“Joran is two years younger than I am, barely sixteen, but he is taller and stronger than I’ll ever be. He can carry me up a flight of stairs as if I weighed no more than kindling. And to my great shame, he’s had to do so more than once.” Joran’s face remained inscrutable. “He never shows emotion. It’s quite comforting. I’ve had more than my share of pity.” He studied Hanne. “You look nothing like your father.”

“No,” said Hanne, a slight tremor to her voice. “I take after my mother’s people.”

“I don’t seem to take after anyone,” said the prince. “Unless there was a goblin somewhere in the Grimjer line.” He leaned forward and patted Hanne’s hand, then Nina’s. “It’s all right. I’m not going to let them exile you. Go ahead and pour yourselves tea.”

Hanne still looked terrified, and Nina felt only wary as she served first Hanne then herself. It was hard to indulge in much relief after everything Brum had said.

“Nothing will happen to you!” the prince said. “I forbade it.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “I threw quite the fit. There are benefits to being able to turn blue.”

“But … but why, Your Highness?” Hanne asked.

It was a reasonable question but a perilous one. Did he know Hanne was Grisha? Was he playing with them?

The prince leaned back on his cushions, his air of mischief van- ishing. “I’ve been sick my whole life. Since I was a child. I can’t remember a time I wasn’t an object of scorn or worry. I’m often not sure which is worse. Other people shy away from my weakness. You … you drew closer.”

“Sickness is sickness,” said Hanne. “It’s not something to fear.”

“You had my blood on your hands. On your skirts. Did they tell you to change?” Hanne nodded. “You weren’t afraid?”

“That’s mugwort in your cup, isn’t it?”

The prince glanced down at the cup, which now sat cooling on the table beside him. “It is.”

“I was educated at a convent in Gäfvalle, but I was most interested in herb lore, in healing.”

“The Springmaidens taught you? That doesn’t seem like a subject the Wellmother would encourage.”

“Well,” Hanne said carefully, “I may have taken it upon myself to learn.”

The prince laughed and then began to cough. Nina saw Hanne’s fingertips flex slightly. She shook her head. No, this is not a good idea.

But Hanne couldn’t see suffering and not respond.

The prince’s cough ceased and he took a long, shuddering breath.

“The convent at Gäfvalle,” he continued, as if nothing had happened. “I thought that was where they sent difficult girls to beat the spirit out of them and make them ready to be good wives.”

“It is.”