Which meant there was a real possibility that Scratch would end up with Frances, wherever she was. And maybe, by virtue of “her thing,” Scratch could retrieve the princess unharmed. If the Shaes were telling the truth about the King’s deception—if—then surely the public would be moved by the plight of their beloved princess. Could Frances take her father’s throne? And if she did, could Scratch be beside her?

Sure, Scratch could do something different with her life, just as Frances had advised her. But what if she could do the same thing—the only thing she knew how to do, really—as the hero who had saved Princess Frances? Not even the God of Kings could keep her from her rightful knighthood after that.

It wouldn’t be simple. The first few paces were clear enough, but anything after was clouded in the fog of confusion. She needed more information.

“I think Frances left,” she said, watching Brella’s face for a reaction. It was a risk showing her hand, but if Brella knew anything, she might be goaded into revealing it.

“What?” Brella had been halfway to standing. With a thump, she sat back down again. “What do you mean, left?”

“We had a conversation—”

“Wait. You know her?”

“Not really.” Scratch watched Brella’s nostrils flare, her mouth tighten into a puckered scowl. “We just talked last night.”

She slowly, haltingly, told the Shaes about the princess, the pipe, the brief moments of scale-scraping honesty. She skirted around her humiliation, letting only the necessary droplets run through, keeping the rest close. Still, her face burned.

“Something else.” Brella stared blankly. “She gave you advice. And you think, what—she left the palace?”

“I just think that—”

“Did you not hear the part,” Brella ground out, color high in her cheeks, “where my sister is her lover?”

“I don’t understand why you’re getting so heated,” Scratch retorted. She had been looking for a reaction, but she hadn’t expected rage. Brella’s eyes flashed with it, heated and overbright. “I just thought, you know, in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong!”

They were both standing—when had that happened?—and panting—and that, too? Brella flushed dark, Scratch feeling the inevitable pinkness crawling from collar to forehead. Curse that Lakes complexion. It revealed everything.

“Scratch, don’t do this.” James hauled himself up and toward her, determinedly casual. “We don’t know the whole story. Besides, you obviously hit a nerve.”

Brella scoffed. “There’s no nerve.”

“Oh, really?” James cocked his head to the side. “Do you always get so flushed and pant-y over silly little theories, hmm?”

“Whether the sergeant major is right or not is no real matter,” Vel added. He, Scratch noticed, had barely reacted at all. “The Blood Gate will take us to wherever Frances is. Iris will either get her Frances back or she’ll get answers.”