It was only the third feast, and Elm’s courtly charm was wearing thin. But his father was on the dais, drowning himself in sullenness and wine, and Elm would rather dance until his feet bled than sit in Hauth’s chair another moment.

The theme of the night was Providence Cards. Rather uninspired of Baldwyn, Elm thought, to make a theme out of something that already constituted so much of the idle chatter at court.

The costumes were… predictable. Gauche.

Most of the women wore pink gowns and roses in their hair—evoking the Maiden. Others were clad in violet for the Mirror Card, small silver looking glasses in their hands. Men wore turquoise for the Chalice—handy, for they all were drinking heavily from their cups.

There were a few white tunics adorned with feathered collars for the White Eagle, the Card of courage. One brave soul had fastened wires to the back of his doublet and strewn ivy around them to represent the Iron Gate. Another had stuffed his gold tunic with excess fabric, giving his midsection a rotund, oval shape. The Golden Egg.

Only the King wore red for the Scythe, and no one was festooned in black for the Black Horse. That right was reserved for the Destriers.

Elm wore it anyway.

The orchestra was larger by three violins, and played louder now that the dinner hour had ended and dancing begun. Wine flowed until it wore itself on everyone’s face, staining cheeks and lips and teeth.

It paid to be tall, and despite the swell of the crowd, Elm could easily eye every corner of the hall, searching for that telltale yellow hair. Ione was not partnered with any of the dancers, nor was she seated at any of the tables. Elm was about to drop his dance partner’s hands and go search the garden when he spotted a circle of women, standing along the farthest wall.

They were playing some sort of game with a Well Card. Of the six of them, four wore pink Maiden Card costumes, one violet for the Mirror. The final woman, yellow hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, had her back to Elm. She was clad in a deep burgundy gown, the color of wine. Her fingers were painted black to the knuckle, meant to convey claws.

The only Nightmare Card costume in the room.

The dance ended, and Elm realized he hadn’t heard a word his partner had said. He gave her a bow and moved on quick step through the crowd. When the circle of women saw him coming, their Well Card was forgotten, their gazes homed entirely on him—save Ione’s. She took her time turning around. When she finally deigned to, Elm saw that her lids were painted yellow—the same color as the eyes of the monster upon the Nightmare Card.

“Prince.” Her gaze, her face, mouth—all of them were unreadable. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing Scythe red.”

“As am I to find you in something other than pretty, pretty pink.”

“There is nothing wrong with pink.” She dragged her painted eyes over Elm’s black tunic and silk doublet. “You, terrible snob, look like a rich highwayman.”

“I believe he’s wearing black for the Black Horse, Ione,” one of the women whispered behind her.

Elm and Ione replied at the same time. “He’s not—” “—I’m not.”

The corners of Ione’s lips twitched. Elm rubbed the back of his neck— grinned. “What about you?” He waved a hand at her costume. “That’s quite the monstrous getup.”

Ione’s eyes dropped to her burgundy dress. “Your father gave it to me.

He ordered my hands and face painted, too.”

Elm’s smile faltered. Like the others she’d been given since arriving at Stone, the gown fit Ione poorly, her body lost to excess fabric. The only part that fit her tightly were the frills beneath her jaw. He was starting to think it

wasn’t an accident, that all of her necklines resembled a collar.

It was one thing if Ione had chosen the costume herself. Knowing his father had orchestrated it to punish her—

Heat torched his throat.

“I imagine the King wanted to remind me that the only reason I’m here is because of the Nightmare Card my father paid him.” Ione held up her hand, curling her painted fingers as if they were indeed claws. “Or perhaps he merely wished to call me a monster.”

The women behind Ione leaned forward. “Not at all, Ione. King Rowan paid you special care, seeing to your costume.”

“Truly,” said another. “The Rowans have been most attentive.”

“How difficult it must be, Ione,” a third chimed, “for you to see things in a gentle light, what with Prince Hauth abed with illness.”

Ione didn’t even blink. “Difficult indeed.” She turned to Elm. “I believe games have begun in the garden, Prince. Would you care to escort me there?”

Their eyes met. “Of course.” Never dropping her gaze, Elm brought Ione’s hand to his chest—pressed it into the soft fabric of his doublet. Adding the slightest pressure, he ran her fingers down his abdomen, wiping the black paint off her skin. He did the same with her other hand, his clothes absorbing her stain. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, Miss Hawthorn.”

