Her ears were ringing so loudly that she couldn’t make out any of the first words that crawled out of his lips—but then her brain caught back up to speed, and she managed to hear the most important part.

“For the record, Miss Foster, I most certainly am not.”

“Not what?” Oralie wondered as Sophie’s body turned numb and noodle-y.

She flopped back onto her pillow as Bronte made a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“If you must know,” he told Oralie, “I’m not her biological father.”

Even from her horizontal vantage point, Sophie could see Oralie’s mouth drop open.

“Why would…?” Oralie stumbled to her feet, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Bronte admitted, tearing his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “Apparently Miss Foster has chosen to ignore my vehement recommendation that she stay focused on her far more pressing assignments, and has instead recruited her teammates into assisting with her ill-conceived search for her biological parents. And thanks to the unfortunate coincidence that she and I both share a rare ability, they’ve fixated on me. So I got to endure a rather ridiculous meeting with Miss Vacker the other day, wherein she accused me of participating in Project Moonlark and had Miss Heks test the veracity of my answer.” His eyes narrowed at Sophie. “Which is why I feel the need to say, once more for the official record—or as official as we’re going to get in these circumstances: I am not your genetic father, Miss Foster. By any means. And if you need to verify that I’m telling the truth, ask Councillor Oralie.”

Oralie stumbled away from both of them, shaking her head hard enough to tangle some of her ringlets. “I don’t want to be involved in this.”

“Neither do I,” Bronte noted. “And yet, here I am.”

Oralie’s rosy cheeks turned very, very pale. “If anyone found out…”

“They won’t,” Bronte assured her, “because there’s nothing to find out. Isn’t that right, Miss Foster? This whole convoluted theory was simply the wild imaginings of a few foolish teenagers. And now that they’ve seen it for its absurdity, they’re going to let it go. Aren’t they?”

His lips quirked with the tiniest hint of a smile when Sophie nodded.

“Excellent.”

“It is,” Sophie agreed, feeling her temper click back on now that the shock was finally wearing off. She held Bronte’s stare as she told him, “It’s a huge relief.”

In fact, her head felt lighter than it had in days.

Minus twenty pounds of worry.

“Good,” Bronte told her, his familiar scowl returning. “Because this is the end of this conversation. Understood? I want your word that no mention of this will be made to anyone else, ever again. Not to me. Not to your friends or family. Certainly not to anyone new.” He strode closer, looming over her. “And I also want you to promise me that you’ll listen this time and stop this foolish quest before you cause irreparable damage—and I’m not referring to any challenges you’ll cause for the elves who actually are your genetic parents, though you’ll likely destroy them with the scandal. Think of how many crucial tasks you’ve already neglected because you’ve allowed yourself to be so distracted—and before you try to deny it, keep in mind that I gathered an update from Miss Heks about her meeting with Lady Zillah once we’d moved past the ridiculous accusation. And not only did she and Wylie acquire several pieces of information that could prove vital in our visit to Loamnore today, but she also mentioned that you’d never bothered to follow up with them. Nor had you responded when they’d reached out to you. And that kind of sloppy leadership cannot continue, Miss Foster. Councillor Oralie and I are happy to help you set up some systems for checks and balances—but none of them will matter if you choose to be sidetracked. It’s time for you to focus, before someone gets hurt.”

He was absolutely right.

And Sophie hated him for it.

She also hated herself for hating him for it—and for failing so hard at everything lately.

All the time she’d spent stressing and obsessing about her genetic parents and matchmaking—and what did she have to show for it?

Another disproved theory about her biological father, and a boyfriend she’d neglected so badly that he might not even be her boyfriend anymore.

And yet, despite all that, she still wasn’t willing to promise what Bronte wanted.

So she told him, “I promise I’m going to adjust my priorities and concentrate on the bigger problems.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice what you’re doing there, Miss Foster,” Bronte countered.

“I’m sure you do,” she agreed. “But wouldn’t you rather I be honest with you?”

He blew out a breath. “I suppose. So long as you’re also ready to take your position as Regent more seriously.”

She stared at her lap, tugging at the stupid ruffles on her shorts, which probably made it harder for him to believe her when she said, “I am.”

“Good,” Bronte told her, frowning when he glanced at Oralie, who still stood several steps away, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Then go inside and get ready. To play the part, you first need to look the part—isn’t that right, Oralie?”

Oralie didn’t respond.

Bronte cleared his throat and turned back to Sophie. “The rest of your teammates should be here within the hour, so I suggest you hurry. We have much to discuss before their arrival. And then together, we’ll all need to go over the protocol for meeting with King Enki, as well as some fundamentals for what to expect in Loamnore. In many, many ways the city is unlike anywhere you’ve been before. In fact, it can be downright disorienting. So the more you prepare ahead of time, the better.”

Sophie nodded, knowing it probably didn’t help instill Bronte with a lot of confidence when she gathered up her blankets, pillows, and Ella and stumbled toward the house with the giant bundle, tripping over her feet several times.

But she didn’t feel right leaving all of that outside.

And it wasn’t like she needed to impress him.

He wasn’t her father.

Never before had those words been such a happy thing, and she repeated them with every step, feeling her smile grow wider and wider.

But it faded when Bronte called after her, “Remember who you are now, Miss Foster. And when you return, make sure you’re wearing your crown.”

TWENTY-THREE

ANYONE ELSE REALLY HATE THIS?” Stina asked, scrunching up her face as she took a cautious step onto the soggy ground in front of her. The mud suctioned around her foot, and she screamed and jumped back, nearly falling when her boot stayed lodged in the sludge. “Seriously,” Stina grumbled, using telekinesis to retrieve her goop-covered shoe. “It’s disgusting.”

Sophie definitely wasn’t going to argue with Stina’s assessment of the situation—particularly as she waded another step into the bog and the squishy ground slipped away under her feet, leaving her with the thick, stinky mud now up past her knees. She could feel its curdled texture through the thin fabric of her leggings and was not looking forward to having the same muck directly on her skin. Her gloves stopped at her wrists, and the blue tunic she’d worn was unfortunately sleeveless, leaving lots of exposed arm—and she didn’t even want to think about the fact that she was going to have to dunk her face and head under.…