She was clad in ripped pajamas, but she hadn’t been sleeping. Cobie’s sharp eyes didn’t miss my pale face, the protocol officer’s guilty expression. “What’s going on, Perrault?”

“Nothing, Grimm.” He shook out his right hand as though working out a cramp, then dropped his voice. “You have one suitor on this visit. I strongly advise against grooming a second.” Perrault stalked into his room.

Cobie watched his closed door, toying with a rip in her shirt. “I know he’s overseeing this thing,” she said, “but he’s not one of ours, and that means I don’t trust him. Find me or one of us if he tries to get you alone again.”

I nodded, hoping she didn’t notice the shake in my hands.

They were shaking still as I fell asleep clutching my godmother’s book, reading the story of clever thief Molly Whuppie and the giant who tried three times to catch and kill her. He chased me into my dreams, and I ran, sprinting away from him, stumbling over unfamiliar ground as my Godmother Althea whispered for me to hurry, hurry home.

29

I followed my lengthening shadow to the edge of the woods where the hunt waited, heavy steps echoing in my hollow chest.

“Your Grace?” Bear asked tonelessly. He passed me my horse’s reins and tightened her girth without meeting my eyes or saying anything else.

When Sir Perrault had glided into my room unannounced that morning, he’d stared at me eating breakfast sprawled before the fire as if I were something a cat had killed and left on the floor. “This is to remind you that Prince Bertilak has requested you join him hunting this evening.”

As if I could’ve forgotten.

Bear’s silence was only recompense for what I’d done. We’d hardly spoken since the ball four days earlier.

Four miserable days of avoiding him. Of words bitten back and swallowed. Four tick marks in my book at night as I clawed my way free of this place.

I’d overtly avoided him at church Sunday morning, and hidden in my room that afternoon and evening. He’d knocked, and I’d pretended not to hear. And when the prince had taken me fishing on Monday and on a walk through the castle gardens on Tuesday, I’d avoided Bear’s eyes, and he’d maintained an appropriate distance. Now, it seemed, he’d taken to using my title again.

I’d gone cold on him, and I hadn’t told him why, and he’d finally returned the favor.

“Seneschal-elect!” Prince Bertilak called merrily. “So glad you could join us!” He nodded at my horse. “Cotton Nero is pleased, as well.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” My attempt at enthusiasm sounded feeble to my own ears. “Now, remind me what we’re hunting?”

The Duke of Cornwall led a fast-looking black horse toward us, eyes glittering. “Foxes, Your Grace.”