She stared up at her father, feeling a stab of anger. He had struck her only once before—that one time, when he’d been filled with rage and grief, dragging her by the arm from her mother’s body … But her anger fell away as she saw his face crumple. He gazed at his own hand, caught between amazement and horror.

“Get away from me,” he said in a low, steady voice. It was the sanest thing she’d heard him say since her arrival.

“Father,” she insisted, “who is doing this to you?” But she couldn’t help the edge of desperation creeping into her voice. She knew it was hopeless.

Just then, the door opened behind her. Constance stood, slowly smoothing out her skirts and dabbing the wound with her sleeve.

“Lady Constance,” said the physician. “I did not know you had planned to visit the Duke.”

“Do I need to make an appointment to visit my own father?” she replied sharply.

“It might have been advisable,” said Thorn, nodding at Constance’s wounded face. “If I had not woken to administer the Duke’s morning dosage, he might’ve done worse. His condition is highly volatile.”

She stepped close, drawing herself up tall. “It is none of your business what passes between my father and me,” she said coldly. “And I have reason to believe his ailment is not entirely natural.”

“Whatever can you mean?” His voice was flat, unimpressed. But she looked at him closely, spied a flicker of understanding. And that’s when it clicked into place.

“I think you know, physician,” Constance hissed. She stepped aside, scooped up her fallen cane, and left the room, slowly descending the spiral staircase. In her mind she replayed the red flash. And then she remembered the similar red magic binding the rusted lock and chains of the gates. She knew in her heart both spells had been cast by the same mage.

And that mage was in Duke’s Forest, close to the Duke, spinning spells under the magic-hating Justice’s nose. She tried not to jump to conclusions, but it was difficult to avoid the obvious suspect. Lord Veredith had said he was a lowborn apothecary who had worked his way into the highest echelons of the castle; surely in this city of strict hierarchy that was cause for suspicion in itself. Yes, she felt sure: the mage in Duke’s Forest could only be the physician, Jonas Thorn. And by the feel of his magic, he was very powerful indeed.

Anger surged through her. He was driving her father mad. Keeping him in a prison of his own mind. But why? Was he playing his own game? Or was he working for someone else?