“Only because you asked so nicely,” James replied, unsuccessfully batting his fluid-caked eyelashes. He pressed the mess to his mouth. “Oh, that’s lovely. You’re a witch then? Convenient.”

“Not a witch. Just a woodsman.”

“A bit of both,” James insisted.

“Not a witch.” Vel grinned—a real one this time—and flopped down beside his sister.

Brella eyed him warily. “Enough of whatever this is. We have matters to discuss.”

Scratch joined them on the forest floor, taking pains to be careful of the weapon hanging from her new trousers: a kitchen knife, sharp and sturdy, with a wooden handle. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. She had fashioned a hasty sheath for it from the formerly useless pocket of her too-tight pants. If she had been one for poetry, there might have been something there, but she wasn’t, so: ooh, shiny sheath.

Brella smoothed her unnecessary apron over her thighs. “Where should we begin?”

“What’s the plan?” Scratch asked. “Are you fighters?”

“We aren’t fighters. I’m a brewer and Vel is a seamstress.”

“Seamster,” James interjected. “Surely.”

Vel shrugged with one oversized shoulder. “I actually don’t mind seamstress. Brella’s a brewer, not a breweress, you know?”

“That’s why we brought you,” Brella continued with the air of one who had been through this breweress business before. “You’re the muscle. As for why we’re out here, Iris is—”

“The princess’s lover,” Scratch supplied.

Brella tensed. “How did you know that?”

“Intuition.” Not entirely true, but it wasn’t worth explaining that it was the only scenario that fit. How else would the palace maid have known about a secret passage out of the dungeons? Why else would she have had Frances’s ear? “Why didn’t she come with us?”

“She’s in the palace. She can keep an eye on what’s going on for us. Besides, if she left, it would send suspicion her way.”

“Logical.” Scratch shifted in her seat. “How do you know that Frances is in Koravia?”

“Frances has been catching whispers for months. She said to Iris that if she were taken, that’s where she’d go.” Brella reached down to retie a boot that looked awfully tight already. “But in the end, it doesn’t really matter where she is. We’ll get to her regardless.”

“How—”

“Listen.” She winced, her mouth twisting. It was, Scratch thought unhelpfully, a rather lovely mouth, with thick, dark lips that turned down at the edges. “What we’re about to explain, it’s . . . a little unbelievable. So just, please try not to judge anything out of hand.”

“Me?” James raised his eyebrows. “Judge?”

Vel snorted into his fist.