They left the circle of women, hands still entwined. When they reached the garden’s gilded doors, Elm said, rougher than he meant to, “You’re not a monster.”

“I’m not anything until I have my Maiden Card back.”

Night air touched Elm’s overwarm brow. “Speaking of that,” he said, looking out into the labyrinthine gardens. “What part of the garden were you trying to search before Linden stopped you?”

“The rose maze. There are statues there with old, cracked stone.”

They followed the path, past courtiers playing games with White Eagle and Well and Chalice Cards. Past lovers sneaking behind hedges and beneath trees. Past bramble into dark greenery, until it was just Elm, Ione, the garden, and the mist.

“Do you have your charm?” Ione asked.

Elm flicked his wrist, his horsehair bracelet rubbing against his skin.

“You?”

She stretched fabric and pulled the horse tooth on its chain from beneath the neckline of her dress.

Elm took a torch from its stand and led them into a maze crafted of carefully pruned rosebushes that had all lost their blooms. They searched every statue—every crack in them.

Nothing.

Ione stayed silent, the only sound between them the distant echo of courtiers and the castle gong, ringing through the garden—nine tolls. For each statue that held no Maiden Card in its cracks, Elm lost a whit of forbearance. By the time the gong struck ten, he was buzzing with disquiet. “Are you angry with me?”

Ione’s gaze lifted slowly to his face. “No. Why would you think that?” “We haven’t found your Card.”

“That’s not your fault. You didn’t hide it.”

“No, but… you just seem—” He swallowed. “I don’t do well with long silences. I tend to overthink.”

“Is it Stone that bothers you, Prince? Or me?”

“You don’t bother me, Hawthorn.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “At least not in the same way the castle does.”

It was difficult to look at her. Beneath the ache that existed between them was a thin, fragile thread. One Ione had slipped through the eye of a needle and plunged into Elm’s chest, past all his bricks and barbs, though she didn’t yet realize it. It was uncomfortable, pretending she was not sewn into him—that it had not become vital to him, helping her find her Maiden Card. That he was not in some kind of pain every moment he was with her. It was all so terribly, wonderfully uncomfortable.

So Elm did what he always did when he was uncomfortable. He dropped his hand into his pocket and retrieved his Scythe. “What did you want this for?” he said. “When we played our little game with the Chalice and you were delusional enough to think I wouldn’t remember you?”

Ione felt along the cracks of a nearby statue. “I wanted to see if I could compel myself to remember where I hid my Maiden.”

“I could try. I can’t guarantee it’ll work—”

“No. I don’t want anyone to use a Scythe on me. Not even you, Prince.” It took Elm a moment. He winced. Fucking Hauth. He placed his Card

into Ione’s hand. “You do it, then.”

She cocked her head to the side, fingers closing around the Scythe. “You had some choice words for me the last time I held this Card in my hand.”

Elm tugged a strand of her hair that had fallen from its knot. “That’s because, wicked one, you stole it out of my damn pocket.”

“So I did.” Ione turned the Scythe in her fingers. “It almost felt… good, making the highwaymen do what I wanted.”

“And the pain of using it too long? How was that?”

The Scythe stilled. “Terrible. I don’t know how you bear it.”

“I’m used to it.” Elm kicked a rock down the path. “I had an extensive education in pain.”

Ione took a step back. Narrowed her eyes over him. “You shouldn’t be so cavalier about what happened to you, Prince.”

“What would you have me do? Burn the castle down with everyone in it?”

“That would be a start.”

A laugh rose up Elm’s throat. “Trees, Hawthorn. What a Queen you’d make.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. And, graciously, Ione didn’t reply. Her gaze merely flared a moment, then returned to the Scythe in her hand. She sucked in a breath, tapped it three times, and closed her eyes.

Elm stood very still. When those hazel eyes opened again, they were unfeeling. “No,” she said, handing him back his Card. “I just remember the same thing. Cracked stone.”

They moved out of the rose maze to the rowan grove. The mist was everywhere, a salty bite across Elm’s senses. It hovered densely over a small pond at the cusp of the grove. In the center of the pond was a tiny island, and upon it a statue. The stone was old, cracked. But there was no mistaking the man carved into marble.

Brutus Rowan. The first Rowan King.

