Miss Whitney is missing. Our Majesties’ secret state of cursed sleep is now compromised, and the truth is circulating. We need someone who can lie at once. Princess Rosaline, please advise.
—Mr. Ferdinand
Cursing, I crumple the letter in my hand. Thorne takes it from me and reads it for himself.
“Who is Miss Whitney?” he asks.
Mr. Boris looks at me before answering. I give him a nod. “Miss Whitney is the only half-human servant who attended Her Highness’ birthday dinner,” he says, “and was therefore the only fae who could lie for us. She was left in charge of maintaining the story that our king and queen traveled with the princess for her wedding. If she’s missing, we can assume she may have been captured by spies, likely to coerce someone at the palace to tell the truth.”
Minka makes a startled sound. “I hope she isn’t being tortured. Miss Whitney is too gentle for that!”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Mr. Boris says. “She’s a slow loris in her unseelie form. Her bite is venomous, dangerous even to fae. It’s more likely that she’s being kept captive while her captor tries to trick someone at the palace into giving them intel.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Who would seek the truth in the first place? Who would challenge such a believable story? We made sure only trustworthy servants were left in charge at the palace. Everyone else was given a paid holiday.”
Thorne runs a hand through his hair. “Trentas,” he says under his breath.
My eyes widen. “You think Trentas captured Miss Whitney?”
He meets my gaze briefly, his expression brimming with guilt. “He’s the only one who would have reason to suspect something is amiss at Nocturnus Palace. I only told him that he’d be able to challenge your father to the throne after your wedding, but…” Throwing his head back, he closes his eyes and releases a heavy breath. “Fuck.”
A spike of betrayal spears my heart, but I can’t truly blame Thorne. He did exactly what was in his right to do—using the benefit of our bargain in a perfectly reasonable way. Still, I can’t stop the panic that claws at my chest. I was supposed to have another week to figure this all out. To find another way to break the sleeping spell. I haven’t even told Thorne I rejected Monty yet.
“When do you think the letter was sent?” I ask.
“It was delivered by messenger bat overnight,” Mr. Boris says, “so I assume the trouble began yesterday.”
“Let’s go,” Thorne says, racing from the kitchen. I belatedly follow. “We’ll head for the palace now.”
I quicken my pace to reach his side as he storms through the halls. “Will we even get there before the situation escalates? It’s twenty hours by train.”
“We aren’t taking the train.” He storms into the drawing room and exits the door that leads to the back garden.
“Then how will you get there?” Mr. Boris asks, following hard on our heels along with Minka.
As soon as we’re outside, Thorne stops in place. His leathery wings appear out of nowhere, as do his horns, making his answer clear. “We’re going to fly.”
I catch sight of nearby movement—a gardener staring open-mouthed at his employer’s unseelie form. His sheers halt mid-snip over the topiary he was trimming.
“Thorne,” I say through my teeth, giving him a pointed look. “Everyone can see you right now.”
“It’s too late to care,” he says. “We need to hurry or everything you’ve fought for could be at an end. Come. We’ll make it to the palace by nightfall. If it’s Trentas we’re dealing with, I’ll talk to him. If it’s someone else, I’ll lie, just like I bargained to do.”
“But—”
He steps closer to me, eyes burning with a fierce quality that’s almost terrifying. “I will make this right, Briony. I will do anything it takes to fix this for you. Just…trust me.”
Calm settles over me, the edges of my panic smoothed under his dark ferocity. We can do this together. We can fix this, deal with whatever problems have arisen at the palace, and ensure we still have plenty of time to break the curse. “I do trust you,” I whisper and step into his arms.
“Are you sure about this, Highness? You’re going to…to fly? Withhim?”
I encircle Thorne’s neck in my arms, and he lifts me against his chest. “Yes.”
Minka’s lips curl into a pout. “Can I come? Perhaps if I were a cat—”
“I’m sorry,” Thorne says, “but I can only take Briony. I will bring her back safely once we’ve dealt with the threat.”
Mr. Boris wrings his hands. “Do you really trust him?” he hisses from the corner of his mouth.
