If the illustrations were accurate, it was an arctic bush with large peony-like flowers. The petals were mostly a bold yellow-gold but they became a vivid red near the stem. The stem itself was filled with a viscous, aloe-like substance that “bled” out if the thorns were broken off.

The most notable thing about the flower—and where its name came from—was that it smelled like death. Sickly sweet and musty with floral undertones.

“The mourning flower is real, but the only known plants have been solely in my family’s possession for generations,” Wendy said.

“What does it do? Why do they want it?” I asked.

“We’re not sure,” the Queen admitted with a surreptitious glance toward Finn. “We’re hoping that your recovered memories could shed some light.”

I swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to help.”

“Don’t worry.” Finn leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. “You’re here, and you’re safe, and your only focus is on getting better.”

“I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was exchanged for . . . flowers,” I said. “What about the others? Were the flowers ransom enough for all of us, or were they traded for something else?”

“It was a package deal—all of the plants for all four of you.” Wendy hesitated slightly before continuing. “That’s part of the reason that the negotiations took as long as they did. We needed time to be sure that the sorgblomma doesn’t have any dangerous applications.”

Finn made a sound—a subtle grunt of disagreement—and she frowned.

“We all value your lives, but I had to be sure that I wasn’t handing a radical cult a weapon of destruction,” she said, then softer, more empathetic: “I’m sorry for any suffering you endured, but it is my duty to keep the kingdom safe.”

“So what were the applications of the flower?” I asked.

“The nectar in the stem can be used to flavor tea, but it leaves a bitter taste and even a spoonful can lead to stomach upset,” she said with a sigh. “We couldn’t find anything more serious than that. Markis Ansvarig Patrik asked the Älvolk what they wanted the flowers for, but the only answer he got was their insistence that the flowers always belonged to them. Indu claimed—”

“Indu?” I asked, startled to hear her saying his name.

“Indu Mattison, one of the leaders of the Älvolk cult,” she said. “You remember him?”

“Sorta. Not really. He’s . . . he’s my father,” I said, but the words felt cold on my tongue.

Her eyes widened. “He never mentioned that.” Then she looked to Finn. “Neither did you.”

“I only just found out today,” he told her.

“It’s one of the last things I remember clearly,” I said. “We met in Isarna a month ago.”