There were guards standing outside the doors, but they weren’t bloodbound—or even that well trained, in Rachelle’s opinion. They didn’t hear a thing when she slipped in through the windows that nobody had bothered to lock.

Of course, nobody expected a bloodbound to be sneaking into the King’s chamber to look for an ancient sword hidden behind a magic door.

That morning, the King’s sitting room had felt like a tiny glittering cage. Now—empty of the crowd and filled with shadows—it seemed much larger. A hidden doorway felt actually possible in this silent, dreaming room.

Rachelle turned around slowly in a circle, looking up at the painted moon, down at the mosaic sun. It looked like the perfect spot, but the only doors she could see were the solid, normal doors into the bedchamber and out into the hall.

She had been thinking about the door all day. If it had remained hidden from the kings of Gévaudan for three hundred years, it had to be concealed with a woodwife charm. It probably was a woodwife charm, and that meant she ought to be able to sense it. But she didn’t feel anything.

Wind stirred against her neck.

The windows were shut.

Rachelle went still, heart thudding. And then she saw it: shadows on the wall, in the shape of leaves rustling in the wind, even though there were no branches outside the window to cast them.

A cold breeze traced her cheek and then was still. The shadow leaves faded into simple, normal shadows. The Forest was gone—but it had been here, just for a moment. She was sure she hadn’t imagined it this time. The Forest had manifested in Château de Lune, where any trace of its power should be impossible.

Perhaps the Forest was simply getting too strong for the protections on the Château. Or perhaps she was standing right next to the door into the Forest.

She still didn’t sense anything. But she knew how well hidden some woodwife charms could be until they were awakened.

Rachelle stepped to the nearest wall and laid her hand against it. It was simple wood covered in paint and gilt, but she closed her eyes and reached.

Awakening charms had never been one of her strengths. It was a strange, sideways movement that used none of her body. For the first six months of her training, all that had happened when she tried was that she wiggled her ears. Even after she learned how to do it right, the skin on her scalp still twitched whenever she woke a charm.

Now she concentrated until her head ached, but she felt no answering power in the wall beneath her fingertips.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes and looked around the dim room. Charms had to be touched to be awoken; just standing near them was not enough. It wasn’t a large room, but it would take her a long time to lay hands on every part of the wall.

She had to try. What could she lose?

Rachelle took one step forward and pressed her hand to the wall again. And again. And again. Awakening a charm was such a little thing—she wasn’t even really drawing any power—and yet the effort was starting to make her dizzy. Still she kept trying, moving slowly around the room. She had to find the door, even if it meant crawling through every room in the Château.

In the hallway outside, somebody was singing—probably drunken courtiers staggering back to their rooms—but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except finding the door.

The ragged singing stopped, which was a relief; the caterwauling made it hard to concentrate—

Then she realized that the people were still in the corridor, chattering and laughing just outside the door.

And the door was opening.

Rachelle whirled around. Light dazzled her: the corridor was lit outside, and the people carried several lamps. La Fontaine stood in the doorway, pale blue crystals glistening in her hair and on her dress. To either side of her, a small crowd of nobles stood, swayed, and leaned on each other, cheeks flushed and wigs slightly askew. They seemed to have all been laughing over a common joke a moment before.

They were all staring at her now.

La Fontaine arched one pale eyebrow. “I hope I do not intrude,” she said.

Rachelle couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t tell them what she was doing, but if she didn’t tell, would they think she was trying to assassinate the King? Would the King consider her to have disobeyed orders by leaving Armand asleep in his room? If she wasn’t executed, she could be sent home to Rocamadour, and then how would she find Joyeuse—

“I don’t mind if you want to try your luck with him,” said la Fontaine, “but you must know that I will win. Though you will find you get further if you actually enter the bedroom.”

—and Rachelle’s face heated as she realized that nobody in the room suspected her of any kind of violence.

“I’m here to patrol,” she said, her voice absurdly harsh and rustic in her ears. “I needed to see if the King’s rooms were safe.”

“I promise I am taking good care of him,” said la Fontaine, which set everyone snickering.

Rachelle wanted to snarl, I have no interest in kissing a sick old man, but she knew that if she showed anger, la Fontaine would arch an eyebrow and make a joke of that as well.

She wondered if she could simply bolt across the room and throw herself out the window. It could hardly make things worse.

La Fontaine stepped closer. “But I really do wonder,” she said more softly, the idle amusement gone from her voice, “what are you doing here?”

Then the door behind her opened, and there stood King Auguste-Philippe, wrapped in a dark red robe.

She bowed stiffly, along with everyone else. Her body was numb with embarrassment.

The King ignored everyone to look at la Fontaine. “My dear little friend,” he said, “what keeps you out so late at night?”

There was an odd shift to la Fontaine. She lost none of her poise, but she looked suddenly younger and more fragile.

“My duty to your subjects,” she said, extending a hand for him to kiss. “How could I leave them lonely?”

He kissed the hand and drew her close to him. The crowd at the door he continued to ignore, but he looked at Rachelle. “And, you, what are you doing here?”

Rachelle straightened her spine. She reminded herself that she had nothing to lose. She was already sentenced to death.

“I was patrolling, sire,” she said. “I thought I heard something.”

He looked her up and down. “I thank you for your devotion,” he said. “But my dear friend”—he settled a hand on la Fontaine’s shoulder—“is all I need. You may go.”