Rosario closes and bars the door behind us. “We can speak freely here,” he says, taking a seat at the table’s head. “I’ve arranged with Father Nicandro to be undisturbed.”

He’s silent, staring off into the gloom, as Iván and I take seats beside him. I’m not sure where to start, or even if I should. Rosario has been so different the last two times I saw him, nothing at all like the smiling, mischievous boy I grew up with.

Iván is the one to break the silence. “Your Highness,” he says. “What happened? Why didn’t you have a proper Guard tonight?”

Rosario’s lips press tight as he looks down at the table. His impossibly long lashes rest against soft cheeks, and I’m reminded that no matter how hard he pretends confidence and poise, he’s only fifteen years old.

His finger traces an invisible line along the gray surface. “Fernando was hurt,” he says.

“What?” I say. “I mean, is he all right? What happened?” I’ve known Fernando since I first came to this city. He’s a childhood friend of Hector’s. One of Elisa’s most trusted Guards. A friend to frightened little girls.

“It was my fault,” the prince says. “I sent him alone to the kitchens to fetch some coconut milk. He wasn’t wearing steel, just hardened leather. I should have thought . . . I should have . . .”

“Rosario?” I prompt.

His shoulders slump. “Fernando was ambushed in the hall on his way back. Three men, all wearing masks. He drew his sword to fight them off, but all they did was cut him—once across his arm—then they disappeared down the hall. He didn’t give chase; his duty was to return to me and make sure I was safe. We alerted the palace watch, who found nothing and no one.” Rosario takes a deep breath and adds, “By morning, the edges of Fernando’s wound had swollen and . . . puckered . . . and he was running a terrible fever.”

“Poison?” Iván says.

Rosario nods. “Doctor Enzo says he’s seen it before. Not sweet dream; something else. Fernando is in the Wallows right now, beside Captain Bolivar. Enzo isn’t sure if . . . Fernando is very sick.”

First Captain Bolivar, then Fernando. Both close to Rosario. Both charged with keeping him safe.

I say, “Someone is picking off your closest supporters one by one.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Rosario says. “Several people in my spy network have gone missing too.”

“Like the stable hand,” Iván says.

“Yes. People loyal to me who have been with us since I was a little boy.”

Something about that tickles my thoughts, like a scent brought by the breeze and then whisked away before it can be identified.

Iván rubs his jaw. He has the hands of an archer, just like Fernando, with long, slender fingers tipped by calluses. “Let’s think about this,” Iván says. “If someone is picking off your supporters, who will they target next? Maybe Lady Carilla? Everyone knows you’ve been spending time together.”