The queen’s back was bared. Two handmaidens were lacing her into a gown—feathered, magnificent—and Ayla tried not to think about the familiar hand movements, the fastening of the laces, knuckles brushing against soft warm skin—

“Yes, your majesty,” said the guard at Ayla’s side. “Understood.” To the second guard, she said, “Take her to the dungeons.”

No.

If she went to the dungeons, she might not ever come back out.

The two guards each gripped one of her arms, preparing to drag her from the room. Ayla went limp, faking unconsciousness, a complete deadweight. For a split second the guards were startled, their grips loosening, and she broke free. She lurched away from them, not even sure what she was trying to do; all she knew was that she couldn’t go to the dungeons, and maybe Storme was somewhere nearby. In the sovereign’s palace he’d never been far from Queen Junn’s side; he had to be close. Ayla barely made it ten paces before the guards were on her again, a sword point at her spine, a hand wrenching her back by the collar of her shirt, choking her.

“STORME,” she screamed, her voice echoing around the chamber. “STORME, I’M LOOKING FOR STORME!”

“You’re dead,” hissed one of the guards, tightening her grip on Ayla’s collar. Ayla struggled against her, gasping for breath, and then, at the end of the throne room, she saw the queen turn around.

“Eya,” said the queen. “Deidra. Bring her closer.”

“Your majesty—”

“That was an order, Eya.”

The guards obeyed. Trapped between them, head shoved down, Ayla was brought closer. The guards dropped her before the queen like a sack of potatoes, and for the second time in less than ten minutes, Ayla’s kneecaps hit the flagstones hard. That was going to bruise.

“Show me your face, girl,” came the queen’s voice above her.

Ayla raised her head.

Queen Junn’s face—as beautiful and cold as Ayla remembered, sharp nose and high cheekbones and red lips—didn’t change; there was no spark of recognition in her eyes. But she said, “Hello again, handmaiden.”

“I’m not a spy,” Ayla said desperately. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I swear, I’m not a spy, I’m not acting on anyone’s orders, I bid you no ill will. I just want to see Storme.”

How much did Queen Junn know? She and Storme had seemed oddly close for a queen and adviser, but maybe he hadn’t mentioned the whole Ayla-being-his-long-lost-twin-sister thing. So . . . there was a nonzero chance Queen Junn knew about the attack on the palace and nothing else, and therefore thought Ayla was just a traitorous, murderous servant who’d tried to assassinate Lady Crier. Ayla racked her mind for a way to prove herself trustworthy, and then—a snippet of memory. The palace kitchens. Malwin, a fellow servant, standing before her. I’m under orders from Queen Junn’s adviser. Gave me something to give to you. Later, the inn at Elderell. Crier’s wide, shocked eyes. You saw nothing, do you understand me?