There are five men at this table, and most of them want to kill each other. It’s making negotiations difficult.

There’s another young woman, too, but I don’t think either of us are having murderous thoughts. Karri looks overwhelmed by the fact that she’s inside the palace. Her brown eyes are wide, and her slender fingers keep fidgeting with the seam of her skirts. A month ago, we would’ve been whispering about this whole situation, sharing our worries and trying to help each other cope with all that’s happened. But now she’s in love with one of the leaders of the rebel faction, while I’m involved with the king’s brother. That’s built a barrier between us that tugs at my heart—but I don’t know how to tear it down. Right now, it seems thicker than the wall surrounding the Royal Sector.

Quint probably doesn’t want to kill anyone either. The Palace Master is sitting at the opposite end, ostensibly here to keep a record of everything said. His jacket is only half buttoned, a loose lock of red hair drifting across his forehead. He’s scratching notes in a leather-bound folio with a fountain pen.

Lochlan, the rebel leader, is seated to my left, and he casts a glare at Quint every few moments. If he had his way, he’d probably kill everyone. He already tried once.

“What is he writing?” Lochlan says. “What are you

doing?”

Quint finishes whatever he was writing, then looks up. “I am here to document your demands,” he says equably. “And the resulting response.”

“I haven’t made any demands yet,” Lochlan growls.

Quint isn’t easily cowed. I’ve seen him maintain composure while pieces of the Royal Sector were literally burning to the ground, so a little aggression barely registers. He’s also one of the most considerate men I’ve ever met, and he has a bizarre talent for making people feel at ease during the prickliest of situations.

Quint sets down his pen and turns the paper around so it’s more easily visible. “Just now, I was recording the names of those in attendance,” he says plainly, without a lick of condescension, “along with the date and location of our meeting. I would gladly have a copy made for you to review, if you would like.”

Lochlan glances at the paper, then back up at Quint. His jaw is tight.

“He’s just taking notes,” Karri says softly, with an apologetic glance at me. She rests a hand on Lochlan’s forearm, but he doesn’t relax.

Across from Karri is Allisander Sallister, the consul of Moonlight Plains. He should be in prison—or more likely, swinging from the end of a rope—yet he maneuvered his way out of a death sentence when he claimed that no one could handle the harvesting and distribution of Moonflower petals with as much efficiency as the truce with the rebels demanded. The worst part is that he’s probably right. It’s the only reason he’s sitting here. Eight weeks isn’t a lot of

time to dispense medicine. It’s already taken two just to get everyone into the same room.

Allisander’s expression is a combination of boredom and arrogance. He sighs and pulls a gold pocket watch from under the table to glance at it.

“Do you have somewhere to be, Consul?” says Corrick, seated at one end of the table, directly to my right. His voice is cold, his blue eyes like ice. This is the Prince Corrick I once feared. The one many people in Kandala still fear.

He’d light Consul Sallister on fire right this very instant if he could.

The consul glances up. “Many places I’d rather be. Surely you could have waited to summon me until the ignorants were fully instructed as to the typical arrangement of a meeting.”

Lochlan’s chair scrapes back as he begins to rise. “Are you insulting me, you spoiled—”

“You have to ask?” Consul Sallister strokes his goatee. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Enough,” says King Harristan, and I can’t tell if he’s talking to Consul Sallister, to Lochlan, or to the guards who’ve moved away from the door to prevent any trouble. But the king’s voice is low, coolly placid. A level command spoken by a man who’s used to immediate obedience. His eyes, a darker blue than his brother’s, shift to me. “Tessa, you should begin.”

“Right,” I say. “Of course.” I smooth my hands over my skirts to calm my nerves, but the slippery silk does nothing to quell my anxiety. I’m probably leaving handprints on the material.

I wish I were back in the infirmary, calculating dosages with the palace physicians. Weights and measures and vials don’t care about diplomacy.

Really, though, if I could wish for anything, I’d wish to be back in the Wilds, sneaking through the darkness with Wes. Picking locks and stealing medicine might have been dangerous—and illegal—but I always felt like I was making a difference.

