When he made no reply, she curled her lip with distaste. “Lieutenant Southerland.”

Wren snapped into attention, startled. “Captain…?”

“Blindfold him.”

Una’s subordinates exchanged anxious looks. Even though he’d surrendered, it was an immense risk to approach someone like Hal while he was unrestrained. But Una’s expression was cold and assessing—nearly unreadable. A test, Wren decided. But of what?

If she let herself think on how disastrously this could go, she would crack. So she forced herself to shove her doubt deep inside herself, into the same locked chamber of her heart where she kept her war nightmares and her grief. She could do this.

I will have the queen release him, she vowed. He will live.

She reached into her bag, her fingers brushing the knife he’d given her. It was a beautiful weapon, the hilt carved and solid wood. Hal remained completely motionless, his head bowed so that his hair concealed his expression. Unsheathing the knife, Wren bent down and cut away a long strip of her gown’s train. With shaking hands, she stretched it taut and stood on her toes so she could fasten it around his head. The fabric hissed as she pulled the knot, shining like a serpent’s scales. Wren ached to see the strip of bare skin above the stark white line of his collar, right where his pulse faintly beat.

A girl at Una’s side tentatively asked, “Your orders, Captain?”

“Call a medic for the nobleman,” Una said without missing a beat. “Restrain Cavendish and load him up. I don’t want to see a scratch on him until I’ve gotten my hands on him.”

“And Lieutenant Southerland?”

Wren stood tall, her shoulders drawn back. Deep within herself, she found an authoritative tone, cold enough to match Una herself. “Take me to the queen. Now.”

The candlelight washed Una’s eyes a hungry, wolfish gold. “Very well then.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Dull moonlight streamed through the window of Isabel’s makeshift office, tucked away in the belvedere of Colwick Hall’s highest turret. The queen gazed out over the wicked snowcaps in the distance, backlit by starlight and moon-painted snowfall. As always, she was terrifying in her beauty. She wore a dress as frothy white as Knockaine’s fog, and her wine-white hair was braided tightly within a circlet carved from jet and charred bone.

She did not face them. Every tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock in the corner drove a wedge deeper into Wren’s skull. When Isabel finally turned around, it took all of Wren’s strength to remain upright.

Isabel was smiling. Wren had to squint to see it, but it was there in the soft curve of her mouth and the warm glow in her pale eyes. “My niece.”