Princess Annalise Cidarius, granddaughter of King Gideon of Wynterlynn and Heir of Nyxos, leaned back as a man spewed vomit all over the table.

She wrinkled her nose.

Charming.

The tavern was packed this morning. The stench of stale bread and sweat permeated the yellow tent, and barmaids wove between the tables, sloshing pitchers of ale onto the floor. And now Fydor's vomit was dripping off the table.

Anna was grateful she hadn't eaten breakfast yet.

"You know," Anna said, laying down a card, "you might win occasionally if you stopped drinking so much."

Fydor glowered. "I am winning."

"Only at ruining your liver."

One of the other men chuckled. "She's got you there, Fy."

Anna smiled, throwing another few rukka on the table. For show, of course; everyone knew you didn't play for money at The Mermaid's Scale. You played for other things. Illegal things. She could see dried dragon scale changing hands, a rare tooth of a Salvatorian wolf being slipped into a pocket. And that damn packet of blue powder sitting tantalizingly in front of her.

She'd waited months for this.

And now she was out of time.

"Sorry, boys." Anna put down a card. "I'm afraid you're in trouble."

Fydor scratched his nose. His tell. Anna had learned that the hard way, after he won three hundred rukka and her best throwing knife off her last year.

He set down a card, face down. "King's Trident. I win."

All the other men shifted but didn't speak.

"You're bluffing," Anna said.

Fydor growled. And sure enough, when he flipped over the card, he didn't have a winning hand. She'd been right.

"You're a cheat," he spat.

"Fair enough," Anna said. "But not this time; I played by the rules." She reached for the packet. "And I win the blueworm powder."

A knife speared it to the table.

"Not so fast." A burly man stroked his beard. "I'm inclined to agree with Fydor. You cheated somehow."

Anna smirked. "No. I'm just better than you."

Irritation pricked at her. Good holy gods, Anna hadn't suffered through two hours of Fydor's vomit, of men drunkenly pawing at her, only to stumble at the last hurdle. That blueworm powder belonged to her. She'd won it.

She reached for the powder, and the burly man yanked out the knife, thrusting it towards her. Anna went still.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

His teeth flashed. "Why not?"

"Look down."

Her knife was pressing into his thigh, angled towards a very sensitive area. It was the first lesson Sophie had taught her: aim for the head, the throat, or the heart. And if you can't reach those, then aim for the thing that a man values most.

Predictably, the burly man paled. "You bitch."

"I've been called worse." Anna rose, snatching up the powder. "Good day, gentleman." She paused, sheathing her knife. "Oh, and for the record, I did cheat. You ought to guard your drinks better."

Fydor was already snoring on the table, the drug working its way through his system. She smirked as the burly man seized his half-empty cup, staring at it as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Which it didn't.

Just a heavy sedative.

Anna winked. "Enjoy your nap."

She pushed open the tent flap, stepping into the sunshine. Grim's Market was a riot of colour today; tents disgorged pumpkins larger than carriages, and a man with green whiskers was selling hair tonic potions. The air smelled like spice and sweat, burned sugar and barley. She carved her way around a stand selling messenger ravens, pausing in front of a large man with a monocle.

"Anna Holloway." He grinned. "Come to collect, then?"

"Did you get it?"

The vendor produced a purple phial. She reached for it, but he snatched it back, his silver rings glittering in the sunshine. Anna sighed. "As much as I enjoy our little games, Cal, I have places to be today."

"I know. Testing Day, isn't it?"

"Yes," Anna said. "And I'm running late."

She was due to be at Stillwater Castle in a little over three hours, along with every other seventeen-year-old in Wynterlynn. Castle staff would test them to see if they were magic weavers. Which Anna was — just not in the usual sense.

Anna held out her hand. "Give me the poison."

Cal sighed. "Always the same with you, isn't it?" The vendor sounded morose. "Never a pretty comb, or a singing jewelry box. It's always something dangerous and liable to kill someone."

Anna ignored this. "I'll give you fifty rukka."

"Try again, sweetheart."

"That's my final offer."

"No, it isn't."

"Fine. Seventy rukka. Now give it."