Here in the palace, trying to convince everyone to work together, I feel like I’m just making a mess. King Harristan and Prince Corrick have been seen as callous and cruel for so long that it’s going to be tough to get anyone at this table to agree.

Allisander sighs and peers at his pocket watch again.

Harristan clears his throat.

Corrick doesn’t glance at me, but he picks up his pen and scratches a few words at the base of his own folio, then casually sets the pen down. The motion draws my eye to the words.

Mind your mettle.

I almost flush. He used to say that to me when we were outlaws: times when we were in danger, or when the sickness was too much to bear. It always helped.

It helps now.

I nod slightly, then look around the table. “Consul Sallister has promised medicine for eight weeks, but beyond that—”

“It should have been two,” the consul says. “It was eight,” says Harristan.

“It should have been two. I told Corrick that eight was impossible when he made this ridiculous guarantee. Before any of this happened, I said that the spring rains had caused a supply issue—”

“You said there could be a supply issue,” Corrick says. “And there is,” Allisander says. “If you aren’t making

payment for eight weeks of medicine, I don’t have the

guaranteed revenue to pay my workers, so you can’t blame them for walking off the fields.”

“So there … won’t be eight weeks of medicine?” Karri says.

“There will be,” says the king, and his voice has a note of finality. “Consul Sallister made the promise as witnessed and recorded. If you’ve stopped paying your laborers, Consul, you can work the fields yourself. Tessa, continue.”

I take a deep breath. “I have been sharing my findings with the palace physicians, and we feel that combining Moonflower with roseseed oil to create a longer-lasting elixir may allow the medicine to have a greater effect in a smaller quantity.”

“Or more people could die,” Consul Sallister says. He sounds like he wouldn’t mind.

“Perhaps you could wait in the Hold,” Corrick says icily. “I’m certain Quint would be happy to provide a copy of the meeting notes to you as well.”

“Tessa,” Harristan says evenly, as if neither of them have said a word. “Continue.”

“If we were to adjust the dosage this way, the eight weeks of medicine could stretch to twelve weeks—”

“Is he right?” says Lochlan. “Would more people die?”

“I don’t think so,” I say honestly. “When I was delivering medicine in the Wilds, we provided a similar dosage, and we saw it work.”

Lochlan is looking at me intently. “So you say.”

I don’t flinch from his gaze. “You saw it yourself! You know the people trusted us.”

“The people trusted you.” He turns his glare on Corrick. “No one trusts the King’s Justice when he’s not wearing a mask.”

I expect Corrick to snap back, the way he did to Allisander, but he holds Lochlan’s gaze. “My goal is to

change that.” He pauses. “In this, you don’t need to trust me. I don’t claim to be an apothecary. Tessa is right. I saw her medicine work.”

Lochlan doesn’t move. It’s clear that he doesn’t trust anyone.

Quint’s pen keeps scratching across the paper, loud in the silence of the room. I wonder if he’s only writing down what’s said, or if it’s more. Quint notices everything. I imagine he’s recording every glance, every shift in weight.

“I trust Tessa,” Karri says softly.

Lochlan glances at her. In that moment, something in his gaze gentles. After he incited a mob that nearly killed Corrick, and later, led a murderous rebellion into the Royal Sector, I have a hard time finding anything about him likable. But every time he looks at Karri like that, it tugs at my heart and reminds me that he does care. Not just about her. About everyone.

So do I.

“So this buys you more time,” Lochlan finally says. “Then what? What happens at twelve weeks?”

“If we can prove to others that a lower dose works in the Wilds,” I say, “then we can encourage more people among the sectors to use a lower dose. It allows for more medicine to be spread among more people.”

“So you’re testing your medicine on people too poor to know better,” says Lochlan.

“No! I wouldn’t classify it that way—” “Yes,” says Allisander.

“We’re testing it on him, too,” says Corrick. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

The consul inhales sharply, his eyes like thunder.

