Ezra and I exchange a look. There’s caution in his eyes, but also curiosity.
We follow the boy through a discreet side corridor, winding past a tall alcove lined with stone urns and a pair of disapproving statues. The route is narrow and quiet—meant for servants, not royalty—and when we finally reach the door to which he gestures, it is unremarkable. Unadorned. The page raps once, then opens it and bows, gesturing for us to head inside.
Queen Agatha of Podrosa stands at the center of a modest solarium,framed by pale-blue drapes and a table set for tea that looks untouched. Her posture is impeccable, hands clasped before her, not a hair out of place. But her eyes are not cold like her husband’s. There’s a quiet steel behind them. A spark of something not yet dulled by years under his thumb.
“Your Majesty,” I say, dipping into a graceful curtsy.
“Please,” she says softly, “there’s no need for ceremony here.”
Ezra and I straighten. I study her carefully, unsure what this is. Pity? Gratitude? A test?
“I wanted to thank you,” she says, her voice even. “For your bravery during the attack.”
I blink. “You saw?”
“I saw enough. Word travels quickly within these walls. You saved lives. Including my cousin’s boy.” Her lips twitch faintly. “I fear my husband’s pride is louder than his gratitude. But I see clearly where he refuses to look.”
I glance at Ezra. His expression is neutral, unreadable. But his hands are loosely clasped behind his back in the way he always stands when he’s waiting to see whether a blade will be drawn or a gift offered.
The queen steps forward. “You wish to study our library. I see no harm in that.”
I blink. Hope flares in my chest. But before I get carried away, I hesitate. “Will it cause trouble for you?”
Queen Agatha’s mouth flattens. “I’ve learned there is no need to tell my husband every detail of what I decide.” A pause. “There is a servant door near the east corridor, beside the shrine of the Weeping Saint. It opens into the library’s east wing. My steward will ensure the main entrance is locked and the staff cleared for the next two hours. The kings and the men are taking a tour of the barracks, so you should proceed undisturbed. No one will see you.”
My heart lifts, but I temper it with caution. “Thank you. Truly. We’ll be quick.”
“You have two hours,” she says. “After that, the men will return from the barracks, and questions may be asked.” Her gaze sharpens. “Findwhat you need.”
I swallow thickly and nod.
Queen Agatha turns, gliding to the curtained door on the far wall before pausing to look back at me. “Terre Ferique needs women like you, Princess. Even if most men would rather deny the truth.”
Then she vanishes through the curtain.
As soon as I fetched Nadya, we headed for the east corridor. She’s the probably the fastest reader out of the three of us, so having her along is a big advantage.
Our steps are muffled by the worn, velvet runner, and the sconces are devoid of candlelight, so we move through shadow. The hush in the air isn’t natural; it feels pressed down, like even the palace itself knows we shouldn’t be here.
The door is exactly where the queen said it would be: tucked into a narrow alcove beside the shrine of the Weeping Saint, barely visible beneath an arch of stone.
Ezra tests the handle. It opens with a soft groan.
He pushes it open just wide enough for us to slip through.
Inside, the scent of old parchment and wood polish hovers around me like a cloak. The Ironshield Keep’s library is nothing like the one at Ivystone. It’s cavernous, its ceilings vaulted and laced with slender buttresses, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with arched bookcases. Gold filigree gleams along the spines of thick tomes. In the center of the room, narrow tables are arranged in perfectly straight lines, each one stacked with neatly arranged scrolls and catalogs. The windows are shuttered to protect the books from damaging light.
It feels like we’ve stepped into a sanctum. Something secret and sacred.
“When can I move in?” Nadya asks, gaping at the walls ofbookshelves.
“I’m sure they’d let you, if you marry Lord Marcos,” I tease.
“I prefer the princess,” Nadya retorts, “but I think she’s got her eye on someone else.”
My gut sours at her words, though I know deep down, Dante wouldn’t choose her over me. At least, I don’t think he would. Unless King Silas suddenly has a change of heart and wants to unify Hedera with Podrosa instead of Delasurvia.
Once we’re sure no one will disturb us, we waste no time. I pry open a pair of shutters so we don’t have to work in the dark. Nadya takes the far end of the room, rifling through indexes while Ezra and I split off toward the tomes labeled by era and subject. The sunlight bathes rows upon rows of gilded script and brittle scroll cases. It’s overwhelming—so much history, so many voices pressed between dusty pages—but I try to trust the pull in my gut, hoping it leads me to what we need.
