“What am I doing here?” Storme demanded, still staring at her with huge eyes. “What are you doing here? Since when are you not in Rabu? Since when did you leave the sovereign’s palace?” He sucked in a breath. “Oh gods, are you connected to— I heard rumors of an attack, and now the sovereign’s daughter has gone missing, are you—but also—how did you get here? How long have you—?”

“Storme!” Ayla broke in. “Breathe. One question at a time.” She couldn’t help but study him, drinking him in. Their time together in Rabu had been so limited; Queen Junn’s company had spent only a day and a night in the palace, and Ayla had only gotten Storme alone the one time. At night, in a moonlit corridor. And it had gone so wrong. All Ayla had wanted to do was embrace her long-lost brother, but instead they’d ended up exchanging awful, poisonous words, and then he’d turned his back and stalked away, leaving her alone. Again. And—furious, miserable, confused—she’d sought comfort in Lady Crier’s bed.

Now she looked at him, this grown version of the nine-year-old twin brother she’d lost. They weren’t identical twins, they’d looked more alike when they were children, but Ayla could still see herself in Storme’s face. They had the exact same eyes, big and brown and wide-set. The same brown skin, the same dark, untamable hair. Ayla’s face was rounder. Her features more elfin, her freckles more pronounced—she’d spent so much time working under the hot sun. Storme was more classically handsome. He’d gotten their father’s cheekbones and strong chin. (And, frustratingly, their father’s height.) Then there was the pale starburst scar over Storme’s left eye. The result of a silly childhood accident involving the edge of the stone hearth. It was strange seeing that familiar scar on such a changed face.

Storme was dressed in green, though not for a ball. Ayla frowned. Her brother looked a little ragged, honestly. Even in the dim moonlight, she could tell his clothing was wrinkled, his hair limp and unwashed.

“One question at a time,” he agreed, then grimaced. “No, no, wait. I want to hear everything that’s happened, everything that brought you here, but I have to see J—the queen. It’s urgent.”

“What? No!” said Ayla. “No, Storme, I’ve been waiting for you to return, I have so much to tell you, it’s important. I came to Varn for a reason.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, already looking past her. “But I returned early for a reason, too. I have to see the queen immediately, Ayla. It cannot wait. We’ll talk tomorrow, all right? I promise we’ll talk. Just not right now.”

“No,” she said. “Storme, I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.” She wanted to tell him about Scyre Kinok’s Nightshade, but more than that . . . there was still a part of her that felt like she was talking to a ghost. They’d seen each other so briefly in Rabu, and then he’d been gone again, leaving nothing but a green feather behind, like something out of a folk tale: a boy transformed into a bird by a witch’s curse, his desperate sister searching for him everywhere. What if Ayla let him out of her sight and he disappeared again? She tried to grab at his sleeve, but Storme sidestepped her, starting off into the darkness. Ayla bit back a noise of frustration and followed. When she caught up to him, she said, “Fine. The queen first. But I’m coming with you.”