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“I…” She trails off, bites her lower lip. “I’m here because fate decreed it.”

Her response has several brides rolling their eyes; one even scoffs.

“So you don’t want to be here?” asks Lyrielle, slurring her words a little. “You’re only here because of fate?”

Gwyn shakes her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant⁠—”

My little witch is doing her best to be as honest as she can under these strange circumstances, but there’s no way she’s going to make it to midsummer as a believable candidate if she doesn’t at least pretend to be interested in me.

Or interested in being queen.

When her gaze collides with mine, it’s pained.

She doesn’t know what to say.

“Actually, I have a different question for you, Gwyn,” I say, leaning forward and resting my forearms on my thighs. “What are you most afraid of?”

It’s a simple question. One she doesn’t have to lie about.

Just admit it, I urge silently, willing my eyes to carry the message to her. Tell them your coven terrifies you.

But her expression sharpens, her softness vanishing, as she lies straight through her perfect teeth. “Death.”

My brow furrows, only for a second, before I smooth it away.

Miriya squeals. “Oh, my gods! Me too!”

Chaos erupts as the females gush about their fears and phobias, but I’m no longer listening.

Gwyn is a floramancer. Death is hers to command, not fear.

So why would she lie?

Movement on the far side of the gardens pulls me away from these thoughts. Arkyn fiddles with the trolley of drinks over by one of the walls that used to drip with the blight’s ichor.

Concern laces his features.

I excuse myself from the brides and head over to him, wine in hand.

“Did Vessaryn come clean?” I ask. “Please tell me it was Devlin who told her to refuse Gwyn. I would love to ream him out.”

“She wasn’t there.” He helps himself to a drink. “Her replacement said Vess returned to Lichenmere to help her father with those falling ill there.”

I take a long sip of my wine.

“I don’t doubt it was Devlin,” he says after another beat, watching the brides entertain themselves with Silt and Soul. “Though, there’s no way for us to know for sure now.”

“I’ll send Vessaryn a letter.”

Arkyn grunts.

“So what do you think?” I eye the females over the rim of my chalice. “Is there a queen amongst them?”

“I don’t know, Riv.” His tone is suddenly frosty, laced with indignation. “Is there?”

I turn to face him. “You’re in a foul mood.”

“And you’re happier than I’ve seen you in centuries.”