Chapter One

I’ve let Katrina talk me into a lot of bad decisions. Cutting bangs. Buying a sweater in the illustrious, never-popular goose-turd green. Drinking an entire bottle of holiday wine. The wine itself wasn’t bad; but after I was well and drunk, she goaded me into flirting with a cute stable hand. The night ended with me running my hands over his abdominals and telling him the hard ridges felt like a ten-pound wheel of cheese.

So, yes. Lots of bad decisions come from Katrina.

This, however, might have been the worst.

Katrina dropped from the second-story window and into the thatch of rhubarb and wild thyme. I edged down the trellis after her, my heart pounding, the cotton lace of my nightgown sticky against my legs.

It might have been easier to leave Karlsborn Castle through the front door, but if Frue Andersen saw, she’d know we were going to be late for work. Katrina said she could slip into her position in laundry as late as she wanted, if she wasn’t caught traipsing the grounds. My day started after Katrina’s, but I still needed to be back before Queen Margarethe woke.

“Stop being a wimp and jump,” Katrina said. “It’s not that far.”

I gripped the trellis, the wood groaning under my boots. Beneath me, the garden seemed to spin and twist, a tangle of copper, green, and bleached oyster shells the gardeners used for fertilizer. “I’m going back up.”

Katrina raked a hand through her hair, dark brown and cropped short at the collarbone. Her lips pursed into a slash. “Isabel Annis Moller, do not go up that trellis.”

“I’ll head out the main door and meet you outside the kitchen.” I clawed at a handful of half-dead leaves.

“You’re already halfway down.”

“I don’t want to break an ankle.”

“You’re the next royal physician. You can fix a broken ankle.”

“First,” I said, taking a moment to decide whether I wanted to go up or down. Down. I’d go down. “Just because I can fix a broken ankle doesn’t mean I want one. Second, Jens-Kjeld’s not making that decision until the fall.”

Condensation sparkled along Karlsborn Castle’s chalky white exterior, making the granite glitter like cut glass. Birds chittered and morning bells pealed, bright and songful. The air held the shimmery taste of marigolds and fresh-tilled mud.

Katrina snorted. “Okay, but you’re not not the next royal physician.”

“Shush.” I jammed the toe of my boot into the latticework. The paper-thin wood bent and warped under my weight. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

Katrina pinched the bridge of her nose and stared at the sky. “This is painful. Like, actually painful. Just jump.”

Fine.

My boots hit the ground with a thump and my knees buckled, my palms squelching through the mud.

“Morning, Isy,” called a pink-cheeked Carl. He stood by the hedges, thick and dewy mist muting his form like a knit sweater. He gave a little wave of his garden sheers. “Glad to see you got down.”

“Shit.” I wiped my muddy hands through the grass. “We’ve been spotted.”

Katrina hooked her arm through mine and tugged me up. “Relax. He won’t rat on us. He likes you.”

“Does not.”

She picked a speck of dirt off her dressing robe. “Hmm.”

“He doesn’t!”

And just like that, her neutral expression gave way to the tempest that was Katrina, all untamed hair and feral grins and a dimple that tugged at the corner of her cheek. “Say what you will, but I’ve noticed he turns a very suspicious shade of pink every time you pass.” She elbowed my ribs and dropped her voice to match his. “Good morning, Isy.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets and hurried around the kitchens, starting for the path that led to the best place to see the ships—the bluffs. “Now who’s the slow poke?”

Katrina jogged to catch up. “Oh, Isy.” Her voice was still low like Carl’s. “I love your beautiful brown eyes. They are the exact color of a mouse’s butt.”

I flicked her nose and dangled the one subject she couldn’t resist. “King Christian’s getting worse. Last night he threw his wine bottle at my head and stripped.”

“Naked?”

“Stark.”

She gave a sly glance. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because I wasn’t supposed to? Because she was terrible at keeping secrets and now half the staff at Karlsborn Castle would know? I shrugged, plucked a stem of a pink-lipped poppy, and pearled it away in my pocket.

“We’re taking bets in laundry, you know,” Katrina said. “About how long the king’s going to last. I say until the end of the year, Elin says not even that.”

“The king won’t die.”

She clucked her tongue and ran another hand through her hair. “That’s not what Elin says.”

“Is Elin his physician?”

“I bet three gyllis he’d get worse.”

“That’s a bet you’ll probably win.”

