Camille sat on the piano bench, her knees tucked into her chest.

Light glinted off the chandelier. Dust scurried across the floor, dashing beneath a wilting plant. Ryne and Anna had stormed past several minutes ago, although neither had noticed her. It was one of her greatest gifts, Camille thought; she could make herself almost invisible. Little ghost, as Isaac used to say.

The door swung open.

Isaac slipped into the alcove. He looked tired, Camille thought; his cheekbones were sunken hollows, and the black jacket — which had once strained at his shoulders — hung loosely from his frame. His grey eyes were gunmetal waves.

Camille hugged her knees tighter. "How did it go?"

"Well," Isaac said, "nobody's dead."

He ran a hand through his cropped hair. Camille rested her chin on her knees. "Did Ryne decide what to do?"

Isaac shook his head. "He's speaking with Anna."

Ah, Camille thought. That explained why Anna had looked ready to cut Ryne into tiny pieces and feed him to the carnivorous fish that lived in the moat. She stretched out her legs, wiggling her toes in the white satin slippers. Isaac looked at her bare ankles, swallowed, and then looked away.

"You should have been there." His voice was quiet.

Camille folded her hands in her lap. "You had it under control."

Isaac's mouth tightened. "That's not what I meant."

"I know," she said.

Isaac shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had never been very good at standing still, Camille recalled; imprisonment seemed to only have exacerbated that. "You're not her, Cami. She wore your face for a time, but you're not her. Everyone knows that."

Camille looked away.

She thought of that night in Libertas, how Penny had jumped and spun with the knife. She thought of children scattering in the street, of shopkeepers eyeing her suspiciously, of the way a man had spat on her boots when she'd been walking by the docks. I wish you'd died, he'd said. A crushing hollowness filled her.

Camile rose. "Come on."

Isaac's brow furrowed. "Where?"

"I want to show you something," Camille said.

Isaac glanced at the double doors. "I can't just leave them. I—"

"Isaac," Camille said. "Please."

She stretched out a hand. Isaac looked at it, and a shadow skittered across his face. Then he blinked, and it was gone. "Alright. Lead the way."

Camille led him up the stairs. She took a series of wrong turns — the servants' quarters were infinitely more confusing than the rest of the castle — and they had to retrace their steps twice, ducking under low-hanging ceilings. By the time they reached what Camille hoped was the correct door, a knot had lodged in her throat.

She pushed the door open.

The room was cramped. A narrow cot was wedged against the far wall, leaving about a foot of space to stand in. There were no windows, although someone had cut out paper stars and strung them along the ceiling. Several items — a pack of playing cards, a one-eyed plush toy, and a dragon figurine — littered the bed. Camille touched the sheets; they were rumpled and warm, as if someone had recently slept in them, although she knew that couldn't have been the case.

"What is this place?" Isaac asked.

He was half-stooped under the narrow ceiling, his gray eyes sweeping the room. A few paper stars dangled over his forehead like a crown.

"This room belonged to Milo," Camille said softly. "He was nine years old. His parents worked in the kitchens; three years ago, Milo began helping out on occasion. Serving wine at big feasts and so on. He took his role very seriously. He was saving up pocket money for a bow tie because he thought it would make him look more dignified."

Isaac gave her an odd look. "How do you know all this?"

"I wrote to Cook," Camille said. "I asked her to tell me about him."

Camille picked up a playing card, turning it over in her hand. The contents of that letter were seared into her brain. She'd carried it around for weeks in her pocket — just as she'd done with Isaac's letter, long ago — although she needn't have bothered. She could have recited the words in her sleep.

I'm not saying you're to blame, child, but folks are scared. Please don't write to me again. I've opened a bakery in the village, and if people find out we're in touch, then... The writer had scratched something out here, scoring the parchment with black ink. I have my wee ones to think about. Surely you understand.

Camille set down the playing card. Isaac's gaze was heavy on her shoulders.

