I inform Malachite of this the following morning. When I got back to the palace last night, Varia’s servant told me I could sleep in her quarters, as she wasn’t coming back that evening. The guards let me through. I glared at the princess’s perfumed bed and pulled a blanket from the linen closet and slept on the floor instead. It did wonders for my pride and nothing for my back.

“Lucien deserves far better than me,” I say to Malachite, cracking my back by holding a banister and twisting my entire spine in the other direction while I wait for my carriage to the valkerax—Varia’s servant also informed me of that this morning. The noise of my cracking vertebrae makes a passing noble couple shudder uncontrollably. I hold up a hand and smile at them in a “you’re welcome” way.

Malachite, now out of his fancy armor and dressed in his usual modest chainmail shirt and breeches, rolls his red eyes. “Are nobles always late to the obvious, or just the ones pretending to be nobles?”

“Both?” I offer. “All? Humans are, historically, fools.”

“And liars,” he fires back, holding his pale, spidery hand out to me like I’m a perfect example.

“And that,” I murmur an agreement. “Sometimes. Out of necessity.”

“Sorry.” Malachite blinks. “What part of attempting to kill a prince and revive him as a witch’s servant is necessity again?”

“The point is,” I say very loudly, “I tricked Lucien into his feelings. I ruined his view on love. So it’s only fair I try to make amends for that.”

Pain fractures through my body like ice the moment the words form in the air. My face moves in a numb mask, making a show of winking at Malachite.

“Which means, of course, I’m going to have to find him someone else.”

Malachite’s quiet, opting instead to stare out of the grand oak doors of the palace entrance. At last, he asks, “Someone else?”

“You know.” I shrug, my simple green linen tunic shrugging with me. “He told me he pities me, when the reality is, actually, that I pity him. He’s all but rejected every noble girl for marriage. He treats none of them with any gravitas. He’ll never find a wife at this rate! As his best friend”—I point to Malachite—“and his best enemy,” I say, pointing to myself, “it’s up to us to find him a sweeter girl. Harmless, not Heartless. A girl without razor-sharp teeth or a dark hunger whispering constantly to tear his lungs out.”

If Malachite could go any whiter, I’m sure he would, but instead his thin lips just purse. “The hunger says that?”

“Oh yes. Which is why we need to keep Lucien away. I’m just no good. But you knew that already, of course.”

Malachite lets out a sigh. “Zera—”