“It’s not too late to get in on it.” She snatched a handful of wispy buds off a bush and offered them to me. “Tiny daisies?”

“That’s chickweed.”

“I know.” A wicked grin cracked across her face, bringing out that dimple in the hollow of her cheek. “Bet with me.”

“I don’t need the headache.”

The grin deepened. “I hear winning is the best cure for headaches.”

“ Peppermint is the best cure for headaches.”

The manicured path ended with three rocks set in a line. I pulled my dressing robe tighter and stepped over the barrier. Plants scratched my ankles, and my hair—the same dark brown as Katrina’s but longer—hung in clumps. My bangs plastered my forehead, no doubt making me look more like a cliff troll than an eighteen-year-old girl who was going to be late for work.

Behind us, something snapped.

“The two of you aren’t heading off into trouble, are you?”

I whirled and met a familiar pair of brown eyes. My breath hitched.

The speaker smirked. “And you thought you’d go without me, tsk, tsk.”

“Hans!” Katrina shouted. A few smaller birds scattered from the grasses. She bunched the skirt of her nightgown and tromped through the underbrush. “What are you doing here?”

He extended his hands, which were cradling a gray pigeon. A ruff of turquoise and plum feathers sheened its neck. “Training.” He squinted at the castle. His soft brown curls usually stood out in an unruly mess, but today, they clung to his cheeks and forehead.

I tugged the belt on my robe tighter, suddenly aware of the way my nightgown clung to my body.

The three of us had grown up together, had skinned our knees scrambling over boulders, splashed through the Colt in nothing but our underthings, had even shared a sickbed the year the pox swept through Hjern, but things had changed. He’d grown up and I’d, well…

Katrina, on the other hand, hardly seemed to notice the way her dressing robe hung off her shoulder. She’d stopped a few feet away and cocked her head, her lips parting. “Aren’t you supposed to take your pigeons farther from the castle?”

“This is fine.” With a smooth motion, Hans tossed the messenger pigeon in the air. The bird unfurled its wings and the silver band around its ankle flashed once before it disappeared into the haze. “Now tell me. Where are you two going and why didn’t you invite me?”

“We’re spying,” Katrina said. “On the ships.”

“The two of you make terrible spies. I heard Isy grumbling from a mile away.”

I placed my hands on my hips. “I wasn’t grumbling, and we didn’t invite you because we only decided to go this morning.”

“In that case,” Hans said, “I need to train a pigeon to fly between our rooms.”

“Frue Andersen wouldn’t let you.”

“Frue Andersen doesn’t need to know.”

Katrina bunched her nightgown and started up the bluff. “I think it’s an excellent idea. Then Hans can write letters about how pink Carl turns every time Isy’s name is mentioned.”

Hans gave a musing grin, the type that quirked the left side of his lip a little higher than the right. “He does turn a rather suspicious shade of pink…”

Katrina threw her hands in the air, scattering another bird. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“I hate this conversation,” I grumbled, tugging the belt of my robe one last time and falling into step behind them.

“Though you and Carl aren’t a good match,” Katrina continued. “You need someone who smells yummy. Like smoke. Or wool. Or rosemary or juniper or amber…”

“What do I smell like?” Hans asked. The question was meant to sound casual and teasing, but his gaze caught mine, warm and careful. It lingered. He swallowed.

Please don’t , I wanted to say.

Katrina gave him a sly glance and tromped several feet ahead. “Pigeon.”

The spell broke.

I ducked my head to hide the fire rising in my cheeks. “Come on. I need to be back before the queen wakes.” The old woman complained about almost everything, but making her wait to get her bandages changed wouldn’t get me any closer to becoming the next royal physician.

The path inclined to a near-vertical slant, with boulders arranged into steps. Clusters of heath-spotted orchids grew between splits in the rocks, and then we were over the hill, standing on top of the bluffs.

On a clear day, a salty sea breeze might have ruffled our hair or blew through the grass and made the dogwoods quiver. But on a day like today, mist hung over the ocean like a sheet of paper, gray and flat.

But even with the mist, we should have been able to see the ships.

The three of us stood there, scrub grass tickling our ankles, the dull roar of the ocean below. A drizzle freckled our hair and our lashes.

Katrina’s mouth tugged into a frown. “You can’t see much.”

My breath fluttered. “You can’t see…anything.”

But that was impossible.

