the blade and cut into the collar behind the pectoral fin, stopping at the spine. Cloak watches silently as I flip the fish and insert the blade above the tail, on the top part of the spine. My hands move quickly after so many years of doing this over and over again with the same shape and body of fish. The flesh cracks, the knife breaking through. A similar sound rings out from the many cleaning tables cluttered around my own.

Easing the blade into a nudge, I cut along the spine and above the dorsal fin, digging my nails into the fish's side to hold it down. Scales lodge underneath my fingernails, sinking deep and burning the skin that is only remembering what it feels like to feel the tug of pressure from cleaning fish for hours on end. Connecting with the first cut, I work my blade along the backbone, cutting the fish from top to bottom.

I cut through the ribs, avoiding every bone except the unavoidable pin bones, and stop at the edge of the tail. Poking a hole at the end of the fillet, I stick my finger through it and cut off the remainder, bringing that severed fillet into the air, smiling wide. Cloak's eyes dart between the fish, then me, then back to the pink meat hanging from my hooked finger.

"That doesn't seem too hard," he mutters, scooting around me to grab another fish from the bucket.

I drop the severed fillet into a salted barrel at the corner of my table and brush my hands on my apron, quickly cutting into the other side of the salmon as Cloak drops the cleaver knife onto another salmon's head. The wooden table cracks underneath the blade and he lodges it free, flashing me an apologetic look.

A warming in my chest gives me the faintest hope that this day will pass much quicker than all the rest.