She was officially courting the King.

Or, rather, the King was courting her.

And soon all the kingdom would know about it.

A knock startled her, but it was only Mary Ann. She shut the door and fell against it. ‘Cath!’

Catherine held up a hand before Mary Ann could say more. ‘If you should dare to congratulate me, I will never speak to you again.’

Mary Ann hesitated, and Cath could see her thoughts rearranging inside her head. ‘You’re . . . unhappy?’

‘Yes, I’m unhappy. Remember before when I said I didn’t want to marry him, that I didn’t want to be queen? I meant it!’

Mary Ann slumped, crestfallen.

‘Oh, don’t look like that. It is a great honour. I suppose.’

‘Maybe the courtship will change your mind?’

‘I’m hoping it will change his mind.’ She rubbed her temple. ‘I have no idea what I’ll do if he proposes. When he proposes.’

‘Oh, Cath . . .’ Mary Ann crossed the room to wrap her in a sideways hug. ‘It will be all right. You’re not married yet. You can still say no.’

‘Can I? And risk my mother’s tyranny and disappointment for the rest of my life?’

‘It’s your life, not hers.’

Catherine sighed. ‘I don’t know how I’ve let it get this far already. I wanted to say no, but Mother and Father were right there, looking so eager, and the King looked so desperate, and I just . . . I didn’t know what else to do. Now everything is more boggled up than before.’

‘Yes, but nothing that can’t still be made right.’ Mary Ann soothed down her hair. ‘Shall I bring up some tea to calm your nerves? Or – perhaps some of that bread pudding?’

Cath’s heart lightened. ‘Could you? Oh, but help me take down my hair first. I feel like I’ve had these pins in for a week.’

She turned so Mary Ann could begin pulling out the pins and her eyes alighted on the diamond-paned window. A single white rose rested on the outside sill.

She stifled a gasp.

Mary Ann was talking, but Cath didn’t hear a word. Her hair cascaded, layer by layer, across her shoulders.

She averted her gaze from the flower, her heart beginning to pound. ‘Do you think I’m being silly?’ she asked. ‘About the King?’

‘We can’t choose where our affections lie,’ said Mary Ann. She set the hairpins on the vanity and began turning down the bed linens, careful to avoid the thorny rose branches that were still wrapped around the bedposts. Cath’s mother had decided to leave it for a time, in hopes that it would keep any further dream-plants away. ‘For what it’s worth, though, I think the King is . . . a sweet man. And his affection for you is more than apparent.’

Cath watched Mary Ann work, though it was torture to keep her eyes away from the window. Already she was thinking she’d only imagined the rose, but she dared not look again for fear it would catch Mary Ann’s attention too.

Which was peculiar, this instinct to keep it a secret. Never in her life had she hidden anything from Mary Ann. But the rose felt like a whispered message, a hushed glance across a crowded room. Something precious and not to be shared. Something that she didn’t think practical Mary Ann would understand.

‘I’ve changed my mind about the bread pudding, and the tea. I have no appetite.’

Mary Ann glanced up from fluffing her pillow. ‘Are you ill?’

Catherine laughed, the sound strained and high-pitched. ‘Not at all, just needing a moment of peace. I might stay up and read for a while. I’m not tired. You needn’t bother with all that.’

‘Oh. Would you like me to stay? We could play a game, or—’

‘No, no. Thank you. I . . . I’d like to be alone. I think I need to sort through everything that’s happened.’

Mary Ann’s face softened. ‘Of course. Goodnight, Cath.’ She left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Catherine fought the whirlwind of nerves in her stomach as she listened to the sound of Mary Ann’s footsteps receding down the hall. To the creaking of the house around her.

She forced herself to face the window.

She hadn’t imagined it. One perfect white rose on a long stem had been laid atop the windowsill so that the flower was framed by the harlequin-shaped leading.

She approached the window with a racing pulse and lifted the sash. Careful of the thorns, she took the flower between her fingers.

The night air carried a citrus scent, and looking out, she saw that the lemon tree that had been replanted beneath her window had already grown up to this second story, its dark boughs full of yellow fruit. She scanned the branches, then down to the lawn and garden, but the night-time produced only shadows.

Another glance upward, and this time she spotted tiny black eyes. She reeled back, dropping the rose at her feet.

The Raven inclined his head. Or, she thought he did. His inky feathers were almost invisible in the darkness.

‘Hello again,’ she said, shivering in the night air.

‘Good eve, fair lady, your forgiveness we implore, to come so brashly tapping, tapping at your chamber door.’

‘Oh, well, this isn’t exactly my chamber door. More like a window, actually.’

The Raven bobbed his head. ‘I made some alterations for the sake of the rhyme.’

‘I see. Well – good evening, fair Raven, my forgiveness I bestow, for this uncanny meeting outside of my window.’