Elm had thrown rocks at the statue as a boy. He didn’t like Brutus’s face. It was handsome, a smile carved onto its lips. But beneath the smile, a cold menace lingered. Brutus’s chest was broad—puffed out in dominance. His brows were lowered, his vision fixed on something only he could see, a hunter watching its prey. It reminded Elm too much of his father—of Hauth.

He eyed the pond. “Do you remember swimming on Equinox?” “No. But my dress was ruined enough that I might have.”

“If I wanted to put a Maiden Card out of reach,” Elm said, gesturing at the statue, “I might compel someone to take a little swim to hide it.”

Her brows perked. “There?”

Elm was already taking off his boots. “No stone left unturned, Hawthorn.” He shrugged out of his doublet and lifted his tunic and silk undershirt over his head. When he caught Ione tracing the bare skin along his back, he smiled. “Sorry.” He nodded at his discarded clothes. “I should have asked if you wanted to help with that.”

He dove into the pond. The water was cold and slippery with algae. Elm kept his eyes shut and kicked, reaching the island in ten strokes.

There was no room to stand, the island hardly larger than the base of the statue. Elm braced himself on Brutus Rowan’s marble arm and hauled himself out of the water, mist lingering all around him.

“Well?” Ione called.

He searched the statue’s cracks. Some were fine, others jagged. There was a fissure in Brutus Rowan’s chest, deep and wide enough for Elm to slip a finger into. But there was nothing in the gap—just cold stone. Not a single hint of a Providence Card’s velvet edge. “Nothing.”

He pulled his finger out, closed his fist, and hit Brutus Rowan over his stupid marble chest.

The statue groaned. The fissure in Brutus’s chest widened, spreading down his legs until one large crack became hundreds.

“Shit.”

Brutus Rowan’s marble legs snapped at the ankles and the statue toppled into the pond, taking Elm with it. He hit the water, pushed under by the weight of the marble, held his breath, and swam. When his back collided with the grassy embankment, he flung himself upon it, hauled in a breath—

Mist rushed into him.

It tasted of brine and rot. It filled Elm’s lungs, his body, his mind. He went rigid on the ground, his eyes wide as he fumbled for his wrist, for the familiar feel of horsehair—

His charm was gone. Lost, somewhere in the pond. “Prince?”

Elm coughed. When he tried to speak, his voice was drowned out by

another. It came in the mist, sounding near and far, like a storm. Elm, it called. Rotten, ruined Elm. Neglected, now chosen. I see you, heir of Kings. I’ve always seen you.

Ione was in the grass next to him, her hands on his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

A compulsion as strong as any Scythe’s was digging into Elm, telling him to get up—to run deeper into the mist. He gnashed his teeth against it, his mouth dried out by salt. “Charm,” he managed.

Ione ripped the chain off her neck in a single tug. Elm’s hand was a claw in the grass. Ione pulled it toward her and slapped her own hand against it, her charm fixed between their palms.

The next breath Elm dragged in was bereft of mist. On the next, the rot and brine fled his body. His muscles loosened, and he looked up at Ione.

Yellow hair spilled from its knot, swaying with the rapid pull of her breaths. She studied Elm’s face. “Prince Renelm. It would be terribly unclever to die searching for my Maiden Card.”

Elm tightened his grip on her hand. “Don’t call me that,” he said, shaking. “It’s Elm. Just Elm.”

“Is that the privilege I get after twice saving your life?”

He pushed out of the grass, leaning close enough to see where the freckles on her nose should have been. “Thank you.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “I owe you.”

Ione’s breath quickened. “You’re helping me find my Card. Call it balance.”

He didn’t. He wanted to call it something else entirely.

They held hands, Ione’s charm pressed between them, until they were out of the mist and back through the garden’s gilded doors. Elm had a spare horsehair charm in his room, and he needed new clothes before they continued to search. He was lacing a fresh doublet when his chamber door banged open.

Filick Willow stood at his threshold, eyes wide.

“Oh for the love of—Filick. I thought we talked about knocking.”

There was blood on his white Physician’s tunic. “Highness.” His gaze moved to Ione, seated on Elm’s bed. “Miss Hawthorn. You should both come.”

Elm’s back stiffened. “What’s happened?”

“High Prince Hauth.” Dread. There was so much dread in the Physician’s eyes. “He’s awake.”