Idly, he rubbed the brand on his neck, feeling the indentations of an old wound long since healed. Then he broke the royal seal to read the invitation, though the details didn’t matter—whatever the event, he would be required to present himself for approval to a court seat.
A ball. Princess Eliza’s seventeenth birthday.
“We’ll attend,” Baron said. Somehow the words emerged in a normal tone despite the tightness of his throat.
Martin nodded.
Leon pursed his lips toward the parchment. “How many heirloom vases do you think a palace has?”
His brother’s words seemed the perfect summation of Baron’s dread.
86 days left
Aria was late to the meeting.
She rushed into the throne room at least ten minutes after everyone else had arrived, interrupting her father mid-sentence. He paused only a moment, casting her a glance, but Aria could tell by his deep frown that her efforts to compose her disheveled appearance hadn’t entirely succeeded. The fact that he chose not to comment on her arrival boded worse than his frown.
This was her third tardy attendance; he now expected it.
Though she wished to turn and run, Aria instead slunk up the dais and into her seat. Only then did she realize she’d forgotten her journal.
Disorganized. Mark.
It was worse than that. Without something to keep her hands busy, she would inevitably fall asleep.
Not now. Please, no.
“You’re certain of it?” her father asked Marquess Haskett, though Aria couldn’t remember what the man had said to begin the exchange.
“Undoubtedly, Your Majesty. Our border guards report an increase in travel to Patriamere. Most noteworthy is how many of those traveling are branded Casters with a large number ofpossessions. It seems to be an exodus. I would be interested to hear from the southern ports.”
Whispered conversations spread through the wings.
Aria resisted the urge to flex her hands. Instead, she wiggled her toes within her shoes as much as she could without displaying movement. The action barely dispelled her weariness, and worse still, though she stifled her yawn by clenching her teeth, she couldn’t prevent her eyes from watering.
Every morning for the last two weeks, she used a stash of her mother’s best powders and concealers to paint the skin around her eyes, hiding the puffy bags. The purple of her tired skin nearly matched that of her amethyst pendant and gown.
Every night for the last two weeks, the entire castle fell under Widow Morton’s thrall. Except for Aria. She remained awake, desperately combing the library for knowledge of magic, of Casters, of curses—anything to combat her situation.
Her search had proved futile so far, and her one comfort had come in reading of the ancient Vallan invasion, when the palace had been besieged for six months. She, too, faced an enemy waiting out of reach, hoping she would starve. And if that enemy was to be believed, Aria’s resources would last only one hundred days.
Eighty-six now.
At least no one in her family seemed to be suffering besides herself. Yet. She glanced at her father and saw no sign of tiredness in his rigid posture and attention.
What was being discussed again?
Aria stifled a groan. She felt her mind determined to float away, and she continuously tethered it in place only to find it free again, leaving her to wonder if she’d not tied it well enough or if she’d never tied it at all and only imagined the effort.
At night, she felt no tiredness at all. Instead, restless energyburned in every limb and would not abate unless shemoved. She even had to pace while reading.
Yet during the day, every weariness imaginable suffused her bones, dragging her into sleep at the worst possible moments.
If she could have slept the days away to make up for the nights, she would have gratefully given into the temptation, but it was not that simple. Even alone in a quiet, dark room, she could catch no more than half an hour of sleep before her body awoke on its own, heart racing as if she ran with hounds at her heels, an unexplained terror squeezing her chest. It seemed worse to sleep than to resist, though she often couldn’t help it.
After resisting for a week, trying and failing to solve things on her own, she’d at last decided to tell her father about the curse, no matter how shameful she felt about having walked herself into this trap. But when she’d tried to speak of it, her jaw clenched shut. Just as the curse forbade sleep, it forbade discussion.
And so, day and night, the madness persisted.
