She stood rigid, waiting for the pain to pass. It didn’t. Instead, it morphed, hot anger and wet shame melding into a many-toothed chimera, canines splitting her skin while molars ground her to pulp. She deserved the pain. She had known that there were no guarantees, that this disappointment was always a possibility. Hoping for anything different was entirely her own fault.

Hope wasn’t one of her usual vices. It was bad strategy. When she planned, she did so with all possible outcomes in mind, none weighted more heavily than the next. It was a rule: prepare yourself for every eventuality and you will never be caught off guard. But today, as she had tied her hair back with meticulous care, rolling all possibilities in her callused palm like marbles, she couldn’t help but notice that the shiniest path was also the likeliest. As long as the king knew that Scratch had orchestrated the octagon, she would leave the feast as Lady Commander.

She balled her fist and slammed it against her thigh. It hurt, and it felt like justice. Someone had to pay; who else could she blame?

She could blame James. “You rewrote the books,” he had said. “This is history.” She should have known better. James only read fiction.

“Odd place for a bench, isn’t it?”

If she hadn’t been a trained fighter, Scratch might have shrieked and launched herself in the air. Thank the gods for the Academy. Instead of wailing, she managed to turn slowly around, her deft hand coming to rest on her sheathed sword.

“Who’s there?”

“Relax, Sergeant Major.” A crimson-clad figure materialized from the dark, tall and slender, a wiry golden crown perched atop her head. “I’m peaceful.”

Scratch dropped so quickly her knee made a divot in the earth. “Princess Frances. My apologies.”

“Rise.” The princess waved a lazy hand and plopped on the bench. “Join me.”

Scratch peered toward the boundary of her little nook. No guards, just a princess walking the palace grounds alone at night. If someone found them here, they’d both be in trouble.

Frances tapped the bench. “Come sit. I’m having a smoke.”

Scratch watched in stunned silence as the princess pulled out a pipe and a small hempen bag of pinkish flowers. Wait, if they were pink—

Frances held out the pipe. “You?”

“I, uh . . .” Reason dictated she say no. Aside from ale, it was forbidden for members of the King’s Guard to alter themselves. Besides, it was the truth. Scratch never touched the stuff. She had the sudden urge to laugh. All of that tedious rule-following had been in service of becoming the best little soldier she could be. And what had that led to?