Lyric crossed her arms, and her eyes flashed. “What’s come up that’s more important than keeping your promise?”

“We just got a message written in the queen’s hand,” Kleo said, offering her own to pull Claire to her feet. As she stood, Claire felt something rough slip into her palm. A note. Claire’s fingers closed around it as Kleo continued. “His Royal Highness has been asked to escort the Diamond Tree Vault and the tine within it to Hilltop Palace.”

Now Kleo was looking directly at Claire. “Prince Thorn will be here at dawn.”

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER

11

Supper was a simple affair that night. Sharp cheese with grapes and an apple tart that smelled delicious, though Claire couldn’t manage anything more than a few bites. Kleo’s note, though now just soft ash in the Wefts’ stove, seemed to have burned a hole in Claire’s stomach.

At first bells, Claire was to leave the Wefts’ townhouse, and by second bells, she should be on the Weaver’s Bridge, meeting up with Kleo and the narrowboat she’d arranged to slip Claire far away from Thorn’s bright-blue eyes—and the Love Knot Tine … unless she could find a way to break it free in just a few short hours.

Grown-ups always complained about time, but before now, Claire had thought she had too much of it. Long classes about even longer division would drag on for what seemed like days, and boring summer afternoons weeding the garden felt like an eternity. But now … Claire would give anything for those lengthy moments. In Arden, she could feel time slipping past her, rushing her recklessly forward like rivers nearing a waterfall.

The faster it flowed, the closer she was to disaster.

The closer she came to losing Sophie forever.

“Elaina?”

Someone tapped Claire’s shoulder, and she looked up to see Mistress Weft gazing down at her, a worry line between her brows. “I was wondering if I could take your plate, dear,” she said, and from her tone, Claire had the feeling this wasn’t the first time she’d asked.

“I can do it,” Claire said quickly, scooting back the wicker chair. She reached for the other empty plates on the table. “Where should I put these?”

“The sink is just fine,” Mistress Weft said, gesturing to the dishes already stacked there. “We’ll deal with it in the morning.” Mistress Weft glanced at the pile of wool that still needed to be spun before her eyes slid to Lyric, who’d excused herself earlier and was again practicing the steps in front of the fireplace.

As she watched, Lyric rose onto her toes, executing a crisp pirouette. She spun faster and faster, looking for all the world like a top, when suddenly—

Thump.

She was sprawled on the wooden floor.

“Lyric, dear, are you all right?” Mistress Weft asked, setting down the spindle she’d just picked up.