You’ll have to forgive an old man.”

Midday light flickered through the library. Elm sat sideways in a satin chair, his legs thrown over its cushioned arm, a sketchbook splayed in his lap. Next to him was a stack of unread tomes. He drank broth from a cup and ran the tip of his stylus over blank pages, listless and irritated.

He was drawing a horse, mid-run—and was deeply dissatisfied with it. “I don’t have to forgive a thing,” he said to Filick Willow, ripping the paper from the binding and balling it into his fist. “I live off of my grudges.”

The paper hit the Physician square in the jaw. Filick’s gray whiskers twitched, hiding his smile. “I’ll knock louder next time.” He levied a pointed glance. “And that, in no way, should be taken as encouragement.”

Elm started a new drawing. “You disapprove, old man?”

“There are many beautiful women in the castle these days. Your father has seen to that.”

“And?”

Filick returned his gaze to his book of plants, as if he were lecturing one of them, and not the Prince of Blunder. “Why not choose a woman less… less…”

Elm kept his wrist light as he swung his stylus over the paper. “Less like Ione Hawthorn?”

“She’s betrothed to your brother.”

The smooth line of the horse’s midsection wobbled. “I’m aware.”

Filick forfeited with a grunt, sipping his tea. “I suppose, if your brother

never wakes, the matter will resolve itself.” Elm paused. “Will he wake?”

“I don’t know.” Filick’s blue eyes lifted. “Have you gone to see him?” “You know I haven’t.”

“You should. If only for appearances.”

Appearances. Elm ripped the paper, balled it, and threw it to the ground. He stared at the next blank sheet. His drawing began with a shape, two sweeping arches. “When do you think they’ll get back?” he said quietly. “Ravyn and Jespyr and… him.”

Filick leaned back in his chair. “It’s difficult to say. I don’t think either Ravyn or your father expects a long absence. Though the Shepherd King may have different plans.” His voice softened. “I’m sure Ravyn will do everything in his power to unite the Deck and cure Emory by Solstice.”

Elm’s throat tightened at Emory’s name. “What of the Shepherd King?” He added to his sketch, drawing a large shadowed circle between the arches. “Do you think he will honor his bargain and give his blood to unite the Deck?”

“It’s not his blood to give,” Filick said, hard enough to make Elm look up. “It’s Miss Spindle’s, isn’t it?”

Elspeth. If the Shepherd King was telling the truth—and that was a big if

—the blood that would unite the Deck would be Elspeth’s.

Elm signed. “Ravyn must be in hell.”

There was nothing to say after that, because saying the truth would hurt too much. Ravyn was in love with Elspeth Spindle. And by Solstice, she, if she wasn’t already, would surely be dead.

Filick pored over his book and Elm his sketchbook, the afternoon slipping away. Elm’s drawing became more detailed. The arches became an eye. Next to it he drew a contoured nose, then another eye. A face. A mouth. Shadows and highlights.

Deep within the castle, the gong sounded five times.

“It’ll be dinner soon.” Filick peered over his spectacles at Elm’s black tunic. “I believe the traditional Rowan color is gold.”

“So it is,” Elm said to his sketchbook. “But I’m not going to dinner.” “Another drunken appointment in the cellar?”

His stylus stilled. He’d been tipsy, not drunk. Certainly not drunk enough to forget a single moment of last night. His skin—his fingers and

mouth—had kept the score of it. When he’d woken that morning, hard and sore and so bloody bothered, it had taken ten minutes in a frigid bath just to make use of his own limbs. And still, he could not forget.

He’d wanted to go straight to Ione’s room and finish what they’d started, to obey her command and rip her out of her dress. But pride had stopped him. He’d laid his darkest truths before her in the cellar—practically pleaded with her to toy with him.

And now—now Elm had no idea what to do. She’d run off without a backward glance, leaving him reeling. So he’d spent the day in the library, the only place in Stone he didn’t hate. The only place he’d be free of reminders of Ione Hawthorn.

But that wasn’t exactly true. Because, when Elm looked down at his sketchbook, he realized the face he’s spent half an hour drawing was hers.

His fingers flexed along his stylus. It wasn’t a true likeness. She looked too much at ease on paper, not frozen by the Maiden like she was in real life. But her eyes, he’d gotten right. Clear and unreadable. Cold, and just a little wicked.

He ripped her portrait out of the sketchbook, balling it in his fist. “My father is a fool if he thinks dangling Blunder’s daughters under my nose will entice me to choose a wife. Taking Hauth’s place is wretched enough without adding a strange woman to my everyday existence.”

When Elm had told Filick that the King had thrust the throne upon him, the Physician had sighed in the way those who’d lived a great many years sighed at those who’d clocked only a few. “I know you well enough to keep my opinions to myself, Elm.”

“A small mercy.”

“But, if you’d humor an old man just once more,” he said, “you’d let me tell you what a fine King you’d make—what a blessing you’d be to those of us who still hope to see a better future for this cold, unfeeling place.”

