The queen's chambers are uncomfortably warm, the pungent smell of burning herbs making it difficult to breathe. Flowers have been placed in ornate vases around her bed to brighten up the space, give it a sense of life. But they have started to wilt, petals browning at the edges, stems drooping under the weight of the heavy blossoms. The cloyingly sweet scent is noticeable even underneath the smokiness of pine and sage. Somehow, it smells like death.

There are three wizards in the room, kneeling within a large chalk symbol on the ground. They are chanting softly, eyes closed. The king sits in a chair by the bed, facing away from the doorway, head bowed. I can hear him sob intermittently. I know from the others' reports that he's been there for the better part of a week. He hasn't eaten, hasn't truly slept. He seems determined to waste away along with his wife.

I watch the wizards as I walk towards the queen's bedside. They don't acknowledge my presence in any way, but I'm nervous since my run-in at the University. The wound across my palm has fully closed up, but the purplish scar still stings when I use my hand for anything, a reminder of my carelessness. Based on the descriptions I've heard, none of these men are Bastian's uncle Ellerin. Supposedly the Master Pneumatist has already done everything he could for Lady Katalyn. They're saying she is beyond the reach of even magic, now.

Despite the roaring fire and the heat of late summer, the queen is bundled in what looks like dozens of blankets. Her skin is moist and frighteningly pale except for dark shadows beneath her eyes, which are closed in sleep. I can see them moving beneath the lids, darting back and forth in fitful fever dreams. Occasionally her whole body will twitch or tense up, only to sink once more into stillness. She has been locked in this state for days now.

Like Aurelius said, there is a strange blue tint to her lips. Not a bruised sort of blue, or the stain you get from eating too many berries. This blue is vivid, brighter than forget-me-nots. Aurelius told me that Ezebel was fixated on this symptom in her hunt for a cure, that she kept repeating it over and over before shutting herself away in her apothecary. Blue lips. That makes it sound like she's already dead. Like she can't get enough air. Does she feel as though she's suffocating? She doesn't wheeze or gasp for breath. She seems to barely breathe at all.

It's impossible to ask her how she feels while she's trapped in restless slumber. I hope she isn't suffering. She's always been so kind to me. The queen is so gentle, full of grace, yet she has a spark of fire in her that reminds me of my mother. She thinks the world is beautiful, that life is meant to be lived to the fullest. That kind of optimism is contagious. But it's been fading, these last few years. Ever since the disappearance of her son. The prince I was tasked to watch over, who disappeared in an explosion of fire. Lady Katalyn never recovered, and it's my fault. It was my failure.

I put a hand lightly on the king's shoulder. He looks up at me with bleary eyes. "Ah, Ezebel's little lass." At first he sounds calm, sort of detached. He sniffs. His voice becomes a thin, desperate plea. "Can you save her? I know you're just a child, but I will ask anyone. Please. If you can-" He can't get through the sentence without breaking into a sob.

"I can't," I say softly. "I'm sorry, Your Highness." But maybe I can help you. I don't say the last part out loud.

I go over in my head what I'd done to Gregorius, the way I'd changed him, pushed some sort of mental state from myself into him. Made him grovel before me. Then I close my eyes, focus myself, use all of my training to build up a sense of peace. Like floating in a glittering pool of starlight, held safely above the gently flowing currents, arms and legs splayed in four directions. Surrender. Relax.

Then I open my eyes and push that feeling out with a slow exhale. I will it out of me, to wash over the king in a wave, sink into him, a rush of tingling serenity.

The king straightens in his chair. His head falls back and he sighs. Tears flow down his cheeks, soaking his thick beard. He rubs them away with one huge hand.

"Will you eat something, Your Highness?" I ask. "I can bring a meal to your chambers, if you'd like to have some rest."

He nods. "Yes, that sounds wise. I have to keep up my strength. I can't save her by grieving like she's already gone." He takes a deep breath and stands.

I follow the king down the palace corridors, hoping he doesn't notice the way I use the wall for support, legs wobbly beneath me. Whatever I just did sapped my energy, leaving my body weak and my mind slightly fuzzy. Thankfully, Aurelius is waiting outside the king's chambers. I let him take over, explaining that the king would like a meal brought to him. Then I stumble to my own bed, ready to collapse.

.

