I held my breath and lifted my foot out of the muck in the bottom of the river. But when I set it down again, it wasn’t on the same slimy surface on which I’d been standing before. It was on something rigid, something scaly . . .

. . . something alive.

I’d tried to stay awake for the rest of the night after I’d been roused by the dream, unwilling to let Sabara infuse me with her memories once more. I hated that she’d found a way to get to me, to try to manipulate me, even if I couldn’t be certain it was intentional.

Although with Sabara, everything was intentional.

No matter how hard I’d tried, though, no matter how hard I’d fought it, sleep had eventually claimed me.

We’d awakened that morning to a dusting of snow that coated everything like frost. It didn’t stick, and it no longer fell from the sky, but the chill never left the air. And as we climbed higher—moving farther north—I heard my teeth chattering more and more frequently. My fingers felt like icicles as I clutched the reins.

The horses we’d been provided were sturdier and more muscular than the sleek, long-legged ones I’d trained on at the palace. Even their coats felt thicker beneath my fingertips, as if they were bred for this hostile terrain. Everything they were outfitted in was dark and fashioned from iron and leather, making them look as ferocious as the land they traveled.

By the end of the first day of riding, every bone and every muscle in my body ached, my back most of all. I did my best not to complain, or even to wince, since I knew how important it was that we keep moving. My comfort couldn’t be a consideration.

When we stopped at a trickling glacial stream to let the horses drink, I thought of the dream I’d had. As the day stretched and my mind wandered, I thought of it often, despite my best efforts to push the dead queen from my mind.

As much as I knew the dream hadn’t belonged to me, I couldn’t help wondering if it was really hers. If it was truly a memory or if Sabara was simply toying with me.

Somehow she’d managed to make me feel something other than revulsion.

I’d feared for the child in my dream. My heart had stopped and my skin had puckered with dread for her.

I didn’t want the little girl in the river to be Sabara.

And I didn’t want to waste any more of my time thinking about her.

Zafir kept his gaze on me, almost as often as he watched the new riders who’d joined us. I think he trusted those who accompanied us even less than he trusted Florence and his son, Jeremiah, never turning his back to them.

Avonlea had come along too, although whether it was by her choice or by Florence’s order, I didn’t know. She hadn’t been given her own mount, and was forced to ride with Jeremiah. It was a tight fit in the saddle, but she didn’t seem to mind, and whenever Florence wasn’t watching the two of them, I caught her turning in her seat so she could talk to Jeremiah. She sang to him, and told him stories. I still didn’t know how they were related, if at all.

As we stopped to make camp for the evening, I slid from the mare I’d been loaned and staggered toward a sapling tree, the only solid thing in sight I could cling to for support. I bent over, my back deformed like an old woman’s, and I refused to release the tree lest I collapse.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I asked Zafir beneath my breath. But when it crystallized, becoming a cloud of fog before my face, I knew the question was unnecessary. We were most definitely heading north.

“We should be at the ferry by nightfall tomorrow,” he answered, a wry smile on his lips. “Since the rest of our party was presumably on that train, they’ll likely arrive at the summit ahead of us.” He didn’t voice the part I worried about—the part about a turncoat in their midst.

I still couldn’t imagine who that person might be, especially considering that Brooklynn knew each and every one of those we’d traveled with, that she’d hand-chosen each of them specifically for this task because she trusted them. And her instincts were nearly as infallible as Angelina’s.

“You two doing a’right?” A voice interrupted us, and I jumped in spite of myself.

“Florence,” I gasped, pushing myself to stand straighter.

“Floss,” he insisted for the hundredth time that day.

“Floss,” I repeated, trying the name out. “You surprised me.”

“Just checkin’ on you to make sure we’re not ridin’ too fast.” He eyed me suspiciously. “You seem a little . . . How do I put this? Wobbly in the saddle.”

I nearly choked on his generous description of my riding abilities. I knew how I must look to these men, seasoned riders as they were. Wobbly was putting it kindly. I glanced uneasily at Zafir. “We’re managing just fine. Aren’t we, Zafir?”

Zafir regarded me apathetically. “If you say so, Your Majesty.”

Florence’s—or Floss’s, rather—eyes went wide and he flapped his hands wildly in front of Zafir’s face, shushing him insistently. “Stop with the ‘Your Majestys’ already, and keep your face covered,” he insisted, pointing at my hood which had slipped down, leaving my cheeks exposed. “They already suspect she’s important. . . .” He tossed his head in the direction of the three riders escorting us—two men and a woman. Each of them looked as if they’d been carved out of the granite hills themselves. “They just don’t know why, exactly.”

My admiration for Floss just kicked up a notch. I’d been wishing everyone would stop bowing and calling me Your Majesty from day one. I was happy to be plain old Charlie once more.