"Cami," Isaac said. "Why did you bring me here?"

"She killed him." Camille stared at the paper stars. "Right in front of me. She drove a knife through his neck."

She heard Isaac's sharp intake of breath. "Cami..."

"I killed him," Camille said. "It was my hands, Isaac. My hands."

He shook his head. "You can't blame yourself for this."

"Then who's to blame?" Camille asked.

It was a rhetorical question, but Isaac answered anyway. "Your parents. Brigid." He ticked the names off on his fingers. "Anyone that never told you who you are, whose blood you carried. Lucia. Anyone that supported her." His throat bobbed. "And me."

Camille looked away. "Isaac..."

"I should have been here." His voice was ragged. "I should have protected you."

"You couldn't have stopped this," she said.

"I could have tried."

"And what about me?" Camille swallowed, and it felt like shards of glass. "I should have realized where you were. All this time, I thought you were in Highcliff. I thought you hated me."

Isaac's grey eyes were solemn. "That would be impossible."

"Even if I married Ryne?" Camille asked.

Her heart was thumping wildly, fluttering like a caged bird. Isaac looked away. "You thought he was dying. You were doing it to protect him and the crown. Just as we always have."

Camille licked her lips. "And what if I wanted to marry him?"

Isaac turned his head sharply. "Did you?"

"Say that I did," Camille said.

His face was half-shadowed, illuminated only by the light streaming in from the corridor. "All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy. Whether that's alone, or with Ryne, or with..." His throat moved. "Your happiness is all I've wanted."

"So you wouldn't have hated me?" Camille asked.

Isaac took a step toward her. "I could never hate you, Camille. My love for you is not conditional. It just is."

Her breath caught. "Isaac..."

He drew closer. Camille's cheeks felt hot. She could see every light fleck in his eyes, dotting the darker grey like ashy snow. He was thinner than she'd ever seen him, gaunt from months of imprisonment, but his eyes were the same. Isaac raised a hand to her cheek, and she flinched.

Isaac drew back, his eyes darkening. "You're afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid," Camille said, "but I've changed." She dropped her eyes to the floor. "I'm not what you think I am."

He shook his head. "I know who you are, Camille Dufleur."

She looked at the paper stars, biting her cheek until it hurt. "I used to have softness. But I'm made of something different now. Something harder."

Isaac lifted her chin. His grey eyes blazed, and Camille could see resolution there, solid as the earth beneath their feet. He didn't care, she realized; he would learn to fit the shape of his love around her, to mould it to her new form. Something swelled in her chest, beautiful and terrible and sad.

Isaac took her hands. His fingers were long and dark, the skin rough with callouses. There was a new scar on his palm, Camille noticed, a straight, shallow line, as if someone had sliced the skin open deliberately. How odd. She opened her mouth to ask, but then Isaac was leaning forward, his breath cool and slightly minty.

"I would do anything for you," Isaac murmured. "Whatever you asked me to, Cami. Surely you know that by now."

Camille inhaled. "Isaac..."

She tipped her face up. Isaac leaned closer, his head slanting towards hers—

The door flew open.

"Well," Ryne said lightly. "This is an unexpected meeting location."

Her former fiancé leaned against the doorway, one eyebrow quirked. His dark hair was rumpled. Anna stood beside him, looking equally flushed and dishevelled. Camille made to move back, and Isaac's grip tightened on her hands. He was looking at the door the same way that a picnicker would look at an ant in his sandwich.

"What are you doing here?" Isaac demanded.

Ryne gave them a significant look. "What are you doing here?"

Camille stepped back. This time, Isaac let her go. "How did you find us?"

Anna scoffed. "Please. I'm the raven queen." She settled on the bed. "You think I don't have spies everywhere?"

"And also," Ryne added helpfully, "you left muddy footprints in the corridor."

Anna clicked her fingers. "That, too."

