She must have been kidnapped, Ryne thought.

He took the spiral steps quickly, ignoring the way that pain rippled upwards with every step. Sunshine filtered through the slats in the stone wall, illuminating dust motes and white scratches on the wall. Somewhere outside, a bird sang.

Ryne paused at the bottom of the steps. Popped his head into the kitchens.

People scurried through the cramped space, ducking under low-hanging copper pots and sacks of herbs. The head cook was standing on a stool and waving a spatula like an orchestra conductor. His face was red from shouting. Someone was on the floor, scrubbing at what looked like a roasted guineafowl.

No sign of Camille.

Ryne frowned. Odd. Camille was never late to things — especially when it was this important. She hadn't forgotten what today was, had she?

A young woman carrying a large pot of beef stew let out a squeak, fumbling the pot. Her eyes were wide. "Your Majesty?"

Ryne offered her a tight smile. "Sorry to interrupt." He waved a hand in the general direction of the frozen staff members. "As you were."

He turned towards the library next. Not the large one overlooking the gardens — that had been Ryne's first destination — but a smaller one in the West Wing; it was filled with cramped, squashy furniture and a fireplace. A wave of relief filled Ryne as he spotted a head over the top of a chair, and he hurried across the room.

Paused.

The small figure in the chair looked up.

"What is it?" Penny asked.

His younger sister was sitting cross-legged in a wingback chair. Her shoes — expensive, caked in mud — were kicked across the room, and a plate of iced biscuits rested on her lap. She reached up to brush her red hair out of her eyes, smudging icing sugar.

"Ryne?" Penny prompted. "Is it mother?"

She knew something was wrong. Of course she did; Penny had the unique gift of sensing people's emotions, and his must have had the subtlety of a cannon going off.Ryne leaned against a bookshelf, running a hand over his eyes. He took care to hide his emotions, usually, but today...

Well.

Today was different.

But it was just as well, Ryne thought, dropping his hand; Penny became suspicious if he was happy for too long. Emotions didn't work like that. It was important to switch things up, for the sake of realism.

"No," Ryne said. "Mother's fine."

Presumably.

He hadn't seen Brigid since breakfast when she'd been lecturing some poor housemaid on how the silverware should be laid. Typical of his mother, really.

"Have you seen Camille?" Ryne asked.

Penny marked her page. "She's not with you?"

"No."

"But isn't it...?" Penny glanced outside. "Do I have the day wrong?"

There was an edge of self-doubt in her voice, and Ryne's chest twisted. He hated that. Hated that even now — four months after losing her memory — his sister was still unsure of herself, still fearful that she might have things muddled or confused.

"No," Ryne said. "Today's the day."

"Lucia's sake." Penny rose. "Do you need help finding her?"

"No," Ryne said. "Forget it. I can handle it."

"Are you certain?"

He turned for the door. "Go back to reading, Pen."

"Ryne..."

Ryne paused. That was another thing he hated: the way Penny said his name sometimes, like it was something fragile that might break. Just like him.

"You may want to wash," Ryne said. "Before our guests arrive." He turned, motioning at the icing sugar on her cheek; the movement made his head swim, and he stumbled. "You have a little—"

"Careful!" Penny cried.

His elbow connected with something.

Penny darted forward, snatching the vase. She was quick, slicing through space, bending the very light to her will. Then again, Ryne thought, he wasn't surprised; Penny had always been better at stealing biscuits from the kitchen, and Ryne had always been better at talking his way out of it when they were caught.

"Are you alright?" Penny asked.

He tried to stand.

Slumped over again.

"Ryne?" Her voice held a panicked edge.

"I'm fine," Ryne said.

A wave of dizziness hit him. His grip on the table tightened. Or perhaps it loosened; Ryne couldn't tell the difference. He felt outside of his body, shaking out of his own skin like a snake. Beads of hot sweat clung to his neck.

"Are you certain?" Penny asked. "You don't look well." A cool hand touched his forehead. "You need water. I'll call for a servant to bring—"

"I said I'm fine," Ryne said.

His voice was sharp. Sharper than Ryne had intended, anyway, and Penny recoiled. The urge to apologize filled him, and Ryne rubbed at his skull, trying to ignore the sensation of two invisible hands slowly crushing it.