Elm’s chest tugged. He looked back at his sketchbook. “You’re getting soft, Physician.”

Filick’s laugh was a low, steady rumble. “I am. And that changes nothing of what I’ve said.”

A quarter of an hour later, when Elm was alone and staring at nothing, Filick’s words stayed with him. And the irony, the bitter truth of it all, came crashing down. Ione. The Maiden Card. Hauth. The throne.

He could free himself from marrying—from becoming heir. Ione had all but handed him the means. All it would take was a Maiden Card and Hauth would be healed. The line of succession would return to normal. Elm could get his life back.

But that freedom had a cost. A terrible, violent cost. And Hauth’s wrath, should he be healed, was a darkness rivaled only by the five-hundred-year- old monster who had maimed him in the first place.

Elm couldn’t risk waking his brother. Which left only one loathsome alternative. He, Prince Renelm Rowan, would marry and become the next King of Blunder.

The sound of rustling fabric and a small cough pulled him from his thoughts. His eyes shot up. Maribeth Larch, daughter of Ode Larch, whose estate yielded most of Blunder’s grain supply, stood in front of Elm’s chair, fingers inching along a nearby shelf. “Beg your pardon, Highness,” she said. “I didn’t intend to disturb you.”

Elm snapped his sketchbook shut and fixed his mouth with an unfeeling smile. To disturb him was exactly what she’d intended. He could tell by the plant of her feet—the expectant look in her eyes—that she’d been standing there some time.

He didn’t stand, didn’t bow or offer her his hand. Which was rude and the opposite of what the future King should do. But he was comfortable, deep in his chair, and she’d intruded upon a rare moment of gentle solitude. “Miss Larch,” he said. “Have you lost your way?”

She hadn’t. The small smile fixed across her painted lips made that perfectly clear. “A Prince of many talents,” she said, not answering his question, her eyes flickering to the sketchbook in his lap. “What are you drawing?”

“Nothing.” Elm had seen Maribeth at court. He knew her father—her brothers. She was pretty, tall, with a warm presence and thick brown hair she often wore in a coronet. But now her hair was down, swept over her shoulder. “I’m waiting for inspiration.”

Maribeth bent to peer at a low shelf, the rounded tops of her breasts swelling over her neckline. “Do you draw from reference or memory?”

The smell of wine. Heat from the hearth. The shape of Ione’s mouth when she parted her lips—her eyes, clear and sharp and homed entirely on him.

“Memory,” Elm said in a low voice, running his thumb along the balled- up portrait in his hand. “Why? Are you offering to pose for me, Miss Larch?”

She smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she stepped forward. But the blush of red in her cheeks—the way her eyes flickered from his to the floor—gave her away. She was nervous. She took the chair Willow had occupied and lowered herself into it. Without meeting Elm’s eyes, she inched her dress up her leg until it was almost at her knee, revealing smooth, olive skin.

She wasn’t wearing leggings. “If you’d like to draw me, Prince Renelm, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Elm sat deeper into his chair. He knew enough of life at court to know when he was being propositioned. It felt familiar, like a book he’d read many times. Which was why he’d been taking the contraceptive tonic since he was seventeen. They were alone, and unlikely to be interrupted. There didn’t have to be a bed, but if she wanted one, there were plenty of empty guest rooms—so long as it wasn’t his bed. If she wasn’t already wet, he would get her there before he’d let her touch him. And even when he did let her touch him, he wouldn’t let her take his clothes off. He’d do that himself. Or he’d leave them on, loosening only his belt and trousers. He felt safer that way.

He’d put his mouth against her ear and ask what she liked. She’d be reticent to say—or maybe not—but she wouldn’t look him in the eye. He’d please her with his fingers or mouth. Maybe he’d give all of himself, working on her until she met her release, finding his own somewhere along the way or not at all, all the while knowing, behind the swell of his desire— the tight, rising exhilaration—an empty feeling waited. An aloneness.

After, despite the emptiness, Elm would help her dress. Cheeks red, mouth swollen from kissing, she’d finally meet his gaze. When he was younger, he fancied that’s when women saw him. Not the Prince, not Renelm—but Elm. Elm, who wanted to be liked, to be seen. Petulant, reticent Elm.

But he knew better now. And it humiliated him that he’d ever thought the women he’d bedded had seen the real him. They hadn’t. Mostly because he hadn’t let them. He’d reached into women to find himself, when all he really wanted was for someone to look at him. To admit they knew what

had happened to him as a boy and still hold him, unflinching, in their gaze.

The way Ione had last night.

His grip tightened on the crumpled portrait in his hand. “You don’t have to do this, Miss Larch.” He rested his face against his palm, keeping his eyes on Maribeth’s face, away from her bare leg. “It’ll come to no good.”

Her smile faded.

Elm might have dismissed her outright, but the nervousness stamped across her face made him wonder if this had even been her idea. Perhaps she had a meddling mother. Or a grasping father, like Tyrn Hawthorn. “You’re very beautiful.” He forced lightness into his voice. “But you should know, these feasts are the King’s doing. Not mine.”

