Princess Penelope Delafort was getting outrageously drunk.

Intoxicated. Blasted. Utterly door-knobbed. She giggled to herself. Door-knobbed. That was clever, actually.

Penny floated around the garden party, humming as she plucked a champagne glass from a passing tray. Technically, at sixteen, she was too young to drink — but nobody was going to stop a princess, were they?

They never did.

Violin music swelled above the party, mixing with the tinkling of glasses. Her mother was sitting on a throne under a golden awning, fanning herself with a large pink feather. Her auburn hair — the same colour as Penny's own — shone with bits of gold. The larger throne next to her was empty.

No sign of Ryne yet. Where the hell was her brother?

Penny winced as her head throbbed. Not from the champagne, but from the feelings.

Feelings.

There were so many of them here. Anxiety. Happiness. Awe. Fear. Penny could feel all of it crushing her at once, crawling over and on top of one another. She took a long drink of champagne. It did little to help.

Bollocks.

Her father used to call it Penny's special little gift. Her parents both loved games, and her father's games usually involved crouching behind sofas in the castle. Arthur's green eyes — a shade darker than her own — would sparkle with amusement. He would press a finger to his lips, nodding to a scullery maid.

"What's she thinking, sweetheart?"

Penny would screw up her face. "She's tired. And a little grumpy."

"And him?"

Her father had gestured to a footman. Penny tilted her head. "He's in love. He's having a torrid affair with one of the parlor maids, and they're planning to run away together before her father can object."

In retrospect, Penny wasn't sure if this was true. She couldn't read people's thoughts, but her imagination was like a runaway carriage: once it got going, trying to stop it was futile.

After their game finished, her father would give her an ice lolly. Later, the king expanded their game, bringing Penny with him to council meetings. Penny's job would be to pick out each man's emotion, to decide whether he was for or against proposed bills. That was duller; she detested long council meetings.

But her father had been proud.

"It's such a special little gift," Arthur always said. "For my special little princess."

It didn't feel like a gift right now.

Penny drained her champagne, her eyes narrowing. Nope. Still not drunk enough. She needed something stronger; if only she'd thought to bring her flask. She sighed, grabbing another glass of champagne.

Across the garden, a troupe of actors were performing the War of Nightmares. Penny's eyes narrowed. Her tutor, Briar, had told her about the War several times, but she never listened. Terribly boring stuff.

Still, Penny knew the basics: seventeen years ago, King Pieter of Lucerna bravely led an army into Wynterlynn. He lay siege to the castle for twelve days — blah, blah, blah — and then when Pieter won, he put Penny's father, Arthur, on the throne.

The actors were just getting to the part where King Pieter executed all the Nightweavers. The crowd applauded as fake-Pieter killed each member of the Cidarius family: King Gideon Cidarius, Queen Mab, their daughter Princess Lotta and her husband Benji, and even their baby, Annalise.

"Some people fall into darkness," fake-Pieter declared. "But it is the people that are born in shadow that are the most dangerous of all." He chopped off a head. "I liberate you from the tyranny of Gideon Cidarius, People of Wynterlynn!"

The crowd cheered again.

Penny took a sip of champagne.

Bit theatrical, in her opinion. Who had written this thing?

Penny could feel her mother watching her as she prowled about the garden. She should speak to some of their guests, but she didn't have the energy. Besides, Camille was always so much better at that sort of thing.

Penny frowned. Where was she, anyway? It wasn't like her pseudo-sister to be late. She always joked that Camille had been born with a pocket watch inside of her.

She spotted a familiar face across the garden.

Thank the gods.

"Tristan!" she called.

The young man looked up. Tristan was exactly as she remembered: a sweep of silky black hair, olive skin, and those odd golden eyes. He looked like a fairytale knight, all stoic and gentlemanly.

A fairytale knight that enjoyed exploding things, that was.

Tristan bowed. "Your Highness."

"Cut it out, Tristan." Penny scowled. "Or I shall whack you with my fan." She paused, registering the young man next to him. "Er. Politely, of course."

"Oh, dear," said Tristan. "You haven't changed a bit."

She beamed. "Thank-you."

Tristan stuck his hands in his pockets; they were covered in soot, Penny noted, as well as a few burns. Definitely still exploding things. "Where's His Majesty?"