"Look, just..." Ryne dropped his hand. "Just let me know if you find her, alright?"

Penny's shoulders were stiff. "Fine."

His sister didn't look at him as she sank into the chair, angling her book away so that he couldn't see the title. Ryne turned for the door. If it had been a normal day — any other day, really — he would have stayed just to find out what she was reading.

As it was, Ryne had more pressing concerns.

He slipped into the corridor. A familiar figure was stalking away, his strides long and purposeful, and Ryne called out.

"Grayson!"

The figure paused.

"Where are you coming from?" Ryne asked.

Grayson turned. "I was out riding."

Ryne observed him — gleaming blond hair, a crisp white shirt, not a speck of mud on his leather shoes — and arched an eyebrow. Still, he didn't call Grayson on it; if the young Lord wanted to stalk his sister, then that was his business. Penny was more than capable of defending herself.

"Have you seen my fiancée?" Ryne asked.

Grayon rubbed absently at the compass tattoo on his forearm. "Camille?"

"As far as I'm aware," Ryne said wryly, "I only have the one."

"No." Grayson shrugged. "Sorry."

"Never mind." Ryne was already backing down the corridor. "Go find Tristan. Try and stall them until I find Camille."

Grayon glanced at his pocket watch. "Ryne..."

"Stall them, Grayson," Ryne called. "That's an order."

He took a left, following the winding corridors to the throne room. Perhaps Camille had beat him there. But it was only a cluster of guards and his mother outside; Brigid was standing very still, her bejeweled hands clasped in front of her dress. Her purple dress, Ryne noted: the colour of war. A strategic decision.

"Hello, darling," Brigid said.

"Oh." Ryne glanced at the doors to the throne room. "Is it just you?"

"Well," Brigid said, "there's no need to look so disappointed."

Ryne sighed. "I was hoping you'd be with Camille."

"I expect she's getting ready," Brigid said. "As you should be." Her dark eyes flicked over him, assessing the same way a healer would assess a patient. Ryne refused to shift. "Have you looked in her apartments?"

"Twice. She's not there."

Brigid clucked her tongue. "Strange."

"You really don't know where she is?" Ryne asked.

His mother had an uncanny ability to know where her children were at all times — particularly Camille. Brigid toyed with a blue stone ring. Then she seemed to realize what she was doing and dropped her hand.

"No," Brigid said. "But it's not like her to be late."

His mother glanced upwards, and Ryne stiffened. He knew what lay several floors above them. Or rather, who.

Annalise Cidarius.

Ryne shifted. He hadn't seen her since the night of his engagement party. And he wanted to see her; he was self-aware enough to realize that. Something about Anna kept drawing him in. Not like a moth to a flame — Anna had always been darkness and shadow — but like the pull of the sea at night. Like the urge to jump from high places.

He tried not to think of her, but it was difficult. Not because of a lack of self-control — Ryne had always excelled, in that area — but because his councillors wanted to discuss her all the bloody time. How would they explain her presence? Would Sophie Holloway come for her with an army? Could they use her to quash the Nightweaver threat?

One councillor had suggested killing her. Just to have it done with.

A few weeks ago, Ryne might have agreed.

Ryne flexed his hands.

Flexed them again.

"You must have some idea where to look," Ryne said. "Somewhere Camille might go."

He was getting desperate. And desperation made people foolish. Brigid toyed with her ring again, her lips pursed.

"Try the courtyard," his mother said. "The one with the pond and the apple trees. She likes to read there sometimes."

Ryne touched her shoulder. "Thank-you."

He backtracked through the corridor. The dizziness was becoming worse, resting on his shoulder like a constant companion. Every breath felt like inhaling flame. He gritted his teeth, focusing on short goals. He just had to make it to the stone pillar. To the fountain. To the apple tree.

The world tilted.

Ryne felt the earth rush up to meet his knees. Or had he fallen?

"Ryne!" a voice called.

Isaac, Ryne thought.

