Still, I refused to give up, certain some kind of clue was hidden somewhere, or at least a soothing memory that could help dispel the anxiety coiling around my usual calm. I continued my rounds, rechecking what I’d already tested.
I touched the posts of the bed, the backs of chairs, the edge of the hearth, searching for anything of interest. Most offered only fragments—snippets of mundane memories. Faint echoes of dull conversations, diplomatic sighs, the brush of quills scratching dry reports.
Politicians and ambassadors who’d stayed here over the years. Their lives bored me—I had no interest in the nation’s politics…which made my entrapment in some contest to prove my worthiness as the heir all the more troublesome.
As my palm rested briefly on the carved vines of the side table, a pulse of emotion suddenly rippled beneath my skin—unexpected, sharp, one I recognized all too well:loneliness.
I blinked and pressed my fingers more firmly against the wood. This wasn’t a noble or a visiting official; the raw imprint familiar now that I’d experienced its sensation several times within the palace.
A memory flickered, half-formed—someone hiding, curled silent behind the table, their breathing shallow as they listened for footsteps beyond the door, desperately hoping not to be found.
I drew my hand back, unsettled. That presence had felt eerily similar to the one from the dungeon…and the portrait of the missing prince. But why would he be hidden in this borrowed chamber so far from the royal wing? Something caught my eye and I bent forward, inhaling sharply. Faint and crudely carvedon the table leg, as though done in haste, was the same sigil I’d seen in the dungeon. The prince’s mark. My heart rate increased as I pondered what could have caused him to leave these marks in such unusual places.
I slowly moved away from the table, strangely uneasy. I tried to tell myself the memory meant nothing, a ghost of grief from someone else's story. Yet something about it made it impossible to forget, a connection woven through invisible threads I’d never experienced when exploring an objects’ secrets.
Night eventually deepened outside, smothering the last of the light in a velvet black. The stars emerged, scattered like secrets too distant to touch. I lit one of the candles near the bedside; it flickered faintly, illuminating only enough to make the shadows dance.
The bed yawned behind me—mountains of silk and down, beckoning me to rest. But my skin still remembered the bruising weight of last night’s enchantment, the press of visions that weren’t quite dreams, and most of all the soundless pull towards a man I’d never met.
For a faltering moment I almost succumbed to the temptation…before hastily turning away and sinking into the velvet chair beside the hearth and creating a pillow from my bruised arms, staring at the fireless grate.
A wave of exhaustion swept over me, and I gave my head a fierce shake. I was well versed in long stretches of waiting as I scouted a place I wanted to infiltrate, and had trained myself to avoid sleep as I crouched still and silent.
To keep my mind active, I first took inventory of the room, noting anything I might be able to use: the heavy silken curtains that could hold my weight if I was able to open the window, the linen hand towels I could wrap around my boots to muffle my footsteps, the tools for tending the fire that could be makeshift weapons.
Then I replayed my walk to this room. As always, I’d counted my steps as I walked, and now I sought to weave together each twist and turn to create a blueprint—both to find my way out and to understand the palace layout in case I had the chance to steal anything.
My deepest desire was the most dangerous: to return to the prince’s chamber and hunt again for a clue. I had no doubt that it was currently under heavy guard, perhaps enough to dissuade even me. But my curiosity about his disappearance had only deepened, until even more than finding new memories to explore, I wanted to discover what had happened to him. A faint thought brushed the edge of my mind that there was something—or someone—else I needed to search for, but as the hour grew late I struggled to recall what had brought me to the palace in the first place.
I fought to stay awake…but sleep was a thief in its own right, coming whether invited or not. Despite my efforts to resist, the long day had taken its toll, allowing darkness to slip through my defenses and cradle me, beckoning me beneath consciousness. My thoughts unraveled into mist, then rewove themselves into something softer and unfamiliar.
Yet though I sank fully beneath the surface, I felt not lost in sleep but strangely awake. Gradually the room changed—blurring in a kaleidoscope of color. The walls shimmered faintly, like breath on glass. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, and the windows no longer showed stars, but swirling clouds streaked with silver light.
When it settled, the man from the portrait stood, waiting for me.
CHAPTER 6
Ifelt suspended, caught in a place between moments, a realm between waking and sleep. The bedroom where I’d curled beside the cold hearth had disappeared, as though I’d stepped into the reflection of a world I knew—familiar, but wrong in ways I couldn’t name.
The world around me swirled like a fog catching its breath. Then slowly, the haze began to settle. Shape and color took form, and I realized I was no longer in my elegant chamber. Instead I stood barefoot in a garden bathed in moonlight, the moss peeking through the cobblestones soft against my feet. Roses bloomed in tangled arches, their petals wilted or half-shed, clinging to bramble-thick vines that coiled around crumbling columns like ivy, beauty and thorns woven into one.
The air smelled of earth, sorrow, and memory. There was almost a reverence in the wild way the blossoms bloomed, a defiance against the proper rigidity I expected within the overgrown gardens of the summer palace…if that was where I stood.
Though this clearly wasn’t the waking world, it lacked the soft, surreal quality of dreams—the way they blurred at the edges, the wispy details dissolving with a single touch. My onlycertainty was that this place waselsewhere—not imagination, nor even the memories I often explored, but something far morealive.
Where am I?
I pinched myself sharply, but rather than waking, I lingered in this surreal realm whose details awashing my senses felt more vivid than any dream I’d ever experienced. If I hadn’t remembered falling asleep, I might have wondered if I’d wandered into the ruins of a forgotten wing, or been transported by some rare spell far from the castle.
A flicker of motion stirred at the edge of my vision. I turned to see the same man who’d stood in my room just before sleep claimed me. He remained the same distance away, as though tethered to that exact stretch of space between us. Something tugged at the edge of my memory, some realization I’d made, but at the moment I couldn’t place it.
Although he appeared to have entered this surreal realm with me, he showed no sign of alarm for our altered surroundings. He stood among the array of half-withered blooms, thorns grazing the hem of his midnight cloak.
Their blood-red petals brushed his gloved fingers as he carefully pruned. I watched for a long moment, half expecting him to fade into the encircling mist of wakefulness. Something about his presence felt eerily familiar, as if we’d met once long ago, a memory without origin.
I studied him with the same careful attention I examined valuable artifacts awaiting my taking, my gaze caressing each chiseled line of his profile. I’d met many handsome young men in my time—my profession demanded I move unnoticed through shadows, which often brought me close to those who lived behind masks. Just as I could determine whether an object would be worth investigating further, I had learned to see past the shine to discern at a glance which beauty was hollow.
I’d never gathered memories from another person before, but this man appeared different, making me wonder what I might discover if I touched him. Layers of secrets hid behind his storm-grey eyes, a sky masked behind overcast, waiting to break. Whether that concealed sky was a bright summer’s day or a wintery velvet night, it called to me, a mystery awaiting discovery.
