The room smelled of dried flowers. The curtains were open, providing sufficient light to see the tower’s simple furnishings. It would not be easy to carry a bed and feather mattress up and down stairs, so it came as no surprise that the bed against the wall matched the one she’d seen when her father had brought her up the tower’s winding stairs years before. The embroideries that Ankarette had made were all gone, save one. It was an embroidery of the White Boar, Duke Severn’s sigil, done by an expert hand.

Morwenna was not in the room.

“Hello?” Trynne called out as she entered. She stepped in cautiously, feeling the soft carpet absorb the noise of her steps. There was a brazier stocked with blackrock, but it wasn’t lit. The desk showed a beautiful mirror, Genevese craftsmanship, with a series of brushes and paints and lotions. Strands of black hair clung to the brushes. Trynne felt she was invading a private sanctuary.

The source of the magic was in the room. It had beckoned to her while she climbed the steps. Trynne hurriedly examined the contents of the table—an assortment of vials, mortars and pestles, and the accoutrements of the poisoner craft. There were concoctions already made, little vials full of amber, red, and purple ichor. Her magic warned her of the danger emanating from them. Looking at them made her skin crawl.

Would Morwenna have left any incriminating evidence in her tower? If so, where would it be hidden? It was probably still true that none of the palace staff came up there. The other entrance to the poisoner’s tower was in the kitchen, which was how Ankarette had always received her meals, left on the counter by Liona. There was a bottle of wine on a small stand by the bed, half full.

Beneath the bed, she spied a chest. Trynne listened at the doorway and heard nothing. She might not get another chance like this. Kneeling by the edge of the bed, she dragged the low chest out. But there was no magic emanating from the chest at all. There were not even any locks on it. Biting her lip, she flipped the latch that sealed it and lifted the lid.

The chest was full of men’s clothes. A tunic, a shirt, a pair of boots. But it was a badge on one of the tunics that made her heart sink like a stone. The badge of the Pierced Lion. The badge of the duke of the North. Tears pricked Trynne’s eyes as she lifted the garment to her nose. Jealousy made her feel like that pierced lion. The tunic smelled like Fallon. There was a change of his clothes in a chest beneath Morwenna’s bed. Her hands started to shake, and that’s when she heard the sound of footfalls coming from the stairwell. It was a light step. It was an urgent step.