That had been Anna's plan all along. Cal knew it. But they played this little game anyways, usually once a week, when Henry sent her to Grim's Market to get magical ingredients for his pastries. Murtroot grass was surprisingly delicious in scones — it was why their family bakery was such a success.

Her mouth watered.

She could use a scone right now. And a pitcher of water. Gods, it was hot out.

Cal grumbled something about the importance of manners. The vendor relinquished the powder, and Anna gave him a charming smile. She added an extra two rukka, just as she always did; Cal had a five-year-old son that liked cherry lollipops, and Cal used the extra money to buy him one.

Both items in hand, Anna pushed through the mass of sweaty bodies, following the winding dirt road out of Grim's Market. She was careful to give a wide berth to the pit, where people were drooling on cushions, drugged out of their minds on dream somnium.

Anna wrinkled her nose.

She was just about to pass through the iron gate and into the open fields beyond when her eye caught on a display of gilded glass windows. No, she realized with a jolt, not windows — mirrors.

She hardly recognized herself like this: her dark hair smooth, her blue eyes rimmed with kohl.... She'd even agreed to put on a blue dress. It wasn't her first choice, but Sophie had insisted. To help her blend in at the castle, Sophie said.

"See anything you fancy, Holloway?" the vendor called.

Anna shoved the blueworm powder deeper into her dress pocket, flashing a wide smile. "Just you, Mo."

The vendor winked.

She continued down the dirt path. It was a warm day out; the mud was hardening into dirt, and a group of lizards basked on a rock, drinking in the morning sunshine. A carriage rattled by, packed with eager seventeen-year-olds on their way to Stillwater Castle. Anna would join them, soon.

If she didn't die of dehydration first, that was.

Water. She needed water. Anna picked up her pace and sweat was sticking to the back of her knees by the time that she arrived home. She knelt on the damp bank of the stream near their cottage, cupping her hands.

Something slammed into the back of her neck.

And Anna's face plunged into the freezing cold stream.

***

Camille was hiding in the library.

She sighed, leaning her head against the cool window. Outside, the garden party was underway; guests milled about the glittering golden tents and fairy lights. A young man shielded his eyes against the glare, staring up at Stillwater Castle. Camille knew what he would see: rambling stone walls, Gothic turrets... She had once thought the castle looked like a sleeping giant, although now it simply looked like home.

She shut her book.

She should go down there. Testing would start soon, and Brigid would scold her if she dawdled for too long; it wasn't becoming of a royal. She toyed with the blue necklace at her throat, her pearl gloves glowing in the sunshine.

And yet...

Camille frowned. And yet, she wasn't royal. Not truly.

And there would be plenty of people eager to remind her of that today, just as there always were at these sorts of events.

The door flew open.

Camille pressed herself closer to the window, half-concealed behind a large, dusty shelf. A high giggle sounded, followed by a masculine noise of amusement.

"I don't think there's anyone in here," he said.

Camille froze.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

She recognized that voice.

Through the slats of the shelf, Camille could see Isaac pressing a blonde girl up against the wall. He was wearing a black uniform today, only a few shades darker than his skin, and his gray eyes glittered in the morning sunshine. A sword hung from his belt.

He was also, Camille noted, with rising anxiety, facing her direction.

Oh, gods.

"Did you miss me?" Isaac's thumb brushed the girl's lip. "I can't imagine that any of your little courtiers were that interesting compared to me."

"Don't flatter yourself," the girl said.

Isaac's eyes danced. "Is it flattery if it's the truth?"

Camille let out a string of mental curses. Why wasn't Isaac already in the garden? As Captain of the Guard — second-in-command of the king's private guard — he should have been there ages ago.

Then again, she was dawdling, too.

She could hardly judge him.

"Perhaps I've forgotten," the girl said coyly. "You should remind me just how interesting you are, Isaac Webb."

Too late, Camille recognized her voice, too.

Elsie Marks.

Her stomach plunged. She ought to have known. Isaac had hooked up plenty of times with Elsie over the years, usually in the shadowy corners of balls or festivals. Still. It hurt her more than Camille realized it would. Elsie. He was flirting with Elsie.

Elsie, who sneered at her. Elsie, who mocked her village accent. Camille could hear the things that the other girl had taunted her with.

Princess of Soot.

