Chapter 7

86 days left

A ria 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 of possessions. 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 energy burned in every limb and would not abate unless she moved . 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.

"What do you think, Aria?"

At the sound of her father's voice, Aria sat up with a jolt. She didn't know how long her cheek had been slumped against the side of her high-backed throne, but the eyes of the Upper Court rested on her, awaiting an answer she didn't know how to give.

"I agree," she said with feigned confidence.

Her father's lips tightened to a line. His brow furrowed.

Wrong answer. Mark.

"We'll table this matter for now," said the king. "Reconvene tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I have family matters to deal with."

There could be no mistaking his implication, and as Aria caught the members of court offering her father pitying glances, her skin chilled, and she shivered. A manifestation of the curse. Along with her other gifts, Widow Morton had sent Aria home with the frost of Northglen coating her bones, and every so often, the cold rose to the surface. As if she didn't have enough reminders of her terrible mistake.

Once they were alone, her father's posture softened at the edges, allowing his shoulders a curve as he sat at a slight angle in his throne. He studied her without speaking. Aria hated that more than a lecture.

"I won't be late again," she promised.

False promises. Mark.

He raised an eyebrow. "How am I to believe that, after three meetings in a row?"

Aria licked her lips but couldn't think of a response. Her mind seemed like molasses when called upon, slow to deliver anything beyond the constant muted cry for sleeeep .

"You are excused from Upper Court meetings," her father said. "At least for the time being."

Aria bolted upright in her chair. "Father, no! I wish to be here. I—"

He held up a hand.

" If "—his fierce gaze bored into hers—"you can attend a separate duty with diligence, I will allow you back to the meetings. A fair trial."

It was fair. If only Aria had the motivation to tend to any duties. All she wanted was to yank the nearest tapestry off the wall, curl up in it, and disappear into a blissful oblivion.

"Yes, Father," she forced herself to say. "Name it."

"You have entertained a few suitors at this point, but none for more than a single meeting. You are eighteen now, Aria, and cannot continue putting this off. Find a young man to court, show me you take the future of our kingdom seriously, and I will welcome the return of my dutiful daughter."

Of course, that was the problem—Aria hadn't been dutiful at all. She'd been rebellious and foolish. She'd thought herself wiser than her father, who had led his kingdom through a recovery from famine, then through decades of peace.

If she could go back and never speak to Widow Morton, she would.

Instead, she bowed her head and said, "I'll do it, Father."

She ought to have been dutiful from the start, but the least she could do was never disobey again.

The day of Eliza's ball, Aria was asleep at her writing desk when her sister burst into the room, shrieking exuberantly.

"It's here, it's here, it's here !"

Aria sprang to her feet, eyes bleary but the rest of her awake with panic. She looked frantically over her shoulder for an enemy that didn't exist.

No, her enemy did exist; it just couldn't be seen.

Eliza deflated. "You haven't even laid out a gown. Aren't we readying together?"

"Yes, of course." Aria turned away, fumbling scraps of parchment into her journal, blinking hard. "I got caught up in ... finalizing my welcome speech."

By that, she meant she'd lifted her quill and remembered nothing after. Her first time hosting a court event, and she was going to make a fool of herself. Worse, she was going to embarrass her sister.

Eliza seemed to take the excuse at face value, just as she'd readily accepted the lie Aria had given about her visit to Northglen. Morton turned me away at the door , Aria had said. I guess she changed her mind. Eliza had huffed and puffed about the woman's selfishness and foolishness, leaving Aria with a churning stomach and a secret she couldn't speak, not even to the one person she would have told anything to.

The sister she would lose if she couldn't find a way out of this curse.

Aria forced a smile, gesturing to her wardrobe. "Help me choose a gown?"

Eliza could have complained that Aria hadn't commissioned one for the event—as she'd intended to—but the birthday girl threw open the wardrobe without hesitation.

Alternating the leg she stood on and rotating the opposite ankle, Aria managed to keep herself awake somehow. "Come on, let's hear them."

"Hear what?" Eliza called innocently.

"The young men of court you'll be seeking out tonight."

Peeking out of the wardrobe, arms draped in fabric, Eliza gave a devious smile. "Lord Alexander, I think. Did you know he saved his sister from drowning last winter? He's a hero!"

Aria made a face. "That's Marquess Haskett's heir. Even if his son is a hero, you don't want a vulture for a father-in-law."

"Psh!" Eliza waddled over to the bed and dumped her chosen garments with a grand flourish. "Obstacles are expected on the road to true love! And I am such a gem, I could win the esteem of the crustiest of vultures."

Aria laughed. Her sister scurried over, hooked her arm, and dragged her to survey the gowns. For a few precious moments, Aria managed to push down her fatigue in earnest—not banishing it, but at least shrinking it, hushing it—enough to soak in the bright, energizing sunlight that was Eliza.

"This one!" Eliza declared after an extended debate. The winner was a cream-colored gown with black-vine accents, which she deemed "the most elegant dress ever made." It was one of Aria's favorites, and she tried not to think of how it would sag on her rapidly thinning frame.

At least the ball wouldn't last all night. In Patriamere, royal parties began in the late evening and lasted until dawn, something Aria's father called a "useless indulgence." He rejected any tradition aligning with his wife's birth country, so Loegrian parties were afternoon affairs, finished by early evening so the entire castle could adhere to the king's strict schedule of retiring early.

Good news for Aria, since she'd not yet heard panicked questions about the unexplained sleeping Cast which set in every night at midnight and lasted until dawn. Surely the night watchmen had noticed, but if they'd brought their concerns to the king, he'd not brought the matter to the court's attention.

Eliza suddenly seized her hands, and Aria blinked herself to attention. "This ball is for you, Aria," she said with an unusual level of seriousness.

Aria smiled wryly. "I believe it is, in the most literal sense, for you ."

"The cake is for me, and I'll be eating plenty, thank you." Eliza squeezed her hands. "But don't you see? Today is your chance to find your own suitor. I know Father's been pressuring you about it—Jenny said all the servants are gossiping—but don't you dare let him choose for you!"

Right. That. Aria had tried to revisit her list of potentials, but after a few names, she always dropped to sleep.

Neglecting duty. Mark.

"Eliza, I—"

"I have a feeling about this, I mean it! This afternoon, you're going to find the most perfect man of court, one who really lets you be yourself. You'll dance and fall madly in love, have seven children—"

Partly to interrupt that thought, Aria pulled Eliza into a hug, breathing in the lavender scent of her sister.

"I promise I'll remedy my situation," she whispered. Though it was not suitors she spoke of.

With a squeal, Eliza hugged her back, gushing about how the most romantic gestures always happened at a ball and the vast multitude of men there would be available to choose from.

Aria had only one man in mind, and he was not at all a candidate for suitor. After twenty days of siege, she had grown desperate enough to try an unthinkable tactic. Since books had failed her, she began seeking information on Casting from its source, only to find the two Casters in Sutton Town had abandoned their homes, perhaps warned by Widow Morton of the princess who might come seeking aid.

However, there would be one Caster attending Eliza's ball.

Guillaume Reeves, son of Marcus Reeves. The late baron had passed away, leaving a Caster to inherit his title, and Eliza's ball was the first court function after his mourning season. He would have to present himself to the king.

Though Aria's knees trembled at the thought of seeking out another Caster, she squeezed her sister tightly and reminded herself why she had to.

This time, she would not fall for a trap.

She would set one.