Katrina and I saw ships from our bedroom window, had snubbed our palms against the glass and watched at least a dozen black blots cut through the star-speckled sea. Even last night, they were too close to the coast to pull away, or, if they had, we should’ve been able to see them teetering on the edge of the horizon.

Ships didn’t just disappear.

They couldn’t…could they?

Hans furrowed his brow and stepped forward, sending pieces of gravel skidding over the edge. Below him, the waves continued to churn like a cauldron, spraying foam and froth against the rocks. “I thought you said there were ships?”

“There were,” I replied.

“Then…”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they already pulled into port?”

“They weren’t that close.”

Or maybe they were? I blinked again and squinted through the rolling fog. Maybe they were closer to shore than we thought. If they’d veered to port, we wouldn’t see them from the bluffs.

Katrina nudged my ribs. “Do you want to do the screaming thing?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I don’t want to do the screaming thing. Let’s get back. I can’t be late for the queen.”

“Come on. You like it.” She turned toward the sea and lifted her arms like a bird. “Ayeeeeee!” The wind caught her voice, ripped it backwards.

Eeeeeeya.

Hans let out a whoop that caused a few seagulls to scatter.

“I kissed Oskar!” Katrina shouted over the ocean.

RaksO dessik I, said the backwards echo.

“I spilled tea on Stefan’s sweater!” shouted Hans.

Retaews s’nafetS no aet dellips I.

“Frue Anderson’s a bitch!” Katrina.

Hctib a s’nosrednA eurF.

“Pigeons are friends!” Hans.

“Pigeons are food !”

Katrina turned toward me, her eyes bright, mist clinging to her cheeks, her hair. “Come on, Isy. Scream.”

“Scream! Scream!” they both chanted.

I spread my arms like Katrina. “Hello!” I shouted.

Olleh.

A beat, a pause, and then we were all screaming and shouting, the actual words getting jumbled with the gibberish ones. It always reminded me of a child catching a cat’s tail, the wind grabbing the secrets, pulling them back.

“I think Katrina makes terrible tea!”

“Hans loves my tea!”

“Sometimes I steal Isy’s wildflower perfume!”

“And I always steal it back!”

Behind us, something snapped, and I whirled to see Carl, eyes fixed on the ground and fiddling with his garden sheers. “Um… Isabel… Frue Andersen’s looking for you. Something about…uh, the queen’s feet?”

Katrina squinted at him. “The crone’s awake already?”

Awake…already?

The words hung in the air, suspended like petals tossed atop a puddle, spinning and spinning…

The fluttery air slammed back into my stomach.

Shit .

I bunched the skirt of my nightgown and broke into a sprint down the path.

Shit, shit, shit.

My robe had slipped open during the trip back, and the ties flapped against my leg.

“I’ll sneak down to see you a little later,” Katrina shouted.

Retal elttil, said the echo.

It took me a moment to realize she and Hans hadn’t followed.

I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing the two of them set in shades of green and gray—Katrina windswept and wild, her dressing robe slouching off one shoulder, and Hans, his jacket sleeves rolled to his elbows, an empty pigeon cage at his hip.

And smiling.

They were smiling…

I can’t get that image out of my brain. It’s preserved there, hanging in the gallery of my memory like a painting that’s fallen out of style. And no matter how many times I try to take it down or cover it up or walk away, I always come back to it—that day on the bluffs, trapped under the silver sky…

This is supposed to be my confession. The Red King himself deigned to tell me that. He visited my cell with his entourage of dukes and earls, mistresses, and princes. He tossed these papers with a flick of the wrist and commanded me to write.

A confession.

I suppose this is a confession, though not the type he wanted. And while it brings me great satisfaction knowing the Red King is not getting what he wanted, my hands still shake.

The stories I grew up with had happy endings. The river trolls are slain, the nokken is banished, the mapmaker’s daughter finds her way home. Although this is the start of a story studded with monsters, madness, and magic, all that awaits at the end of these pages is death.

I will die tomorrow.

Why is that so hard to write? I chose this, sealed this fate upon my head when I let that grate go. And though I know I don’t have to be the hero, don’t have to walk to my death lewd and tonguing my teeth, I should have made my peace.

But I’m afraid.

I’m afraid to see the sunrise. I’m afraid to hear the clock. I’m afraid of footfalls, the rattle of keys. I’m afraid Signey wasn’t able to—

I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. I still have many pages, a full inkwell, and one last evening.

So, I write.