“Not yet. But Jamison seems willing. And loyal. He believes Lilith is working with Karis Luran. He offered to stand guard at the inn overnight, though I do not anticipate more trouble from those soldiers.”

“Why not?”

“Because they did not attack last night. They could easily have returned with reinforcements. I suspect, however, that they have retreated to send word to their queen, and to await further orders. That will take several days. Likely weeks. It is the dead of winter in Emberfall, and Syhl Shallow is on the other side of a mountain range.”

Harper considers this. “Could Lilith get in the way?”

“Absolutely. She already suspects that I am trying to trick her somehow.”

Harper points at her cheek. “How is this going to affect my part?”

“Do you still wish to proceed as the Princess of Disi?”

“I’m certainly not going to sit here feeling sorry for myself.” She pauses and some of the fire drains out of her eyes. “Every time I go still, I think of my mother.”

“I would undo it if I could,” I say softly. I want so badly to reach out and touch her, but she has made her feelings quite clear. “I swear to you.”

“I believe you.” Her voice is equally soft, but she straightens. “Enough. Seriously. What are we going to do about this?”

I frown. I cannot decide if she is being self-deprecating or practical.

Her eyes narrow. “I’m sure you’ve thought of something.”

“That we can tell the people of how the princess faced the evil sorceress from Syhl Shallow and drove her away with minimal injury? Yes, my lady. I have thought of something.” I pause. “If you are still willing.”

“I am.”

“Then when Grey returns, I will have him send word to Silvermoon Harbor, announcing our intent to visit. I would like to go the day after tomorrow, if that suits you.”

“It does.”

I study her, weighing my thoughts. She seems to think that her wound will make her less convincing as a princess. In truth, watching her now, she has never looked more like one.

“I have underestimated you again,” I finally say.

“How?”

“I have been waiting for you to wake for hours,” I tell her. “I was certain this would … break you.”

She frowns and looks at the fire. “It’s not my first scar, Rhen. I wasn’t perfect before. I’ll get over it.” Then her eyes shift back to mine. “Did you say you’ve been sitting here for hours?”

“Yes.” I pause. “You are not angry about what Lilith has done?”

“Oh, I’m furious. But not about my face.”

“Then what?”

Her voice fills with steel. “I’m mad I missed.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

HARPER

The morning we’re due to leave for Silvermoon, I finally let Freya do my hair. She comes in with tea, and I don’t have the heart to refuse her offer. I keep thinking about Rhen’s comment, how she was very protective. In my efforts to be self-sufficient, I’ve been pushing her away. Until I heard how she stood up to Grey, I didn’t realize it was possible to be strong and yielding at the same time.

So I sit at the dressing table in Arabella’s room, and Freya stands behind me, silently running the brush through my curls. The baby is swaddled and sleeping in the room next door, but I haven’t seen her other children. Freya’s skin looks clean-scrubbed, and her eyes are bright. The near-panic that’s been in her expression since I met her is gone. Yesterday, she was still wearing her clothes from the inn, but today, she’s in a lavender dress with a white-laced bodice, and her hair is in twin plaits, which she’s pinned up into a twist.

“You look really pretty,” I say.

Her hands go still and she blushes. “My lady. Thank you.” She offers a curtsy. “I was borrowing clothes from Evalyn while I stayed at the Crooked Boar, but those are not appropriate in the palace. I asked the guardsman where the queen’s ladies stored their garments.”

We fall into silence again and she resumes brushing. I thought it was going to make a frizzy mess, but she used something from one of the dozen bottles scattered across the table and the curls relax. The motion of the brush is soothing. A reminder of childhood.

When my mother would do the same thing.

Without warning, my eyes fill. I press my fingers to my face.

“Oh!” Freya stops brushing immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” I barely recognize my own voice. “No. I’m fine.”

But I’m not. I can’t stop crying. My shoulders are shaking before I’m ready for it.