“What?” says Corrick. “Did you think we were tricking the populace while taking a full dose here in the palace?”

“This is absurd!” Consul Sallister cries. “You—you are purchasing full dose allotments and then—”

“Making it last longer,” says King Harristan.

Karri smiles. She looks at Lochlan. “See?” she says brightly. “I trust Tessa.”

I give her a grateful smile back.

Lochlan doesn’t smile. “I don’t trust any of them.” He pauses. “I can’t take this back to the others. They won’t trust this either. Give us the full dosage. Test your medicine here.”

“Trust must go both ways,” says Harristan.

“You still haven’t said what will happen at the end of the twelve weeks,” says Lochlan.

“We are hopeful that the people will see that a lower dosage will allow us to keep more people healthy, and they will be willing to—”

Lochlan snorts. “Don’t you see?” He’s glaring at me. “Half the people in this sector are sitting on Moonflower petals that they’ve been hoarding for months. And you’re hopeful they’ll use less in a matter of weeks? Because you say it works on people in the Wilds?” He turns that glare on Allisander. “You don’t seem very hopeful.”

“I don’t really care what happens to people in the Wilds,” says Allisander. “If you want more medicine than what I’m being forced to provide, buy it.” He glances at the rebel’s left arm, still splinted and bandaged from the day Corrick broke it in the prison. “Ah. I suppose you can’t work in the forges now, can you? So you need to beg? Under this pretense of helping—”

Lochlan lunges across the table.

Or he tries to. Two of the guards grab him before he can get a hand on the consul, but not before he knocks over two glasses that send water streaming along the polished wood of the table. Allisander lifts an aggrieved eyebrow and

shoves his chair back a few inches, but otherwise makes no effort to stop the mess. An attendant moves away from the wall with a cloth ready.

The guards are wrestling Lochlan back, and he swears. They must twist his injured arm because his voice cuts off with a gasp, and a bloom of sweat breaks out on his forehead.

“Do something,” I whisper to Corrick.

His blue eyes meet mine. “Hang them both?”

“Corrick,” I breathe. I’m not entirely sure he’s teasing.

“They’re both at fault here,” he says pointedly, for all at the table to hear. “We’ll never make any headway if the two of you are content to attack each other.”

“Fine,” Lochlan grinds out. “Let me go.”

Karri has risen from her seat, and she glances between Lochlan and me. The guards look to the king.

“Release him,” says Harristan. He looks at Allisander. “You will keep your silence, Consul. If you cannot speak in good faith, then you will not speak at all.”

“I am speaking in good faith, Your Majesty.” Allisander’s words are full of contempt. “You can ban me from your meetings and lower my dosages and make all the arrangements you like, but on this point, the brute and I agree. The sectors will not accept a hypothesis you’ve tested on those who have nothing to lose. Those who would be motivated to lie if it’s a means to more handouts. It is not only the rebels whose trust you need to earn.”

Corrick and Harristan exchange a glance. Quint never stops writing.

“The people won’t lie,” says Karri, and there’s heat in her voice.

Allisander turns his disdainful glare her way. “You people were willing to burn down the entire sector. I doubt lying is beyond anyone’s capabilities.”

As much as I hate Consul Sallister, he’s not entirely wrong. This isn’t just about getting the rebels to trust Harristan and Corrick and … well, me. Everyone needs to.

Lochlan jerks his clothes straight and drops into a chair. “No one is lying. We also came here in good faith, remember?”

“Because you narrowly escaped an execution?” Allisander sniffs.

“So did you,” Lochlan snaps.

“Enough,” says Harristan, and there’s a pulse of anger in his voice. He takes a thin breath, then clears his throat. Twice.

I watch Corrick’s attention zero in on his brother. The king has been hiding a cough for months. At first, I thought it was because he truly needed more medicine than everyone else due to a lingering illness from his childhood. Allisander admitted to cheating the palace of pure Moonflower petals, but that problem was solved weeks ago. His cough should be gone.

It’s not.