Dirt-Blood.

The Ash Princess.

To his credit, Isaac didn't know about all of that. But he must know that Elsie was friends with the courtiers that mocked her, didn't he?

"You know what I think?" To Camille's horror, Isaac leaned in. "I think I'll take my time reminding you."

Isaac kissed Elsie. It wasn't a pleasant kiss; his fingers splayed over her waist, shoving her backward into the shelf. Elsie made a little noise — almost a moan — and Isaac's mouth dropped to her neck. Her head fell back, and Camille wrenched her eyes away.

Oh, gods, she couldn't watch this. Couldn't bear to watch Isaac kissing someone else — especially Elsie Marks. She set her book down, glancing at the door. There was only one exit to the library.

She'd have to walk past Isaac and Elsie to get there.

Camille bit her lip. She was — overall — unnaturally quiet. Isaac used to tease her for it. Little ghost, he'd say, chuckling as she tumbled out of a wardrobe or a bookshelf or wherever she'd been hiding. But there was only so much that Camille could do. Teleportation wasn't in her skillset.

She sighed.

Time to improvise.

Camille deliberately tripped on the rug, letting out a yelp as she collided with the shelf. Silence fell. A moment later, Isaac appeared, his gray eyes exasperated.

"Cami," Isaac said. "I should have known you'd be in here." He sounded amused, which told her nothing about what he was really feeling. Every emotion in Isaac presented itself as amusement. "I didn't realize this rug was such a hazard."

He knew she'd done it on purpose. Camille refused to blush.

"I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll just..." She waved a hand lamely. "I should go."

"Is that Camille?" Elsie stepped into view. "Did you enjoy the show?"

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Elsie wore a plunging red gown, several red marks now decorating her chest and neck. Camille ran her hands over her pale pink skirts. She had thought it was sweet; now, looking at Elsie, she felt like a child playing dress-up.

"I really didn't mean to interrupt."

"And yet," Elsie said, "you didn't leave, either." A little smile played on her lips. "Like what you saw, did you?"

Her blood ran cold. But Elsie just kept watching her with that amused little smile, like a cat playing with a mouse. Isaac shifted.

"Great," he said. "Lovely catch up. Cami, maybe you should—"

The door opened again.

Isaac groaned. "Good holy Lucia."

"No," Ryne said. "It's just me, I'm afraid."

Camille felt a rush of relief. Ryne's royal regalia was on full display, a crown sitting atop his brown hair. His green eyes matched his military jacket, the golden buckles gleaming. It was only his boots that were muddy, she noted; he must have snuck out for a ride this morning before the garden party.

She frowned.

Rude of him not to invite her.

Elsie curtsied. "Your Majesty."

Camille started. Even now, it was odd to hear Ryne addressed as that. Your Majesty. But he was a king now, she reminded herself. He had been since his father died three years ago. Ryne's face was impassive.

"You're needed in the garden, Elsie," he said.

Elsie blinked. "I am?"

"My mother wants to see you." Ryne shrugged. "Something about purchasing a new painting for the banquet hall. She wants your opinion."

Elsie's eyes lit up. "Right away, Your Majesty."

Camille watched in amusement as Elsie rushed through the door, her red skirts swishing behind her. She arched an eyebrow at Ryne. "I wasn't aware that the queen was ordering a new painting."

"She isn't," Ryne said.

Isaac looked aggrieved. "I don't suppose you could have waited another five minutes before sending her away?"

"No." Ryne shrugged. "She annoys me."

"I haven't seen her in months."

"And now you'll have all year with her." Ryne adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. "Really, Isaac, you need to learn to pace yourself."

Camille winced. She had forgotten that Elsie would likely stay at the castle for the year; everyone knew the Marks family churned out talented Dayweavers. And judging by Elsie's smug comments over the years, she would pass her test today with flying colours.

Stupid test.

"We should go down to the garden," Camille said reluctantly. "Do you think I'll need a shawl, or is the weather warm enough to—?"

Something smashed.

Camille whirled around. Ryne was lying on the floor, his body shaking with convulsions. White foam frothed at his mouth. His green eyes were wide with panic, sharp and jagged as an emerald, and her heart sunk.

Not again, she thought.