“We must go, Your Majesty,” Magda said. She was the only person who’d ever dared to speak to her in such a commanding tone, which Elwyn allowed if only because the woman always had her best interests at heart. It didn’t hurt that she was the only Kinkallian that had been allowed to accompany her to Finfalla all those years ago.

“I heard him,” she said, aware of the high-pitched desperation in her voice but not caring. “I heard Tomas.” Her eyes naturally fell to Edward, surprised to find that her son wasn’t sleeping as she expected, his eyes staring up at her. Intent. Watching.

“It’s not him,” Magda said, reaching her side and placing a gentle arm on her shoulder. Elwyn tore her gaze away from Edward to look upon the woman. Her crinkled blue eyes were kind and patient, as they always were. “Must’ve been some other child. Not your son. We all saw him. Tomas wasn’t strong enough. But Edward is. And if you want him to have the life you desire for him, we must go. Now.”

Beatty, her wetnurse, linked her arm with Elwyn’s at the elbow, brown locks of hair spilling from her bonnet and draping between them. “Fer once I agree with the ol’ busybody,” she said with forced cheerfulness, offering a crooked smile. “If ye git tired, lean on us. We can hold ye.”

As they started forward once more, Magda’s torch lighting the path, their footsteps echoed along the tunnel that had been cut centuries ago as an escape route to be used as a last resort in the event of an enemy invasion. This time, no cries chased them.

By the time they reached the boat that had been hidden in the coastal caves, Elwyn thought her bones had turned to mush, each step more faltering than the last, until only the strength of the two women at either side kept her from crumpling. When had she last slept? Yesterday? The day before that?

“There ye are, Majesty,” Beatty said, helping her into the small boat that would be navigated into the River of Painted Foes and then upstream to Drouin. The poleman who awaited them was as pale as a ghost and as grumpy as a bear awakened from hibernation well before spring’s arrival. “Yer late,” he grunted.

The boat tipped precariously as Beatty and her large hips and bosom slid after her. “Ye’ll address her as ‘Your Majesty’ or I’ll see yer head on a pike,” she said.

“I’m not Finfallian, woman,” the man spat. “I don’ answer to king nor queen, an’ I won’ be intimidated. I’ll call her godsdamn bitch if I want to. I’m riskin’ my neck fer her.”

“Ye weaselly lil…,” Beatty said, making an awkward move toward the man that might’ve seen them capsized if Elwyn hadn’t said, “Stop.”

“But he called ye a—”