She folded her arms over her chest. “Fair point.”

The princess waited only a few paces away in another shut room. Scratch felt herself panic, her mouth dry and heart speeding. She gulped. “Are you sure I shouldn’t change into something—”

The guard knocked on the door, silencing her. It creaked open and a squire popped out, primly dressed in Koravian blue, his silver hair tied in a neat knot at the nape of his neck.

“If you’ll follow me,” he offered, his voice low and emotionless. And, knowing that fleeing would be entirely useless, Scratch did.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

The squire offered a single hand.

“Uh . . .”

“It’s a hand, not a weapon,” he assured her archly.

She eyed it. “I’m not used to . . . y’know. Hands.” She meant being treated like a lady, but he seemed to understand. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Very well. You may follow.”

He led her to a small, plush settee. She plopped onto it, bouncing against the tightly packed firmness. The whole room was done in shades of green and pink, a near-sickly spread of pastels. Large-paned windows stretched almost the entire length of the far wall, opening onto an interior courtyard. Through the evening darkness, Scratch could make out what appeared to be the tops of large topiaries.

The squire knocked on a second door within the room. Then he turned back.

“She’ll be in in a moment. I’ll be just outside.”

Scratch felt herself tense. There was something soothing about this fussy little man, and she didn’t want to see him go. Gods, she was wrecked—a lifetime trusting no one and suddenly she was leaning on absolute strangers because they offered her a hand.

“Uh, very well.”

His lips twitched, and he exited without a word. The room was silent once he left, the sort of silence that one could never come by in the echoey, drippy confines of a dungeon cell. This was silence dampened by pillows and rugs, soft and unnerving. In the space Scratch’s thoughts were surprisingly loud.

“Sergeant Major Keyes.”

She hopped to standing, her underfed brain swirling in protest. “Your Highness.”

Frances took a seat opposite the settee, smoothing her skirts over her lap. Her gown today was a deep, rich purple, like the colors of Ivinscont and Koravia blended together. Her hair was tied back, the black and white of her locks striping down either side of her head. She wore a simple golden circlet, not quite a crown but also not not a crown, a rather smart choice for a country-less princess taking refuge in another regent’s castle.

“Sit,” the pricess said. Scratch obeyed. “I suppose you’re not best pleased to see me.” Frances wasn’t looking directly at her, instead pointing her words somewhere over Scratch’s head.

“And why would that be, Highness?”

“Because I threw you in the dungeons. We don’t need to dance around it.”