Goddess, she was so foolish. Saying it aloud reopened the wound. Tears stung her eyes, but she breathed, long and even, until the worst of it subsided. She couldn’t cry over this. From the very beginning, she knew it couldn’t last. Even without a war to separate them, they each had duties they couldn’t abandon. She had to cherish what they once had, rather than cling to what could have been.

“I never got to tell him.”

“That’s tragic.” Una said it so flatly, so uncomfortably, Wren wanted to laugh.

“Maybe. But I’ll live.”

“Of course you will. He’s just a boy.” Una crossed her arms. “There’s one other thing.”

“More? Have some pity for my fragile constitution.”

“Your … aunt is here.”

“Oh.” The flood of emotion at the word aunt was dizzying.

Wren flopped back against the pillows. She was exhausted, and everything was still too fresh, too raw. She didn’t know if she had the energy to cope with Hal’s departure and also survive a visit from the queen. As she opened her mouth to protest, her gaze fell on Una’s neck again, where the scar gleamed like a crooked smile. The very sight of it rocked her with a breathless wave of fear. If Isabel hadn’t been there …

Wren owed her at least the courtesy of an audience. “Send her in.”

Una gave her a lingering, sympathetic look before leaving the room. Within moments, Isabel appeared in the threshold, as bright as the first break of daylight. Her hair was braided loosely and woven through with white flowers. Although she wore no crown, she still looked royal with the proud cant of her chin, the train of her elegant white dress. Somehow, she looked less severe than usual. The sunlight softened all the harsh edges of her face and sharp angles of her bones.

She carried a glass vase overflowing with pink-speckled lilies and cottony wisps of baby’s breath. Isabel placed the bouquet on the nightstand and sat primly in the chair beside the bed. From here, Wren could smell her perfume, lavender and the sweet vanilla of aging books.

Silence stretched out until Wren shifted nervously under her gaze. She touched one of the lily’s stamens, which was sticky with pollen. “Thank you. These are lovely.”

“You worried me.”

Wren tried to hide her surprise. “Your Majesty…?”

Isabel kept her eyes lowered, her voice quiet. “When you brought me Lowry’s letter, you looked so much like her in that moment. My sister. You are very much like her. Too much like her. Impulsive. Hot-tempered. Moody. But kind.” She paused. “How you must resent me.”