Tristan's voice was casual, but Penny knew better — she could feel his love and pain, bittersweet as grapefruit. It was understandable, too; Tristan and Ryne had once been friends, chasing each other around the garden with swords.

That had all changed when their father had died and Ryne became king; as far as Penny was aware, the pair hadn't spoken in three years.

Penny took a sip of champagne. "I'm sure he just got caught up with paperwork."

"Ah," the stranger said. "The glamorous life of a king."

Tristan shot him a look and Penny hid a smile. "And you are...?" She looked expectantly at the stranger.

"Oh." Tristan's hands shot out of his pockets. "Sorry. This is Lord Thomas Grayson of Libertas. He's testing along with us today."

Penny studied the stranger with renewed purpose. Interesting. Firstly, because Libertas was a trading port in the north of Wynterlynn; Penny always pictured its citizens as pale and stocky, but Grayson was tall and tanned. Absurdly tall. "Taller-than-most-doors" tall. A tattoo flashed on the back of his hand. A compass?

And secondly, because Tristan had called him "Lord." The young man had inherited his title, which meant that his father was dead. Just like her own.

She inclined her head. "I wish you luck today, Thomas."

"Call me Grayson, Your Highness." He smiled. "Everybody else does."

She frowned. "What's that in your champagne, Grayson?"

Red blobs floated in the frothy liquid, like little buoys waiting for ships. She wrinkled her nose. Gods above. If Grayson put fish eggs in his champagne, then she was running in the opposite direction. She didn't care how cute he was.

"It's pomegranate, Your Highness."

She blinked. "Why?"

"Try it sometime. You'll see."

Penny nodded politely.

Over her cold, dead body.

Penny took a sip. Grayson really was cute, despite his questionable taste in drinks. Did he find her attractive, too? She would just have a peek, she promised herself. Just to see what he was feeling. She focused all her energy on the boy in front of her, staring into his astonishing blue eyes and—

Nothing.

Penny drew back, startled. It was as if a cloud had wrapped around Grayson, blocking her view of the golden light emanating from him.

What the devil?

Tristan frowned. "Are you well, Your Highness? You look pale."

It must be the champagne, Penny decided, staring down at her glass. She was more drunk than she realized; that was the only reasonable explanation.

"Quite alright," Penny murmured. "It must be the heat. I—"

"Penny!"

Camille was rushing across the garden, carrying her pink skirts in one hand. Her cheeks were flushed, her blonde hair half-falling out of its updo. Penny's heartbeat kicked up. It was unlike her sister to run, and it was even less like her to do it in public.

"What is it?" she demanded. "What's wrong?"

Camille shot a glance at Tristan and Grayson before leaning closer, her breath warm in Penny's ear. "Ryne's ill again. He's in the West Wing. He—"

But Penny didn't need to hear anymore.

She sprinted across the garden, her champagne abandoned on the grass.

***

The thing about trying to poison someone at a garden party, Anna mused, was that it was so much harder to do it without witnesses.

She took a sip of champagne. Her target — a young healer with rosy cheeks — stood near the buffet table, flirting with a guard. She was holding a glass of water in one hand and a lemon square in the other. Her medical bag dangled from one shoulder.

Perfect.

Anna touched the poison, wincing at the stiffness of her arm. The carriage ride had been three hours of torture; she'd spent most of it ignoring the gaggle of nervous teenagers and trying hard not to puke out the carriage window.

Ah, the joys of magic.

That had been Sophie's second lesson: all magic had a cost.

Zarobian healers had to sacrifice some part of themselves: a childhood memory, or the taste of watermelon. Dayweavers got high on fantasies, becoming so hyper that they spent all night organizing cupboards or feverishly painting the floors; they called it the Up.

And Nightweavers got the Low.

For Anna, it was always the same: burning. It was the one fear she couldn't shake. Even now, she could feel a prickling sensation in her foot, as if ghostly flames nipped at the skin. The cost of using somnium.

Still.

She could deal with it.

It was better than the other nightmare. When Anna spun too much magic, she was bed-ridden for days, lost in a hellish memory of a blond-haired boy, a jeering crowd, and the suffocating smell of rotten fruit.

She hated dreaming of Rourke.

Burning alive was preferable.