The White Witch has locked the door to her apothecary and does not answer to anyone's knocks, so I pick the lock. This is a skill I've had since before becoming a spy, but one Aisling helped me brush up on not too long ago. I consider for a moment that Ezebel may have barred herself in as well, but, after the click of the mechanism unlocking, the door swings open easily.

I find her sitting on the floor against the wall, tucked beneath a shelf that once held organized rows of labeled jars and stoneware crocks. Now the entire room is in shambles. Nothing is in its place, but has instead been pulled down and shoved back in odd locations, crushed powders dumped loose onto the counter, ointments smeared onto papers scrawled with hasty scribbles. The bundles of herbs that used to hang in neat rows in front of the window are now scattered on every surface, and there is a distinct musty smell of mold laying over everything.

She doesn't respond when I crouch down and say her name. She stares straight ahead, those stormy gray eyes somehow… empty.

"Ezebel!" I repeat. She doesn't blink.

I slap her across the face, a bit harder than I meant to. I only wanted her to wake up, to come back to us. Tell me what I'm supposed to do. The force from being hit makes her head thunk against the wall and she inhales sharply. I expect some other reaction, as well. Some sort of emotion returning to her face. A dismissal, at the very least. But I get nothing. Just instant regret and a stinging palm.

"What is wrong with you?" I shout, taking a step backwards. I don't realize until I hear my voice that I'm angry. Furious. She is supposed to be giving orders, leading the charge in a battle only she fully understands but we all believe in. She is the strong one, our protector, our master. She can't just disappear.

"It's my fault," she says, so softly I barely hear.

"It's not," I say, remembering the same thought going through my own head just hours before. Some part of me believes that the queen would never have fallen ill if she hadn't lost her son all those years ago. That she'd be stronger, able to fight. That it's my fault she's slipping away, because I was meant to protect the prince and I failed.

I kneel in front of Ezebel, put my hands on either side of her face. "Listen to me. Ezebel. It can't be your fault."

She lifts an arm to brush me away, ducking her head. "It is," she says. "I put her in danger. She would not be here if not for me. They would have no reason to kill her if she had never become queen. I did this to her."

"What are you talking about?" I ask. "Lady Katalyn is queen because of you? Why? Is she part of your plan? Is she one of us?"

She shakes her head slowly, but says nothing.

"Talk to me!" I say. "I am tired of being in the dark. You keep things from us. Give us assignments and demand reports. But you never explain how any of it is supposed to do anything. How are we supposed to fix it? To stop them. How?"

"We can't," she says, with a hint of her usual sternness.

I make a sound like a sort of growl, clenching my hands into fists despite the way it hurts the wound on my right palm. "No," I say. "That is not an answer. You have a plan. You've always had a plan."

"Stop," she says, looking at me for the first time. "There is no plan. Katalyn… My great niece… The last of my family. They took her from me, just like they've taken everything else. I tried, for years, to find some way to hurt them. But I can't. I can't do it, Sindred. Just go. Leave me be."

I storm towards the door, but turn back to her with a hand on the handle. "What about us? Am I not your family?" I say. I slam the door behind me, not giving her a chance to respond.

.

Bianca is in the kitchens, but she's not working as I expected her to be. She's standing in the doorway to the back courtyard, leaning back and head tilted up to kiss a tall man in robes. Ironborn robes, links of metal glinting in the summer sunlight. I duck back into the stairway and watch them embrace from across the room, heart pounding in my chest. Bianca's hands are tucked behind her, grasping at the door frame. She's smiling, maybe giggling quietly as the man says something. None of the other kitchen maids interrupt them, but I see some sneaking glances. Where is the cook? It's hard to believe she'd allow this kind of dallying.

Every minute he stands looming over her feels like an eternity, but in reality he doesn't stay much longer. He gently brushes a strand of unruly red hair away from her face, she goes on tiptoes for one last kiss, then he pulls away and vanishes out the door. She stares after him, cheeks flushed and biting her lip. Something in my stomach clenches painfully.

I catch her on her way back to her station, resting my hand lightly on her arm. "Who was that," I ask, voice low.

"Sindred!" She greets me with a dazzling smile. "I have so much to tell you." Her eyes gleam with conspiratorial glee.

"An Ironborn, Bee? You could have any man in the city." I try not to let my disappointment and anxiety show on my face. I want her to be happy. I do. Just not like this.