Freya takes my hand. Hers is warm, her grip strong. “Shall I send for His Highness?”

“No! No—I’m fine.” My voice breaks and it’s obvious that I’m not.

She puts a hand on my shoulder and rubs gently, moving close. My hand is still gripped in hers. She says nothing, but her closeness is more reassuring than anything I’ve felt in days.

I think of home, and realize it’s more reassuring than anything I’ve felt in months.

“My mother is dying,” I say. I’m sure this isn’t part of Rhen’s plan, but I can’t keep melting into a puddle or I’m going to completely unravel. “My mother is dying, and I can’t be there. And I just keep thinking—I keep thinking she’s going to die before I can say goodbye.”

“Oh … oh, my lady.” Freya wraps me up in her arms, and then I’m sobbing into her skirts like a child.

This isn’t like with Rhen or Grey. I can wrangle my emotions into compliance in front of them. But Freya is all kindness and warmth, and it feels so good to be held that I allow myself to sink into it. She keeps smoothing my hair, whispering nonsense.

Eventually, reality catches up with me. I can’t be Harper today. I have to be the Princess of Disi.

I draw back. I’ve left a huge damp spot on her dress. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

She uses a thumb to brush the tears from my cheeks. “Here,” she says quietly—though her voice is firm. She straightens my shoulders. “Sit. Allow me to finish.”

I obey. The brush finds my hair again, her hands slow and sure.

“When my sister died,” Freya says quietly, “it was very sudden. I had no time to say goodbye. But she knew I loved her. I knew she loved me. It is not the moment of passing that is most important. It is all the moments that come before.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Your sister died?”

She nods. “I took in her children. The thought of having four mouths to feed was overwhelming, but we have survived.”

Surprise knocks some of the sorrow out of my chest. “Those are your sister’s children?”

“Baby Olivia is mine. She had just been born when my sister was killed. I lived with Dara and her husband, Petor, in the farmhouse to help care for Dahlia and Davin and little Edgar.” A pause. “But then the monster attacked Woven Hollow when Dara and Petor were there to trade goods, and suddenly the children were all mine.”

“The monster.” Every time someone mentions it, the fear in their voice is undeniable.

“Yes, my lady.” Freya hesitates. “When the men came to raid the farmhouse, I thought fate had finally found us all. But then you came to our aid, and now we are here, in this enchanted place.” She pauses. “I do not presume to know what you face, my lady. I know nothing of your land, your customs. But I do know your bravery and kindness seem to have no bounds. I have no doubt your mother knows that, too.”

My throat tightens. “You’re going to make me cry again.”

“Well, at the very least, hold still so I can do your plait.”

That makes me smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Freya.”

“As am I, my lady.” She begins to braid, her fingers quick and sure. “I am always surprised to discover that when the world seems darkest, there exists the greatest opportunity for light.”

The dress Freya selects for me is navy blue, but every inch of stitching is shot with silver, with tiny diamond-like stones affixed along the bodice. A blue overskirt spills from the waist, split at the hip to reveal a cascade of white petticoats. Beneath the dress I’m wearing calfskin leggings and heeled boots that lace to my knees. She arranges my curls into a loose, loopy braid that falls over my shoulder, with jeweled hairpins arranged at regular intervals. Then she dusts dark charcoal across my eyelids.

When I stand in front of the mirror, a stranger stares back at me. This is the kind of dress little girls dream of, but my eyes center on the stitched line across my cheek. It’s healed to the point of being sore and itchy, but there’s no swelling left. Now it’s just ugly. My reminder that actions have consequences.

I put a hand over my cheek, hiding the imperfection.

Freya takes my wrist gently and lowers it. “Proof of your bravery,” she says. “Nothing less.” She holds a tiny stretch of twisted wire adorned with a few jewels. I think it’s a necklace until she reaches to slide it into my hair.

“Freya,” I whisper. “This is … this is all too much.”