“Yes!I’ve been using these plants myentirelife!”
“I didn’t ask if you knew how to use them. I asked if you knewwhatthey are.”
“YES!Grizzlefoot, meadowblood, nocturn—”
“These arewellsprungflowers.”
I gape at him. “What?”
“Wellsprungflowers. That’s the term you learn in healing school for plants used in traditional Elven medicine. They require different preparation methods, different growing techniques, and different tools.” His eyes narrow.
“I—I didn’t know.” I feel sick.
“Right.” He stands. “We don’t grow those flowers in our medicinal gardens because our staff doesn’t know how to use them, because they are forbidden. So, you can go right ahead and plant them, but you’ll be simultaneously painting a sign on your forehead that saysMy mother taught me how to use illegal medicine.”
I rise as he stalks toward the door, then opens it. “If you’ll excuse me, Lyria, I’ve had enough company for one evening.”
I start to leave but pause in the hallway. “Cygnus…”
“Yes?”
I gaze into his eyes and find them frigid and depthless.
“Never mind.”
I spend a very long night churning with mortification.
I had no idea how close I came to revealing my identity. Part of me is furious at Mother for never clarifying which parts of our potioneering could damn me, but eventually it occurs to me that she simply never knew. Mother studied potioneering centuries ago. Of course there’d be different terminology now, and divergences in the discipline. It’s not like she’s had access to a university since the war.
I push my resentment aside to focus on my task. In the storehouse, I start the distillation process while I make calculations. If all goes well, I should finish the omnidraught by Verdinae’s biggest holiday, midsummer.
I’m deep in thought about the omnidraught as I exit the hospital on my lunch break. On a regular day, I’d be eager to eat with Daisy. But after a long morning, all I want is to curl up in my room and not move until the clock forces me. Plus, I need to check on the fox. So I head to my tower instead.
I can tell something’s wrong when the door comes into view.
It’s not closed.
Dante.
The fox is my only thought as I hurtle into the chamber. I’m not prepared for what I find: the table overturned, my mattress sliced open, the wardrobe and closet both ransacked.
And Dante is nowhere to be found.
“No, no, no…” I mumble, and start tearing through the wreckage.
Who could have done this? Why would they do this? Did they hurt him? Did they kill him? I feel about to combust.
Until I spot a red blur streaking past the open door.
“Dante!”
I sprint into the tower hall and find it empty. After a moment’s indecision, I take the stairs, rounding into a long corridor. I see six doors—servant chambers. All closed. Either I left my door open, or one of the maids must have when they were cleaning my room. I grit my teeth against the flare of my surging magic and dash down the hall.
I hurry toward the central chamber of the castle, passing studies and dining halls and armories, sticking my head into every possible room, calling out for Dante when I am sure no one else can hear me. My search brings me almost all the wayto the throne room, and I am rounding a corner when I hear the clanking of armor and heavy footsteps.
Thinking fast, I dash into the nearest chamber, which looks like an empty dining room. A dozen empty chairs sit around a wooden table, and a massive tapestry and curtains dominate the flanking walls.
Heart pounding, I wait for the footsteps to pass. To my horror, they only grow louder—approaching me—and I have just enough time to duck into a hollow space between a tapestry and a window before the door bursts open and a cohort streams into the room, debating at top volume.
