After supper, we retire to Morgana's sitting room, which, like the dining hall, is in the process of being renovated. Queen Theola reigned for a century, and her influence is felt all over the palace. Morgana has been trying to erase every trace of her style since she came to power.

The queen strolls to a large wing-backed chair by the fireplace, kicks off her slippers, and throws her feet upon a black ottoman. I retreat to my chair next to her and pick up a book on herbology I left there the night before. The other ladies scowl and take up their seats across from Morgana, dutifully taking up their embroidery hoops or little volumes of poetry. Elaine places a record on the phonograph and cranks the machine until soft music spills forth from its wide, curved horn.

Morgana leans over and taps the book with two fingers. "Should I get married?"

I turn toward her, setting the book down on my lap. "Do you want to?" I ask carefully.

She snorts, wiggling her bare feet. "Stars, no! At least not right now," she contemplates, looking up at the plaster ceiling. "But my counselors are pushing me toward it. They said I need to forge alliances with the packs. Really, Issa, what's the point of being queen if they won't listen to me?"

Her question stuns me into silence. I'm just the daughter of Stormrider Pack's herbologists. If Morgana hadn't defeated the other alphas' children in combat, I would still be in our village under my parents' tutelage. Three years on and I'm still none the wiser to the intricacies of politics.

"If I may, Your Majesty?"

Morgana and I look across the room to Letitia. The blonde alpha's daughter sets aside her embroidery and smooths the fabric of her skirts. The other three girls pause their activities to listen.

"Go on," Morgana says.

There is a giddy gleam in Letitia's pale green eyes, but her demeanor and words remain steady. "Politics is a dance, madam. A give and take, if you will. You rule by right of might and the grace of the goddess, but you still need to be aware of your partner—the packs."

Morgana glances at me, but I remain silent, fingers curling around the pages of the herbology book.

"I see," the queen says, propping her head up on one hand.

"If you do choose someone from the old packs, you would also have to consider which one would provide aid if either the orcs or dragons become bothersome."

"That has already been brought to my attention," Morgana replies, wiggling her toes back and forth.

This is news to me. "There is a problem on the borders?" I ask, turning to Morgana.

She rolls her eyes and waves her free hand negligently. "There have been reports of a new orc chieftain stirring up trouble," she tells me. "And the dragons have been quite stubborn as of late. They desire more iron but offer far too little gems in return."

I've seen the dragon ambassador a time or two at Daroonga—a tall, austere woman in long paneled robes that brush the floor. But I've never been present when she and her retinue arrived or flew off in their dragon forms. I've been told it's a fearsome sight.

"A lady in waiting to the queen should know these things," Letitia chastises, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk.

My chin jerks up, but Morgana is quicker. "Watch your mouth," she growls.

To my satisfaction, Letitia pales. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I—I merely wish to educate Lady Isabel."

Morgana draws her feet back, planting them on the floor. She grips the armrests of the wing-back chair and leans forward. "Since we are discussing appeasing the packs, Letitia, let me remind you that I was advised to include you four ladies in my household. But do not be mistaken—the only one who may speak frankly to me is Isabel. If I require your opinion, I will ask for it. Is this understood?"

More color drains from Letitia's face. The other three ladies are still as statues, the scene in the sitting room a living tableau. "I understand, Your Majesty," Letitia whispers, shoulders rounding in submission.

"Good." Morgana leans back in the chair, kicking up her feet. "Elaine, change that bloody record. It's too old-fashioned." She rolls her head, joints popping. "I need to commission some lively music, don't you think, Issa? Something to appeal to us young folk and not the old wolves."

I can feel Letitia's burning gaze hot on my neck. "I think that's a great idea, Mor."

Morgana smiles. "I knew you'd agree. Oh," she says as Elaine changes the record; fanciful folk tunes spill from the phonograph's horn. "Alpha Thorne invited me to a hunt on his lands tomorrow. I want you to come with me. It'll be like old times," she adds, reaching out to tap me on the arm playfully.

