My hands shook as I put aside his sketchy charcoal portrait, his smirking grin.

Prínkipas Theodore, only child of Déspoina Áphros and Despótis Hephaistios of Páfos. Age: twenty-four. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Charming, musical, intelligent. Theodore was painted in vivid color, cheeks flushed against olive skin, smile gleaming as though he were laughing.

A half-dozen other profiles followed theirs. Princes in Corse, dukes in Makedonías, nobles in Anadolu and Alsace and Aragón. I huffed a sigh, shuffling the various papers in my hands. The gesture reminded me of Perrault, and I almost laughed.

But suddenly, instead, I froze.

I pawed through the pages again. “No, no, no.” The folder slipped off my lap, and I tipped my head back against the headboard, heart sinking.

I knew what Alessandra had done.

Torden was—I checked again, fingers fumbling—fifth in line for his father’s throne. But Bertilak and Fritz and Theodore were firstborn sons, almost certain to inherit whatever territory their parents ruled. The others were the same.

Alessandra and the Council had been clear: I had to marry. They didn’t trust me to lead without a husband. But if I were to marry any of these men, with their own countries to govern someday, I’d never go home.

She’d planned it all perfectly.

Penelope had been smart, and tough. And she’d had perfect faith in her husband. Whatever happened, she turned her circumstances into currency and bought herself time until Odysseus came home.

But Daddy isn’t Odysseus. Loneliness for him crashed over me like a wave, heavy as water, burning as salt.

No one was coming to my rescue.

My next steps should have been clear. With none of my suitors free to marry and become my consort, I should have been able to simply go home, explain their unavailability, and find someone appropriate in my own time.

But my stepmother had known what she was doing. This wasn’t a mistake.

Do they expect me to convince one of these boys to come home anyway? Could I ask that of someone I hardly knew? Would I respect someone who’d agree?

Could I afford not to try?

Torden is fifth in line. You could bet on him.

But who was Torden? Who were any of these men? I had their information, I had their portraits—well, most of them—but what was that worth? What if I hated the one prince who was free to return to Potomac? Worse, what if I liked one who wasn’t?

Maybe there is no long game to play. If I could stay ahead by even a single step, I might make it home unscathed. If I did my best and still failed, maybe the Council would leave me be.