“Let me pass,” said Ayla’s guard, coming to a stop at the end of the hall. He dropped Ayla’s wrist only to grab a fistful of her hair, forcing her head back. “Look what I caught in the middle of the Maker’s Festival. In the queen’s courtyard, no less. She was posing as a palace servant.”

None of the guards moved. One said, “What makes you think this worthy of the queen’s attention?”

“Her majesty bade us watch for Rabunian spies,” Ayla’s guard insisted. “Her majesty said one would be a girl-child, no older than the queen herself. This human is the right age.”

A girl-child. Ayla bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. Was Queen Junn somehow expecting her? Was this Storme’s doing? Perhaps he’d told Junn the truth—that Ayla wasn’t just a handmaiden; she was his long-lost twin sister. And if Queen Junn knew Ayla was behind the assassination attempt on Lady Crier . . . Had she predicted Ayla’s next move?

The queen’s guards stared at Ayla, scrutinizing her face.

“Leave her,” one said. “We will deliver her to the queen.”

“No,” Ayla’s guard protested. “I’m the one who caught her. If she is a Rabunian spy—”

“Leave. Her,” said the queen’s guard. Her voice was flat and cold, allowing no room for protest. “If she is a spy, I will make certain the queen knows who to credit for her capture. That’s what you’re worried about, is it not? Your credit? Go.”

A moment of furious silence, then Ayla pitched forward when the guard let go of her hair. Her knees hit the floor, velvet carpet providing no cushion from the flagstones below. She scrambled upright, wincing, only to find a sword at her throat.

Two of the four guards flanked her, leading her through the heavy golden door and into a large high-ceilinged chamber. The walls were draped with more green velvet. A long, narrow pool ran down the center of the room, an aisle of green water, white rose petals floating on the surface like on the moat outside. Two dozen guards were stationed around the edges of the chamber, female, unmasked. Then Ayla’s eyes traveled up the length of the pool to the far end of the room, and her fears were confirmed. This could only be the queen’s throne: a dais and a high, raised chair carved from one giant piece of white stone. Ayla was relieved to find it unoccupied—until she noticed the figure standing beside it, her back to the rest of the room. Even from behind, Ayla recognized her. Queen Junn. The Mad Queen, the Bone Eater.

“Your majesty,” said one of the guards flanking Ayla. Both of them had bent their heads in deference upon entering and were now straightening up. “My deepest apologies for the interruption, but—”

“Not now,” said the queen without turning around. She wasn’t speaking loudly, and yet still her voice carried throughout the entire chamber. “I don’t care what it is, I’m not dealing with it tonight. If it’s an assassin, prepare for them a platter of the finest cuts of meat, the ripest fruit, the sweetest wine; let them eat, and only after that may you escort them to the dungeons. If it’s war, call for a strategist; war can wait till morning. If it’s anything else, get out.”