Behind her eyes, she saw a vision of Frances blowing a plume of rosy smoke into the dark night, then slipping into the billowy stream and melting into starlight. She shivered.

“There’s no point in denying it.” Gorn drummed his long nails on the carved armrest of his throne. “Ferrin. Report.”

A freckle-faced soldier approached, ginger curls frothing over his scalp like spiced cream.

“Sir Levon.” He bowed his head. “Sir Gorn. Your Highness. My peers reported losing track of the princess’s whereabouts—” King Ingomar let out a tight hiss “—at ten minutes to eight bells, two minutes before Keyes was seen leaving the feast. Ursus followed a minute after. Neither was seen again until ten bells, when Ursus returned to the barracks. Keyes returned at a quarter to midnight. The princess was not seen again.”

James ran his tongue over his swollen lip. “H-how do you know she’s missing?”

“Because we can’t find her, you fool!” Levon bared his teeth like a wild animal, gray whiskers trembling. “Her chambers have been ransacked. The castle has been searched. Two horses are missing, including her own. She has been abducted!”

Scratch could barely breathe. There was no air in the room, the atmosphere ragged-thin, too hot and too cold all at once. She greedily sucked in air, but there was no space inside her for it. Why were her lungs suddenly so small?

Oh. The pants she had hastily grabbed as three unnecessarily large soldiers dragged her from her room were the too-tight pants that she had selected so she might look like a commander when she accepted her first command. Slim-fit and tailored, a gleaming maroon silk that veered toward crimson, her nation’s bloody hue. She had squeezed herself into them, the curves of her body remolding to a new, more desirable shape.

She was going to die in these pants.

The world came to her through a fog of noiseless sound. Someone, maybe Levon, may have said, “Throw them in the dungeons. That’ll motivate them.” And she was up, wrists rubbing, knees throbbing, face still aching from a humiliating pair of slaps that had told her, wordlessly, exactly who she was.

“You have until morning light,” Levon growled. “If we don’t know where Princess Frances is by dawn, you will die.” He scowled, smoothing his mustache with fingers weighed down by rings. “Sleep well.”

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

By the time the party reached the dungeons, Scratch was certain she would have finger-shaped bruises all over her arms.

Unfortunately, that was the least of her concerns.

“Your new home.” The same trio of King’s Guards that had yanked her out of bed had the honor of throwing her and James into their dank cell. With her arms bound, she had no choice but to land on her shoulder—more bruises. “Oi, Bowstring. You do look like shit, you know?”

James sucked up some spittle. “You should see the other guy.”