‘Don’t slouch.’ Simien reappeared behind her, holding a butter-yellow dress up to her, its shoulders protruding like stiff whipped cream. ‘We need to make sure your princess image is still intact to lessen some of the queen mother’s distress over this unfortunate discovery.’ He didn’t need to say the name out loud. The whole palace could feel the severity of the situation like a hard grip on their necks.

Glancing briefly up at the clock, Lottie felt her patience wearing thin and, just as she thought she’d have to make an excuse and plant a well-timed yawn, Simien, at last, relented.

‘This will have to do, I suppose,’ the king’s advisor said, sighing and tapping at the temple by his glass eye before putting the dress back on the hanger. ‘Now make sure you go straight to bed and get a good night’s sleep for the meeting tomorrow,’ he said, attempting breeziness, but Lottie could hear the grave tone that he was doing his best to hide.

Lottie had one more stop before she retired for the evening. After changing into something more comfortable, she waited until she was sure the rest of the palace had gone to sleep and sneaked out of her bedroom door, listening carefully for any movement.

A floorboard on the stairs squeaked beneath her feet and she froze. Heart pounding, she strained her ears for any response.

Silence.

She crept into the long marble corridor, where the ghostly faces of the previous rulers of Maradova looked down at her from their gilded frames. Ignoring their eyes, she paused at the largest painting.

Alexis Wolfson, the man who’d seized the throne of Maradova hundreds of years ago, stared down at Lottie with piercing eyes, the same wild green as a forest at dusk. His long black hair fell thickly around his broad shoulders. Draped in protective pelts, he looked more warrior than king, but his smile was warm. Gazing up at him, Lottie wondered why she’d never paid this portrait more attention. It had taken Ingrid’s cryptic words for her to notice him, and now she could see why he’d been so adored.

Just like Alexis, Ingrid had said. It was one of two statements she’d shared that day in the woods. The other, and more confusing, was simply: Why is Jamie your Partizan? It was a question meant for the real princess, and Lottie was determined to find out what Ingrid had meant. Why was he Ellie’s Partizan?

Pulling herself away, Lottie walked to the end of the corridor until she reached the black sheep of the family, and the very person to whom Ingrid devoted herself – Claude Wolfson, Ellie’s uncle.