Maribeth’s grip loosened on her dress, the fabric slipping back over her leg. She tried once more to smile. “And if I merely wanted my picture drawn?”

Elm offered his own smile. “Did you?”

“No, I suppose not.” She cleared her throat. “A folly on several accounts, for I imagine the King has picked someone out for you already, just as he chose Miss Hawthorn for the High Prince.” She gave a rushed bow, then quit the library. “Good afternoon, Highness.”

The stylus slipped through Elm’s fingers. He sat up too quickly, his sketchbook spilling onto the floor. He didn’t remember his father choosing Ione for Hauth—because the King hadn’t chosen her. There’d been an agreement with Tyrn. A Nightmare Card for a marriage contract.

A barter.

Elm rose from his chair, tucking Ione’s portrait into his pocket, and headed for the stairs.

 

 

He found the man he was looking for on the first landing, announcing families on their way to the great hall for dinner. “Baldwyn.”

The King’s steward jumped, his rounded spectacles falling askew. Baldwyn Viburnum had always reminded Elm of a kitchen rat, with his coarse, thinning black hair. His nose was short and narrow, and the spectacles that sat on its bridge were often smudged. Snide, without a whit

of humor, Baldwyn was as pleasant to speak to as the inside of a chamber pot. He’d always been cruel to Emory.

Elm despised him.

Baldwyn straightened his spectacles and ran a hand over his hair. “Prince Renelm. Are you going down to dinner? It’s the first feast in your honor.”

“No, listen—”

Behind them, families waited to be announced. Which was utter nonsense. These fools had attended dozens of dinners together. If they didn’t know each other’s names by now, another screech from Baldwyn wasn’t going to do the trick.

But it was tradition. And Elm was fairly certain Baldwyn would rather throw himself down the stairs than offend tradition. “Announcing,” he boomed, “Lord and Lady Juniper and their daughter, Miss Isla Juniper.”

The Junipers bowed to Elm, the daughter taking an extended glance, and went down the stairs.

“I need to look at the King’s contracts,” he said to Baldwyn, keeping his voice low. “His marriage contracts in the last month.”

“Any particular reason, sire?”

Elm fixed his mouth with a false smile. “If I’m expected to wed, I’d like to understand the business end of things.”

Baldwyn began to respond, but another family came up behind Elm. “Announcing Sir Chestnut and his son, Harold.”

The Chestnuts bowed. Elm greeted them with a flick of his wrist and kept his eyes on Baldwyn. “Well, little man? Where can I find the contracts?”

“I keep them in the record chamber off the library, sire.” “Brilliant.” Elm turned to leave—

“It’s locked, Prince Renelm.”

Elm heaved a sigh. “As to that. What did Ravyn do with the keys when he left?”

“You mean your keys, Highness?” “Yes. My bloody keys.”

Baldwyn cleared his throat as another family came up. “Announcing—” Elm put a finger in his face. “The keys.”

Baldwyn blinked down at his finger, momentarily cross-eyed. “I—the

Captain left them with Physician Willow. But that’s not a Physician’s job, and Captain Yew had no business—”

“You’re testing me, steward.”

Baldwyn reached for his belt, brass clanging. Elm held out his hand, clamping his fingers around the iron ring that housed dozens of keys. “Much obliged.”

He pushed through the families crowding the landing, never minding that they were all watching him. But the glee of embarrassing Baldwyn dissipated the moment Elm got to the record chamber. He hadn’t thought to ask which key opened it.

Ten minutes later, he was still locked out. “Clever indeed,” he muttered though his teeth. Ravyn would have known which key was right. Well, bloody good for Ravyn. Must be nice, having all that control, never shouldering a father’s disappointment, never making a complete ass of yourself with a woman in the cellar—

A small brass key slid into place, and the lock clicked open. Elm kissed the key and immediately regretted it, remembering too late the ring had been fastened to Baldwyn’s belt.

He crept into the chamber. There were cabinets—stacks of drawers— filled with parchment bearing the King’s seal. He discovered property deeds and knighthoods. Detailed histories of Providence Cards and who owned them.

Then, finally, marriage contracts. Something Elm hadn’t spent five minutes of his entire life considering.

There were so many of them. Hundreds. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise. People got married all the time. But a Prince—a High Prince— wasn’t people.

And neither was Hauth. It took Elm all of two minutes to spot the King’s seal in the pile. He dug with hurried fingers, the smell of parchment filling his nose. He pulled the contract free, his eyes stilling on a name. Ione Hawthorn.

He read the contract, his gaze running over repeated words. Providence Card, Hawthorn, marriage, heir.

He froze and read it again. Then again. For every time he read it, the corners of Elm’s mouth lifted until a smile unfurled.

He didn’t put the contract back with the others. He slipped it under his

tunic and left the room, keys jingling. And because he was a rotten Prince, and a piss-poor Destrier at that, Elm didn’t lock the door behind him.