Seemingly satisfied with my answer, Varia relaxes back into the tub, pulling her slender living wood leg out of the water and rubbing it down with a bar of gold-flaked Avellish soap. It’s easy to forget sometimes that she’s only two years older than I am—my technical nineteen years and her twenty-one feel so far apart when her body looks so much more mature than mine. It’s hard to feel around her age when she’s a princess. And my witch.

“Your Highness?” A maid’s voice filters through the apartments. “A letter has come for Lady Zera.”

“What rich fool would waste paper on me?” I trill, plucking the letter from the maid’s offered tray. The parchment is thick and creamy—high grade—and the wax seal on the front is embossed with a serpent. Just one.

Lucien.

I should throw it in the fire to keep up appearances. The maid would surely tell everyone she could that she saw Lucien’s Spring Bride (the mere sound of those words strung together stings, nowadays) throwing his letter away like trash.

I should throw it away. For my heart. To keep him at arm’s length, mile’s length. To make sure he has no hold over me ever again.

My fingers peel under the envelope before I can stop them.

There is a derelict grain tower by the West Gate with a perfect view of city and stars alike. Your prince requests you join him there tonight, at the fourteenth-half.

I look up at the maid waiting expectantly.

“Shall I fetch you a quill and parchment, milady?” the maid asks, wide-eyed. No one would dare refuse to respond to a missive from the prince. She knows that. The whole court knows that, down to the last stable boy.

I stare longingly at the ink spirals of his large, neat handwriting. We exchanged letters like this not two weeks ago. How my blood had warmed at the sight of his words. I was a fool then. He is a fool now. There’s a whole world of women waiting at his feet, none of them murderers and none of them liars. A true love—a real love—based in truth and kindness, instead of deceit and darkness, is out there somewhere for him. Her name could be Lady Tarroux. It could be anyone. All I know for certain is that it’s not me.

I turn to the maid with an Y’shennria-perfect smile. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

The maid starts. “But, milady—”

“I think it’ll make a lovely piece of kindling,” I say airily, walking over to the fireplace. My fingers hesitate, the letter hanging above the flames.

My heart is mine, and mine alone. I will not let him have it this time.

The letter tips from my hand and falls gracefully into the fire, the flames consuming it eagerly and instantly, leaving nothing behind but ash.

10

10

The Dream
Without End