My unheart clenches. Destroy? I thought—I thought we were only going to weaken it, its spell over the valkerax. But one look in Lucien’s eyes and I know plans have changed—if the High Witches won’t help us interfere with it, then…then there’s only one thing we can do.

The scrape of silverware across dishes is the sole sound. Y’shennria’s hazel eyes glint keenly through the witchfire candles on the table.

“Forgive the extreme disrespect my words are about to incur, Your Highness,” she says. “But I know you value honesty. Would it not be easier to kill Her Highness? The Bone Tree is an Old Vetrisian artifact; there is no guarantee it can be destroyed, let alone—”

“No,” Fione says. “We’re destroying the tree.”

t’would be so much easier to rip out the throat of the Laughing Daughter, the hunger sneers.

Y’shennria’s knowing gaze flickers, and she looks at me as if for confirmation we’re truly taking the most difficult way. I nod at her. The only way.

“The High Witches will not offer us aid,” Lucien continues. “But we require knowledge. Of magic, of Old Vetris, of how precisely the Bone Tree works. They wouldn’t give us the spell—if there is any—to weaken the valkerax’s connection to the Bone Tree and subsequently turn them away from my sister. Which means only one path is left to us now. To destroy it.”

He doesn’t come out and say it. He doesn’t say, would you know where to find such knowledge in Windonhigh? but it doesn’t need to be said. Y’shennria thinks for a long moment and then looks up with a covering sort of smile. The kind she used to change subjects among nobles flawlessly back in the Vetrisian court.

“Reginall, I think we’re ready for dessert.”

She doesn’t answer the prince’s unspoken question. I expect Lucien to ask it again, or more clearly, but that’s not how Vetrisian nobles work. So when Reginall comes out with a massive hazelnut delight—the little towers of cream in ceramic boats dotted with four ripe cherries—I don’t know what I’m expecting. But I certainly didn’t expect Y’shennria to take the warm pot of butter-syrup and stand, going around the table and pouring some on the delights herself. A task usually reserved for servants.

“There we are, Your Highness.” Her voice is smooth. “I anticipated this dish just for you. I remember you being quite fond of it as a child.”

“I was,” he agrees, and for some reason his gaze won’t leave his delight. He traces the fall of the syrup with his eyes with an intensity completely unwarranted for a simple dessert.

“He really loved sweet shit when he was little,” Malachite agrees, shooting a glance over at the kids at the table. “Uh. Sweet stuff.”