She knew he hadn’t been hurt, because she’d seen him before he left. But if he wasn’t the one who’d been wounded…

Horrified, she went to his desk, hoping to find answers. Atop it was a silver jardiniere bearing the royal crest, filled with nib pens and blocks of sealing wax. But only the most mundane and dull correspondence was within. His armoire and bedside table were equally orderly. She had turned to go when she noticed that one of the paintings near Count Alain’s bed was askew.

Fiora walked over to straighten it when a thought struck her.

She took the painting down from the wall. Resting it on the bed, she turned it over.

And there, bound to the back of the frame, was a stack of correspondence from Lord Ortolan.

When she took up the first of the letters, her breath caught.

If it weren’t for Stefan’s purporting to have slain Maleficent, your father would have been named King Henry’s heir, it read. Remember that when you kill her. And if the boy follows, make sure you kill him, too.

Chapter 27

That night, lying by the fire and wrapped in her waxed cloak, Aurora listened to the crackle of the kindling and turned on the hard ground. With her godmother missing and Phillip implicated in her disappearance, it seemed more impossible than ever that she would sleep. But she had been awake for far too long, and her body knew it. Her eyes drooped closed.

Aurora dreamed she was wandering through the woods. Dawn was turning the horizon gold, and a light frost covered the green plants.

On she walked, her steps crunching frozen leaves. She came to the place where Diaval had stopped the night before. But now the area was covered in ravens.

Closer she crept. The stillness of the forest made her try to be quiet, too.

Dozens and dozens of ravens cawed at her approach. And beneath their shining black feathers, she saw a pale hand sticking out of the freshly turned earth.

Aurora rushed forward. “Godmother!” she cried.

The ravens took to wing at once, in a great rush. Aurora fell onto her hands and knees. A body had been shallowly buried in the soil. Frantically, she brushed dirt away from it.

But it wasn’t her godmother she found.

Prince Phillip lay stiffly, not sprawling as one does in natural rest. His face was turned upward and cold to the touch. His skin was the bluish white of skimmed milk, especially around his eyes and mouth. His chestnut curls still shone, even with dirt in them. Sunlight caught in his lashes, turning them to gold. Yet he remained as still as the grave.

“Wake up,” she said in a whisper. And then, in a shout: “Wake up!”

At her shout, the ravens began to caw from the trees above.

“Be silent,” she yelled at them.