“Not today,” she admitted, still stunned that the prince had returned from the dead. “Why? Is that odd?”

“He likes to wander off and not tell anyone.” His expression darkened. “Does he seem different to you than before? I can’t figure it out.”

“He seems much the same to me, but I didn’t know him well,” she admitted.

“Neither did I.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Sometimes it doesn’t take years to know someone. A handful of conversations can be more than enough to know someone’s heart.”

“If you say so.”

Cleo knew that Nic and Ashur had known each other well enough that her friend had grieved the prince’s loss deeply. And she also knew there was more than a simple friendship between the two, emotions they were only beginning to explore, perhaps now forever unresolved.

“Taran and Felix also seem to be missing,” she said. “Where are they?”

“An excellent question. I thought I was allied with Jonas, but now it seems he conspires with Magnus.”

“What?” The very thought made an uneasy laugh rise in her throat. “If you’ve seen the two in discussion, the subject is very likely about the king.”

Ever since Jonas had successfully— yet unsuccessfully— sunk his dagger into the king’s chest two nights ago, the king had remained in his room, his mother constantly by his side, fearful her son was too close to death to survive long enough for the secret magic she promised to restore him.

Cleo did worry that if he died before the witch found Lucia, she’d refuse to help them, but she didn’t mind at all the thought of him suffering in a tiny room in Paelsia.

A fitting end for a monster.

What had Gaius Damora been like back when he had known her mother? What horrors had he subjected Elena Corso to? It was a question that had plagued her ever since he’d spoke her name.

“Do you trust him?” Nic’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“Who? Magnus?”

He laughed. “No, of course not him. Jonas.”

Did she trust Jonas, the boy who had kidnapped and imprisoned her—not once, but twice—and at one point wanted her dead for being present when his brother was murdered?

But he was also the boy who rose up to become a leader. To fight for his people. The boy who had risked his own life to save hers.

“I do trust him,” she admitted.

So much could change in a single year.

“So do I,” Nic said.

She nodded. “If he’s speaking with Magnus, then it must be important.”

“I still don’t like it if he’s keeping secrets from us.”

Neither did Cleo, especially if it was a secret Jonas and Magnus now shared. Cleo vowed to get some answers for herself. She didn’t care for being left in the dark.

Later that day, she got her chance. After Magnus asked to see Enzo in the courtyard, Cleo began hunting through the inn for information of her own. She happened quickly upon something potentially interesting in the meeting hall: Magnus’s sketchbook.

She’d seen him drawing in it, his fingers black from the charcoal he used. Limerians didn’t appreciate art as Auranians did, seeing beauty as a gift the artist shared with the world through his or her unique vision. No, if a Limerian drew anything, it was meant to be an exact likeness of the subject to aid in reference and education.

To this end, Magnus had attended a summer of art lessons on the Isle of Lukas several years ago, a trip many young royals and nobles—including Cleo’s sister and mother—experienced in their youth. She’d seen Magnus’s previous sketchbook, one that contained incredibly detailed pictures of flora and fauna . . . as well as multiple portraits of his sister, each drawn with unmistakable admiration and attention to every inch of Lucia’s perfect face.

This, however, was not that sketchbook. It was a new one, and it intrigued Cleo down to her very bones.

“I really shouldn’t look,” she told herself. “He hasn’t given me permission.”

However, such an argument had never stopped her before.

The first drawing was that of the garden outside, clearly a quick sketch, but the dimensions and accuracy were uncanny. Before he’d abandoned this sketch, he’d focused on the detail of one rose bush, and even with the roughness of the charcoal stick, he had captured its beauty in shades of black and gray.

The second, third, and fourth pages had been roughly torn out.

The fifth page didn’t have a sketch on it. It had a message.

Snooping around for a portrait of yourself, princess? Apologies, but you won’t find one today. Perhaps one day I shall draw you. Or perhaps not. We’ll have to see what the future holds.

—M

Cleo slammed the book shut, equally embarrassed and annoyed.

The sound of shouting drew her next to the windows, draped in rough canvas to block the light, that looked out into the courtyard at the back of the inn.

The prince had his sword drawn and was facing both Milo and Enzo, who also held their weapons. When they attacked, Cleo let out a gasp of horror before she realized what was happening.

The trio was practicing swordplay. And judging by the force of Milo and Enzo’s attack, Magnus had requested that they attempt to best him.

Had she never watched him like this before, sword in hand, sweat on his brow, blocking the guards’ weapons with his own? She thought that it might bring back horrible memories of that day—the day she’d lost Theon. But that version of Magnus had been a prince who had no skill compared to a palace guard, and he’d known it.