Quint’s pen stops. He looks up, assesses the situation quicker than a heartbeat, and says, “Finn, I believe everyone could do with some refreshments.”

A footman moves away from the wall, and the king’s cough is covered by the sudden rattle of china and silver.

Corrick is still staring at his brother. A flicker of worry crosses his expression, almost too quick to notice.

I pick up my own pen, then reach over and circle the words he wrote earlier.

It draws his gaze to mine, and he offers a small nod, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t vanish. I wish I could rest a

hand over his or whisper a reassurance, but neither would be welcome. Everything is so uncertain. I don’t want to weaken him.

Finn is setting a cup of tea before each person at the table, along with a small plate featuring a delicate pastry that’s been drizzled with chocolate, a wedge of apple beside a tiny pot of honey, and a thinly sliced strawberry that’s been dusted with pink sugar.

Karri is staring at the plate, her eyes wide. I remember doing the same thing.

Lochlan is glaring at the food. Allisander looks bored.

The king has taken a sip of his tea, and it seems to have staved off his cough. I wish he wouldn’t hide it. He doesn’t want to be seen as weak, I’m sure, but I believe the opposite would be true: it would endear him to the people to see that he’s just as vulnerable as they are.

Then again, I understand why he doesn’t want that. Harristan and Corrick’s parents were assassinated right in front of them, so I can appreciate their worries.

Mine were too.

Karri looks like she’s afraid to touch the food, so I give her a smile, then pick up my apple wedge and dip it in the honey. “The apples are the best,” I say to her.

She smiles back, then picks up her own piece of fruit.

Lochlan hesitates, but maybe the lure of the decadent food is too much, because he does the same. It’s not a concession, but it feels like one.

Out in the hallway, voices echo, but the doors are closed, and we can’t make out the words. Even still, it’s unusual for anyone’s voice to be raised when they near a room where the king is residing. Aside from the guards in here, half a dozen more are on the other side of that door. Maybe more.

Harristan glances down the table at Corrick, who looks to one of the guards, and then to Quint: a bizarre silent communication that always seems to speak volumes in the space of time between heartbeats.

Quint sets his pen to the side and rises from the table. “I will return in a moment.” One of the guards joins him by the door.

Karri looks at me. “What’s happening?” she whispers.

I don’t want to be alarmed, but my heart is kicking in my chest. I was here when the rebels bombed the palace the first time. “I … I don’t …”

Corrick rests a hand over mine. “A palace matter,” he says smoothly. “Nothing concerning.”

Despite his words, I can feel the tension in his hand.

No one is eating now. Even Consul Sallister looks apprehensive.

Luckily, Quint returns in less than a minute. He leans down to say something softly to the king. Harristan is too well schooled in court politics, so his expression reveals nothing. But his eyes find Corrick’s again.

“It seems we may need to postpone our meeting,” Quint says evenly. “A matter has arisen requiring the king’s attention.”

“What matter?” demands Lochlan.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say—”

“It took two weeks to arrange this meeting. I won’t be tricked into waiting longer.” He glances around the table. “Especially since I’m pretty sure everyone else in this room will hear what’s so important.”

Quint inhales sharply, but Harristan lifts a hand. “You’re right. Not just everyone in this room. If the ship docked hours ago, rumors have likely already reached the Royal Sector.”

“Ship?” says Corrick. “What ship?”

“An emissary,” says Harristan, “has just arrived from Ostriary.”

I jerk my head around to look at Corrick. Ostriary is the country directly to Kandala’s west, sitting on the other side of a wide, dangerous river. Due to the difficulty of travel and the severity of the fevers, there’s never been any kind of trade agreement between countries. Weeks ago, I asked Corrick if there were a chance that Ostriary could provide medicine, and he said it would be nearly impossible to find out. At the very least, it would be expensive to even try.

He glances at me briefly, and I know he’s remembering our conversation. “Ostriary sent an emissary?”

“Not quite,” says Quint.

“They didn’t send an emissary.” Harristan runs a hand across the back of his neck, the first sign of strain from him. “Apparently, six years ago, we did.”