On the verge of tears, Anna shook her head. “No, milady, I was very honored. She even knew my name.”

Amilia raced for the stairs, her heart pounding. Reaching the top and nearing the bedchamber, she feared what she would find. Nimbus was right, perhaps more than he knew. Modina was not stupid, and Amilia’s mind filled with the many terrible possibilities. Arriving at the door, she pushed Gerald aside and burst into the empress’s room. She steeled herself, but what she saw was beyond her wildest imaginings.

Modina and Ella sat together on the empress’s bed, hand in hand, chatting.

Amilia stood still, shocked. Both glanced up as she entered. Ella’s face was fearful, but Modina’s expression was calm as usual, as if expecting her.

“Ella?” Amilia exclaimed. “What are you doing—”

“Gerald,” Modina interrupted, “from now on, no one—and I mean no one—is to enter without my say-so. Understood?”

“Of course, Your Eminence.” Gerald looked down guiltily.

Modina waved her hand. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you. Now please close the door.”

He bowed and drew the door shut.

Amilia meanwhile stood silent. Her mouth was agape but no words came out.

“Sit down before you fall down, Amilia. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Arista, the Princess of Melengar.”

Amilia tried to make sense out of the senselessness. “No, Modina, this is Ella—a scrub girl. What’s going on?” Amilia asked desperately. “I thought—I thought you might be—” Her eyes went to the broken pitcher and shards of mirrored glass scattered across the corner of the room.

“I know what you thought,” the empress said, looking toward the window. “That’s another reason you should be welcoming Arista. If I hadn’t seen her in the courtyard and realized—well—anyway, I want you two to be friends.”

Amilia’s mind was still whirling. Modina appeared more lucid than ever, yet she made no sense. Maybe she only sounded rational. Maybe the empress had cracked altogether. At any moment, she might introduce Red, the elkhound from the kitchen, as the Ambassador of Lanksteer.

“Modina, I know you think this girl is a princess, but just a week ago you also thought you were dead and buried, remember?”

“Are you saying you think I’m crazy?”

“No, no, I just …”

“Lady Amilia”—Ella spoke for the first time—“my name is Arista Essendon, and I am the Princess of Melengar. Your empress isn’t crazy. She and I are old friends.”

Amilia stood staring at the two of them, confused. Were they both insane? How could—Oh sweet Maribor. It’s her! The long fingernails, the way she met Amilia’s stare, the bold inquiries about the empress. Ella was the Witch of Melengar. “Get away from her!” Amilia yelled.

“Amilia, calm down.”

“She’s been posing as a maid to get to you.”