Anna wandered closer to her target, passing the line of teenagers waiting to be tested. The procedure had been painless; a squat woman had taken Anna's hand. Golden thread wrapped around both of them. Then the woman grunted, dropped her wrist, and shook her head at a man with a clipboard.

Anna hadn't been stopped.

Which was good, Anna thought; the blueworm powder had worked. It had blocked the woman from sensing the venom in her veins. Otherwise, the Delafort family would be putting her on a stake, which would be less good.

Now she just had one more task.

Anna drew up next to the healer, pretending to examine a strawberry shortcake. Golden syrup in shot glasses glittered in the afternoon sun. Dream somnium. And powerful stuff too, from the looks of it.

Anna picked up a shortcake. The healer giggled.

"I told you, Hunter, I have a boyfriend."

The guard smirked. "Well, he's not here now, is he?"

"You shouldn't flirt with me," the healer said.

Hunter leaned in closer. "And you shouldn't be so pretty. It's a crime against nature."

Anna reached into her pocket, drawing out the phial. She didn't glance both ways. The best way to get caught was by looking nervous; playing cards at The Mermaid's Scale had taught her that. The young healer set her glass down.

"And you're much too charming," the healer said.

Anna's hand darted over the glass. She heard Hunter sigh. "You're breaking my heart, Melody. You know that, don't you?"

The poison went in.

"You don't have a heart," the healer — Melody, presumably — said.

Anna stuffed the empty phial in her pocket, retreating towards shade of a tree. She took a sip of her champagne.

Three.

Two.

One—

"Help!" Hunter. "Someone help! She's collapsed!"

Melody had indeed collapsed. She was lying on the grass, clutching at her chest. Anna felt a twinge of sympathy. Sophie had made her take this brand of poison so that she could build up an immunity to it, but she remembered how it felt. Like your heart was burning out of your chest.

Unpleasant stuff.

The other healer — a pregnant woman in her late twenties — rushed forward. She dropped to her knees, a hand splaying on Melody's chest.

"What's wrong with her?" Hunter was frantic. "Is she okay?"

"Stay back."

"But I—"

"Back," the healer snarled.

Anna decided that she liked her. Any woman willing to snarl at an armed guard was a person worthy of admiration in her books.

She watched as the healer drew out silver instruments and tonics, scissors and pills. None of it would work. The poison presented as a heart attack, but only one thing could cure it. One ingredient.

A crowd had gathered around them. Even Queen Brigid had joined, speaking rapidly with the man carrying a clipboard. The pregnant healer slumped back.

"I don't know." The healer swallowed. "I don't know what's wrong with her."

Ah.

Her cue.

"I can help," Anna said.

All eyes snapped towards her. Anna tried to look nervous as she hurried forward, the picture of an uncertain teenager. She knelt beside the pregnant healer, who looked at her in surprise. "Who are you?"

"Anna," she said. "Anna Holloway."

Her eyes narrowed. "And what do you know of healing, Anna Holloway?"

Her voice was suspicious. Good. Anna loathed people that were too trusting.

"A healer raised me." This was true. Celeste Hillsbrook, her mother's handmaiden, had worked as a healer after the attack on the castle, establishing an infirmary in Grim's End. Anna used to go on the occasional house call with her. "I think I've seen this before. There was a man in my village — a farmer — who had the same condition." A lie. "We cured it by giving him lemons."

The healer looked incredulous. "Lemons?"

"The acidity helps."

"It's worth a try," Hunter said. "Let her do it, June."

June muttered something distinctly uncomplimentary. The healer sat back as a maid scurried forward with a lemon wedge. Anna didn't hesitate as she stuck it in Melody's mouth, forcing the girl to bite down on it.

A second passed. Two.

Melody's hand fell away. Her breathing evened out, and she sat up, looking stunned. "What — What just—?"

Anna smiled. "Welcome back."

The crowd burst into applause. Melody flushed.

"Don't move," Anna said, placing a hand on her back. "Your body needs time to recover." About two months, in fact. She would have fever and chills for the next thirty days. "You should take it easy."

Hunter bent down, scooping Melody into his arms. Several people patted her on the back. Even June smiled at her. "Well spotted. You may have saved that girl's life."

Anna looked away. "Well, I wouldn't say—"

"Miss Holloway?"

She turned. The man with the clipboard was watching her, his blue eyes unreadable. He jerked his head towards a golden canopy.

"May I have a word, please?"