Letitia's gaze intensifies. I turn and smile at Morgana. "That sounds wonderful."

"I also heard that Alpha Thorne has several well-bred sons and nephews," Morgana continued conversationally. "Maybe we can find someone there who meets my standards."

What? "Oh, uh, yes," I stammer, caught off-guard.

Morgana's sharp eyes fix on my flushed face. "Something wrong, Issa?"

I don't like how keen she's become. It wasn't like this when we were children. Now that Morgana has become queen, she often fixates on what people say as if she's digging for hidden meanings.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention," I blurt out, wiggling the book back and forth.

Morgana's lips purse, then she shrugs. "You and your books." She tossed a heavy lock of hair over her shoulder. "Ugh, I'm thirsty. Where are those desserts?" She reaches out and rings a small bell beside her chair.

I take advantage of her distraction to bury my nose in the herbology text. When Morgana first asked me to test her lovers, admittedly, I was horrified. I was an untried virgin, newly brought to court to be the queen's confidant and companion. Once I got over my initial shyness, it became fun—for a while. In her first year, Morgana was insatiable, flying against the restrictions set by her parents. The number of lovers has dwindled, but it's no longer fun.

Sex is strictly regulated based on what Morgana wants in a lover. There is no room for variation. If she would allow me to approach each potential lover individually, I might enjoy myself more, but what the queen wants, the queen gets.

I stare at the page in front of me, brow furrowing. I hope that Morgana is not going back to her post-coronation appetite. I don't think I have it in me to keep up.

"Tea, my lady?"

I glance up to see a maid holding a steaming cup and saucer. "Yes, thank you," I murmur, putting down the book. A second maid has a plate of tarts and other pastries. I select several and place them on the small table next to me.

"What sort of game do you hope to take down, madam?" Elaine asks tentatively.

Morgana licks her lips, bits of flaky pastry falling onto her décolletage. "Elk or bear," she says, trading pastry for tea. "I've sorely lacked a challenge as of late."

"I've heard that the Crimsonshadow Pack boasts a rugged terrain," Elaine continues. "My brother went hunting there last year. He said that massive sheep roam the cliffs. My father has several pairs of their horns mounted in his study."

"Oh?" Morgana inquires, touching a fingertip to her chin. "Alpha Thorne did not mention such sheep."

"Perhaps he was only thinking of your love of the chase, madam," Elaine replies hastily. "One can hardly bear down on a mountain sheep. You would fall over the cliff."

"True," Morgana muses. "What do you think, Issa. Are you up to the challenge of taking down a sheep?"

I hastily swallow a mouthful of tea. She knows I hate heights. Anything taller that two stories and my knees began to weaken and knock together. "If it was on the ground."

The queen laughs and smacks the arm of my chair. "I'll be sure to have a Crimsonshadow member flush one down for you."

"That sounds wonderful," I lie. She's forgotten I don't like to get wool between my teeth. There is nothing that makes me retch more than a mouthful of stinking, fibrous wool.

"Excellent! We'll send the horns back to your parents to hang over their mantle."

"I think they would like that, Mor," I murmur. In truth, they would be horrified. My parents are simple people, dedicated to their craft and our pack. They even asked me to stop sending them extravagant gifts with the allowance Morgana gives me.

Morgana grins, swinging her feet back and forth. This is more like my friend of old—carefree, generous, vivacious. It pains me to watch her lose these qualities bit by bit as the years pass. The crown is a heavy burden and it exacts a toll on its wearer.

The conversation gives way to idle chatter and I return to my book. A maid circles to refill my teacup; I sip slowly and turn the pages, absorbed in the text. Part of me is grateful for the other ladies' conversation. I have never been much of a talker, preferring to pass the time in silence while I read. Morgana and I used to spend hours where she would talk about everything and nothing, and I would sit there with my books and occasionally chime in. There was no need for me to match her energy nor she mine. We balanced each other out.

Not so much these days.

I bite my lip contemplatively and turn the page.