I wondered if the lost one was just a myth, or if they still lived and breathed, alone in the abandoned fortress on the mountaintop. If they had ever stood on the parapets and looked down into the valley, down to where Hereswith had resided among lush grass and trees. And I remembered Imonie’s story, the one she had told me just after we had left home. A legend about the woman with her twin boys and how one of her sons had been lost to the mountain, unable to leave its shadow. Imonie’s tale had not stated why one twin was doomed to be trapped, but I supposed that legend complemented the game of Seven Wraiths. If the lost one was the assassin, the curse would not permit him to leave.

“Are you ready to play now, Miss Neven?”

“Yes, I understand the rules,” I said. “Let’s play.”

Mrs. Stirling went first. She set down the three of hearts, to match the three of diamonds that sat faceup on the table, which provoked a groan from Deacon. My turn came next, and I laid down one of my diamonds. Deacon did not have a match for the discard pile and asked to trade a card with Mrs. Stirling.

A few more turns passed around the table, and then my wish was fulfilled: I drew another wraith card from the deck.

The Spymistress. A woman whose age was hard to decipher with her smooth, angular face and long white-blond hair. She was slim and sinewy, dressed in black and dark stained leather, and when I tilted the card, horns bloomed from her head, leaves grew within her tresses. A trail of smoke escaped her mouth.

I froze, gaping at the card. A troll. The spymistress of the fallen mountain court was a troll.

“Miss Neven!” Deacon cried. “You have to guard your face! Now I know you have another wraith card in your hand!”

My attention remained fixed upon the card, how the spymistress changed in my grip according to which angle I looked upon her. Human. Troll.

Mazarine.

I thought of her hoard of secrets, her clever disguise, the old magic she knew. How time seemed to hold no power over her.

Deacon and Mrs. Stirling beat me in that round of Seven Wraiths; I conceded with the advisor, the spymistress, and the lost one still in my hands. But I gained a morsel of knowledge, something that could only come from defeat.

Mazarine had once been the spymistress of the mountain duchy.

She was one of the seven cursed, which meant she could not die, nor could she dream. And if she could not dream, surely my father would have known.

All this time, a wraith from Seren had been living beneath his watch, in our town. And he had never said a word about it.