But it wasn't him. Of course it wasn't. Isaac had returned home to Highcliff Manor several months ago, leaving behind only a note for Camille. He hadn't said goodbye to Ryne at all. Not, Ryne thought, that he blamed him; he was trapping Camille in a loveless marriage and trapping Anna in her room.

His recent behaviour wasn't exactly gallant.

"Ryne," the voice said. Urgent. Closer. "Ryne, can you hear me?"

"Tristan?" Ryne croaked.

He squinted. Two golden eyes peered down at him, framed by dark hair. A hand touched his face. It wasn't a loving hand; just a brisk, scientific assessment, the same way that Tristan might size up a piano or a new explosive. He was well-versed in both.

"Burning gods above, Ryne," Tristan said. "You look like shit."

Ryne managed a smile. "Thanks."

"Here," Tristan said. "Sit."

He propped Ryne up against the wall and then removed his hands immediately, as if the contact had burned him. An odd sensation went through Ryne. A lump rose in his throat, and it took him a moment to identify it: guilt.

He felt guilty.

He'd almost forgotten what that felt like.

"Thank-you." Ryne's voice was hoarse. "For helping me."

Tristan gave him an odd look. "You're welcome."

Tristan slumped against the wall, taking out a brown leather flask. Ryne waited until he'd finished drinking and then nodded at it.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's whisky," Tristan said. "Not water."

"I know."

Tristan shrugged. Passed him the flask. Ryne took a large swig, letting the contents burn a path through his chest. He could feel Tristan watching him closely.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Tristan asked. "Your sickness."

Ryne watched as a bird pecked at a rotten apple. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Tristan had noticed his illness; the whole castle knew, by now. He'd collapsed at a meeting with the Zarobian ambassador just last week. Still. It was the first time that someone had been brave enough to mention it to him.

It was oddly refreshing.

He shrugged. "Comes in fits and starts."

"Have you had a healer look at it?" Tristan asked.

Ryne took a swig. "Last week."

"And?"

"And," Ryne said, handing back the flask, "you're out of whisky."

Tristan took the flask, turning it over in his hands. He had a way of holding things, Ryne thought, as if he could learn the secrets of something just by touching it. A new sonata. A faulty clock. Tristan never just held things; he observed them.

Tristan nodded at the tallest tree. "Do you remember we used to climb that one? You once stayed up there for an hour just to avoid your language tutor. It took three guards and the promise of a lemon tart to get you down." His mouth curved. "I've never seen your mother so angry."

Ryne tipped his head back. "That was a long time ago."

"I know." Tristan tucked the flask away. "I'd almost forgotten about that tree."

He watched the bird hop on the rotten fruit. Stamp it. "My mother tried to tear it down last year. She said it was blocking the sunlight to the parlor."

"You asked her to keep it?" Tristan asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Ryne gave him a sideways look. "You're full of questions today."

The throbbing headache was receding, replaced by a mild sense of pressure. Tristan stacked his feet on the lawn, heels resting on toes.

"Ryne, I—"

"Your Majesty!" a voice called.

They both looked up.

A middle-aged page was hurrying towards them, red-faced and breathless. He was wearing the royal livery — a heavy red jacket adorned with a tower and a star over it — and sweat beaded his neck. Ryne made a mental note to get the staff more lightweight clothes. And more fashionable waistcoats. Good gods, those colours were obscene.

"Your Majesty," the page panted. "They're here. The watchguard has spotted their carriages."

Ryne went still. "It's them? He's certain?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." The page nodded. "Lord Eris has arrived."

The urge to flinch filled him. Ryne wasn't afraid of many things, but he could still recall his older cousin locking him in a cupboard. Watching as Eris starved and beat his hounds. The sound of Eris's laughter as he kicked them.

Eris was next in line for the throne. If Ryne died without a wife — if he died before he married Camille — then Eris would become King of Wynterlynn.

Eris Delafort was a sadistic megalomaniac with nothing to lose and everything to gain. And that frightened Ryne. It frightened him a lot.

Ryne rose, placing a hand on the stone wall. He wished that Camille was here. He wished that they could walk in together and present a united front. But he had no idea where his fiancée was, so he'd do it alone.

Like always.

"Come on," Ryne said, squaring his shoulders. "Let's go greet the bastard."