Raisa bumped into her dressing table and leaned back against it, suddenly dizzy. There was something wrong about all of this. Every instinct screamed at her. The lamp on the table guttered in the breeze from the open door, and wolf shadows loped along the walls.

The stocky guardsman stood in the doorway, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Your Highness?” he said.

Magret stepped between Raisa and Lord Bayar, her face crinkled with dismay. “Her Highness doesn’t feel well,” she said. “Perhaps, if you gave her a few minutes…”

Anger kindled in Lord Bayar’s blue eyes. “Step aside,” he said. “We don’t have a few minutes. The princess must come with me by order of the queen.”

“It’s all right, Magret,” Raisa said, even though it most certainly wasn’t all right. She straightened, shook her head to clear it, and nodded to the guardsman. “Be at ease. I’ll go with Lord Bayar. It’s kind of him to come and fetch me. I’m sure Papa will be here in time for the dance.”

Still ignoring Lord Bayar’s arm, Raisa gripped her skirts on either side, lifted her chin, and walked ahead of him into the corridor. The guardsman followed along behind.

It was difficult to stay ahead of Lord Bayar’s long legs, with her more limited stride and fancy shoes. Eventually she allowed him to take her elbow, feeling the sting of power through the wizard’s fingers.

Use your trader face, she said to herself.

They followed the covered walkway from castle to church, crossing the courtyard that represented the separation between church and state, between holy and profane. The weather was growing worse, and the wind lashed strands of her carefully coiffed hair around her face. At any moment, it appeared the skies would open. She wondered if her father was out in the storm somewhere, trying to get home. She said a prayer to the Maker, and to Maia, the weather-maker, for his safe return.

The nave of the temple cathedral was candlelit and solemn, her path a long red-carpeted corridor between crowds of the glittering nobility, all craning their necks to catch their first glimpse of the princess heir. Raisa felt like a bride walking into temple on her father’s arm. Except this wasn’t her father, and this wasn’t her wedding.

She could tell that the last-minute substitution of Lord Bayar for her father had not been announced. She heard a whisper roll through the crowd, saw a ripple of heads turning, driven by the usual gossips. Where was Averill Demonai, and why wasn’t he here, and what did it all mean?

She wanted to stamp her foot and say, “This wasn’t my idea.”