“That’s impolite to ask, Anna,” the countess had replied stiffly, but it only confirmed my suspicions that she was wearing an aging glamour, just like my father. To look older than she was, even though she had lived well over a century. In fact, most of the wraiths had become magicians—the countess, my father, Mr. Wolfe. Imonie never had, but then again, Imonie wasn’t wearing an aging charm to fool unsuspecting people. I was almost certain of it.

I had then dared to press my luck and asked her, “Who is that other woman in our party? I think her name is Imonie.”

“Ah, yes, Imonie,” the countess said with a hint of malice. “I once called her by another name, long ago. She was my lady-in-waiting before the curse. She used to dream with me about how we could make Seren a better place if my brother was off the throne. And gods, I remember . . . I remember the day she told me twin boys had been left on her door stoop. She did not know what to do with them, and I told her to take them to the orphanage and wash her hands of them. Someone else would eventually want them. But no. She kept them and I knew they would grow up and break her heart, as children are prone to do.”

One of those twin boys had turned out to be my father. And I had not pointed out that the countess herself had borne twin boys, and that life sometimes had a twisted sense of humor.

“Regardless,” Lady Raven had continued, clearing her throat as if the memories still haunted her. “Imonie hid from me a long time after the curse, when we wandered the province and tried to make new lives. I recommend that you stay clear of her. She’s as slippery as an eel.”

That conversation had happened days ago, but I was still mulling over it.

I sighed and turned away from the mountains and my recollections. Our party was setting up camp, and I walked to where the Vespers’ servants were rushing to erect the tents. I had a tent of my own, as did Lennox and Phelan, although the countess ensured to set her tent between ours. As if she had anything to worry about. Phelan had hardly looked at me this past week, speaking to me only at a polite minimum. Most of the time, I didn’t care. But then there were other moments, usually at night when I watched the moon begin to wax, when I felt the sting of his dismissal.

I longed for the way it had once been between us.

I had tried to speak to him. One evening, I found him standing alone a few yards from camp, and I had joined him.

“I know why you came home angry that night.”