“Lady Luscia! I found the wisp!” a jolly voice sang.

Tallulah bustled into the great room with a slim girl in tow. The dark-haired attendant exhibited a shy, though not fearful demeanor as the older woman practically dragged her to where Luscia stood beside Alora’s wooden chest.

“This one’s Mila. She’s your resident lady’s maid, provided by the court,” Tallulah chattered in heavily accented Unitarian, for Mila’s benefit. “Well, go on,” she urged, pushing the timid girl forward. “Introduce yourself! The blessed al’Haidren ain’t going to bite!”

Mila performed an awkward curtsy of sorts, tucking her chin until it met her chest. ”M’lady al’Haidren.”

The girl was of an age with Luscia. Her braided raven tresses shone in the light of multiple sconces along the curved walls, but that wasn’t what had Luscia’s breath catching in her throat as Mila rose from her curtsy. The girl’s chin lifted a fraction to reveal a set of cobalt eyes on a face of Boreali porcelain—northern eyes that darted away as quickly as they met Luscia’s.

Luscia had only met a handful of cross-castes in her life, but never one with such contrasting features. It was remarkable. If she stopped quivering like a cornered mouse, Mila would be stunning. While the palace employed many out of Bastiion’s lower classes, Luscia was pleased to see the girl had been elevated to a decent position.

“Where is the rest of your party? S-so that we may prepare for them, my lady.” Mila spoke to the floor, but the question was sincere.

“The five Najjan are my party,” Luscia replied, puzzled by the inquiry.

A quick rap foretold Creyvan’s return. He strutted through the foyer a lighter man, smirking with genuine delight as he recounted what had transpired with the appointed sentries down the hall.

“‘—before insulting the al’Haidren to Boreal so thoughtlessly again!’ You should have seen the blubbering yancy! And he asked, ‘Six men, she demanded?’ and I said, ‘Would you deem the al’Haidren less worthy than half a dozen—’”

Creyvan suddenly broke off his enthusiastic recounting. It took hardly a moment to realize the cause. The imposing, flaxen Najjan stood slack-jawed as he took in the sight of the lovely, skittish attendant. Mila didn’t notice his dumfounded expression because at his attention, she directed her own gaze toward her feet.

“Half a dozen, Creyvan? That was dutifully demanding of you,” Luscia said, in hopes of mending the moment. For his sake.

The Najjan pulled his stare from the self-conscious maid. Even in the dimness of the room, Luscia saw pink stain his cheeks.

“Was there anything else?” she asked, growing weary, both mentally and physically.

“Oh—uh, wem, Ana’Sere. I found this chap waiting outside your chambers…” Creyvan managed, poking an arm through the cracked doorway. He reeled in a young page, his fingers gripping the boy’s deep blue tunic.

“The prince sent him,” Creyvan announced, making the messenger shake. It was almost as if he and Mila were partners in an involuntary dance of trembles.

“The Crown P-Prince, His Highness D-Dmitri Thoarne requests your presence, L-Lady al’Haidren.” The tiny ball of his throat bobbed sporadically with his sputtering. “‘No matter the hour,’ he said. I am to escort you to m-meet with him, as s-soon as you are able.”

Marek rounded the corner and crossed his arms. She knew her men were all absorbing the fact that Bastiion did not view Boreal’s Haidrens with the respect the Najjan would like to enforce. She was also aware that after weeks of travel, lack of sleep, and now being thrust into a den of enmity, each man was ready to snap.

Apparently, the night was long from over. Luscia summoned her remaining energy. She thanked Tallulah and Mila for the last time and, after assuring them she needed nothing further, urged the two women to get some rest.

“The same goes for everyone else,” she told the Najjan. “Marek, I want two of your choosing to scout the apartment for vulnerabilities. The other three should retreat to their own rooms and sleep.” Marek scowled when she cut off his opposition. “Niit, Captaen. You are of no use to me if you are sleepwalking. Aksel and I will accompany the page to the prince’s quarters momentarily.” Luscia glanced at the boy. “If you’ll wait for me in the hall?”

The page bowed hastily and extended a piece of fine parchment sealed with copper wax. Luscia cautiously took the message and watched him depart. Once her quarters were free of Unitarian eyes, she popped the seal and read Dmitri’s brief, ominous script.

Bring it. Five vials will do.

“Ana’Sere, what does the prince say?”

Another identically handsome face appeared in their makeshift circle. Böwen’s concern grew as Luscia’s brows knit together in contemplation. She looked from the crisp note to Alora’s apothic chest, brushing against her traditional, upturned boots. The viridi wood was whittled with northern engravings, which twisted around its borders and encircled a lock made of bone. She didn’t know what animal it had been taken from, but it matched the key Alora had given Luscia before her departure—an obscure, skeletal thing no longer than an index finger. A key she wore now on a chain underneath her elegant surcoat.

Upon being questioned, the only information Alora would share was that the key would be safer in Luscia’s hands while she traveled off the main roads, ahead of Alora’s party, in a much smaller, concealed group. Yet Luscia suspected she was about to become more than just the keeper of the bone key.

“He sends his regards. Excuse me, Brödre,” she answered her brethren. Without another word, she scooped up the medicinal chest and sought the privacy of her personal quarters.

Luscia locked the door to her bedroom and placed Alora’s apothecary upon the bed. She inserted the key, unlocked the chest, and assessed its contents. The chest emitted a familiar scent of viridi bark before the expected aroma of roots and herbs bloomed through the room.

Luscia leaned against the mattress in confusion, cataloguing the rather ordinary collection of materials. Well, ordinary for Alora’s proficiency, at least. She couldn’t comprehend why an apothecary should be locked, unless Alora anticipated Boreali herbs being confiscated next.

Atop the myriad of glass jars and empty vials sat a small, folded scrap of parchment. Alora must have packed it last, so Luscia would find it right away. Hands that favored combat over the mysteries of Boreal’s apothic arts gently unraveled her aunt’s delicate folding.

Luscia,

Mix only in necessity. The crown prince will request at his need.

This is now your apothecary. Be discreet. Hide it well.

Memorize this list of ingredients and instruction.