"Did you need something?" Isaac asked, crossing his arms. "We're sort of in the middle of—"

"We're going to help them," Ryne cut in. "The villagers."

Isaac paused. "Ah."

"Our plan is to gather information on Eris," Ryne continued. "We'll use that to take him out, and then establish a new ruler on the throne. Someone with compassion."

"And," Anna added, kicking her legs out, "someone that will realize burning and looting villages is not a politically popular move."

Isaac nodded. "Sensible."

Camille smoothed down her skirts. How strange, she thought, that they could sit in this room and calmly discuss murdering a member of Ryne's family. A year ago, the idea would have been absurd. But now...

Suddenly, a thought struck her.

"Who is it?" Camille asked. "Who are you putting on the throne?"

Anna and Ryne exchanged a look.

"Well," Ryne said, "that's where you come in."

Camille's heart sped up. "Me?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand," Camille said.

But she did. Of course she did. Sweat pricked at the back of her neck, and the room suddenly felt too hot, her skin too small for her body. She was shrinking inwards, collapsing like a paper fan. Ryne sat on the bed.

"Think about it," Ryne said. "You have the strongest claim to the throne. The Vespertines have ruled for centuries; Lucernians trust them. People will rally behind you."

Her throat felt dry. "I don't want to rule."

He leaned forward. "You'll be perfectly safe."

"No," Camille said.

"You don't even have to come with us," Ryne said. "We can remove Eris, and then—"

"I said no."

Camille's voice was too loud for the small room. Her knees shook. She was dimly aware of Isaac stepping toward her, of his hand stretching out, and she hugged her arms to her body. It was too much, she thought; all of it was too much.

"That's my final answer," Camille said.

Ryne's face was impassive. "You were willing to rule this kingdom once I was gone. Lucerna is not so dissimilar from Wynterlynn."

Her hands trembled. "That's not it."

"Then what is it?" Ryne asked.

"That was before," Camille said, her voice ragged. "All of that was before."

Silence fell. Camille pinned her hands under her armpits, trying to control the shaking. The room spun like sea glass in a bottle. Something acidic clawed at her throat. She might be sick, Camille realized.

"Take your time," Ryne said. "Think about it."

Camille stepped toward the door. "There's nothing to think about. If you'll excuse me."

She hurried into the corridor.

**

"So," Anna said. "That went well."

She leaned back on the bed. Ryne sat next to her, his warm shoulder pressing into her own. His mouth was still swollen from kissing, his green eyes the colour of freshly cut grass. He was looking at the open door thoughtfully.

"Give her time," Ryne said. "She'll come round."

Isaac sighed. "You could have knocked first."

The former Captain-of-the-Guard was pacing. Well, pacing as much as the room allowed, Anna thought, which was not very much at all. Several paper stars fluttered to the floor, shaken loose by his restlessness.

Ryne raised an eyebrow. "I'm a king. I'm not accustomed to knocking in my own castle. It would be like asking myself for permission to speak."

Isaac made a snorting sound. "I forgot how vain you can be."

Ryne flopped back on the bed. "I prefer the term narcissistic." The young king hooked one leg over the other. "The more syllables spent talking about me, the better."

Something dug into Anna's back. She wrested the object free, holding it up to the dusty light; it was a dragon figurine, she realized. A large, hulking male with reddish-brown scales. It looked a bit like Kane's moody dragon, Hellart. Speaking of which.

Anna lowered the figurine. "Delafort?"

"Yes?"

"Earlier," Anna said, "you said that Seraena is putting out her own fires right now. What did you mean?"

Ryne sat up. "It's only a rumour."

His green eyes were guarded. Anna crossed her arms.

"Tell me," she said.

"It might not be true," Ryne countered.

Her stomach tightened. "Delafort. Out with it."

Ryne sighed. "Fine." He looked to Isaac, his green eyes solemn. "But you may want to sit down for this, Webb. It's not good."