Jenny’s face was drawn and pale. She wore her hair in the same two wispy, fraying braids as she had all night, though she usually replaited them each morning. Unshed tears shimmered in her brown eyes. Her voice emerged as a quiet rasp. “Some of the other servants ... have noticed me falling asleep during duties. There’s been rumors ... daughters of the king and then a servant ...” She swallowed hard, and a tear slipped free, followed by another. “His Majesty ordered I leave. So I wanted ... to say goodbye.”
Aria clenched her jaw at her father’s continued rampage. “Tell him you can’t leave yet, that you need time to find a new arrangement. One day. I need one more day.”
“Highness, I—”
Aria grabbed her hands, squeezing tightly. “Aria. Just Aria. And I will not accept your goodbye. I will not lose another sister.”
Jenny’s eyes widened. She glanced at the door, as if guards would burst in at the very mention of her illegitimate heritage. Then she looked down at their joined hands. When she gave a small sob, Aria pulled her into a hug, and they held each other as the morning light grew brighter through the window slats.
When Jenny pulled free, she wiped her eyes and looked down at the carpet of disheveled parchment. “Do you need more help?”
Aria’s laugh held a touch of panic. “Desperately. Here, this wine is from Baron. It’ll keep you awake.”
She thought Jenny might protest the magic, but she didn’t, and they got to work. Jenny obediently moved books and stacks of parchment wherever Aria asked, and she listened as Aria read sections from her in-progress peace agreement. The girl’s solemn, observant insights saved Aria a good deal of embarrassment.
A servant from the kitchen brought a breakfast tray, relayedby a guard through the door. Cook had made Aria’s favorite breakfast rolls, baked with apples and maple. Aria ate two, insisted Jenny have the rest, and returned to work renewed.
“I’m missing something,” she murmured, snatching up her grandmother’s journal again. Queen Theresa’s handwriting, cramped and shaky, made it difficult to read. More difficult still were her wandering thoughts, weighing down the page with random and inconsequential things.
“Dorothy Ames.” Aria tapped the page, looking up. “The Affiliate.”
Jenny paused, maple roll halfway to her mouth. “She was ... executed.”
“Almost forty years ago, when my father was a child. My grandmother sentenced her according to the law against shapeshifters, then made restitution to her family. But this entry is from the day my parents got married. Right in the middle of talking about marriage and alliances, my grandmother starts talking about Dorothy.”
“Perhaps she felt bad? Dorothy was young. I never thought about that, since she was ... a shapeshifter.”
Aria’s eyes widened. “Jenny, you’re brilliant.”
She searched through laws to find the ones concerning shapeshifters, then returned to her grandmother’s journal, then to her own notes. The morning dwindled quickly, much too quickly for all Aria had to accomplish in a single day.
When lunch arrived, she’d returned to drafting the new peace agreement. Rather than setting her quill aside, she ate pear slices and dates while continuing to write. After her fifth draft went in the fire, she stood up to pace, drinking another cup of Baron’s wine to stay alert during the day.
“It’s getting better,” said Jenny, turning the logs over to cover the ashes of Aria’s failed attempts.
Aria smiled. She twisted her loose hair up, pinned it with Corvin’s comb, and sat down to draft a sixth.
When a servant came to retrieve the lunch tray halfway through the afternoon, it was not anyone Aria had expected—it was Cook herself. Apparently the guards couldn’t hold back the fierce woman, who no doubt threatened them with a wooden spoon until they allowed her to stand at the door.
“New challenger at the castle,” Cook said. “Familiar sort, missing two brothers. Seems very determined. King won’t be able to meet with him for another half hour.”
“He’ll be killed,” Aria whispered in horror. With the way her father had responded to Silas’s disappearance the previous day ...
“Daft lad needs some help.” Cook gave a pointed look.
Aria couldn’t leave her room, and even if she could, her presence would not help her father’s mood. In fact, if he saw her with Baron, he would no doubt think the entire thing somehow a trap.
The pit within her stomach grew, and she clutched the door. She wished he would have written, wished she could have spoken to him before he’d announced his intentions at the gate. When she’d told him she was going to Northglen, she’d not intended to endanger him by dragging him along, not when his first priority should be caring for his brothers. If she got him killed—
Cook grunted. “I’ve got dough proofing. It can’t wait all day.”
Whether the comment was meant to be veiled instruction or not, Aria took it as such. Baron would soon meet with the king whether she did anything or not.
“Of course. Just a moment, though—I’ve remembered I kept a plate from breakfast.”
“Hurry it up, then.”
Aria closed the door, then rushed to her writing materials. Hernote to Baron was hasty and smudged, and she hoped it would be enough. She slid it beneath her plate on the tray.