"He's so sweet! You'd love him," she says, sighing blissfully. She goes to a washbasin and rinses her hands, drying them on her apron. "His name is Kalvar. He just graduated, and he's already got his linked robes. He's going to be a missionary. Travel the world! Can you imagine?" She prattles on as she goes back to work, laying down a layer of flour on a clean wooden counter. She takes a large bowl with a cloth laying over it and uncovers a very wet-looking bread dough, then scoops some flour into the gloop and begins to mix.

Apparently Kalvar is one of the few wizards brave enough to hitch a ride on the merchant vessels that traverse the rocky seas between Ylvemore and the kingdoms to the south. In exchange for passage he will be expected to help navigate the treacherous waters and protect the ship from all manner of dangerous monsters lurking in the deep. There is a reason Ylvemore is so cut off from the rest of the world. Since the war with the fae, traveling through the Wood is not even attempted, and that leaves seafaring the only viable option for trade. Without the Ironborn's magic on their side, no merchant would bother taking such a risk, so the kingdom's economic survival relies heavily upon the church.

Once the missionary wizards reach the shores of other kingdoms, they are free to spread the religious tenets of their order, the word of their goddess, who supposedly represents a beacon of love. It may be dressed in fancy language and prayers for peace, but at its core it promotes a statement of humankind's superiority over the fae, whose blood is not of iron. A clever way to turn the world against any creature whose skin is burned by the wizards' precious metal. Even those who aren't really so different from them, or those who pose no real threat to anyone. Ones like me. They're all demons to the Ironborn.

Bianca is still telling me about Kalvar's beautiful cheekbones and kind smile and dreams of adventure as she kneads the dough. I lean against the counter beside her and watch her hands press and fold, tuning out her words.

"Will you come tomorrow to meet him?" she asks.

I snap back into the present moment, looking up at her. I don't know what to say, and my mouth hangs partly open as I search for an answer.

"What?" She stops kneading and tilts her head with concern. "Are you alright, Sweet? You look pale. I'm sorry, I was so distracted by my own silly joy I didn't even notice. Let me just set this to rise and I'll get you something to eat. Is she working you too hard? The witch? The whole palace is buzzing about the queen, and I know she's been searching for some miracle cure."

"It's not that. Bee…" I grimace. "You can't see him. Kalvar," I say. "Please."

She laughs. "Oh, Sindred. Don't you worry about me. I know he's leaving. I'm not going to pine after him when he's off galavanting. Can you sprinkle a bit of flour on the dough for me?"

"No!" I say. "I- Bianca, this is serious. The Ironborn can't be trusted. Kalvar is one of them. You can't be with him!"

She freezes. "What are you talking about?"

The kitchen seems suddenly too quiet. I look around nervously, but no one is paying any particular attention to us. I remind myself they wouldn't remember my presence even if they were eavesdropping. "I don't care how nice he is, Bee. He's dangerous," I say in an intense whisper. "Trust me. I'm begging you. Just don't see him anymore."

There's a spark of annoyance in her expression, but for Bianca that may as well be blind rage. "I know you know things, Sweetling. You and that witch gathering your secrets. But you don't get to hold them over me like that. I like him. And no one decides who I love but me."

"You love him?" I ask. "Haven't you only just met him?"

"Sometimes you just know, Sin. If you're worried I'll get my heart broken, I told you, don't be!" she says, sprinkling the flour herself and kneading a bit more roughly than before.

"Are you crazy?" I ask. "It's not just you he could hurt, Bee."

"Oh, so I'm being selfish now?" She rolls her eyes, tossing the dough onto the counter with a slap and turning to face me. "I thought you were my friend," she says. "But if you were, you'd support me, not ruin something that makes me happy."

"Look at me," I say. "Just look. What do you think this love of yours would do if he saw me. Really saw me, like you do."

She looks down at me, her lips pressed together. I wait for her to take in what I've said, see the shimmer in my hair and the silver glint in my eyes and understand what I'm trying to say without outright saying it. I can tell she knows. Even though she's never brought it up in all the years that we've been friends, she knows.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, her eyes darting around the room. "I think you should leave."

I scowl at her for a moment, saying nothing. She's red-faced and breathing through her nose in shallow huffs. If her hands weren't covered in sticky dough they'd be on her hips. There's no way she's going to listen to me.

"Fine," I say. I do as she says and leave.