Page 103 of This Is Not True Love’s Kiss

“But that wouldn’t make sense,” I argued, seeing the way my husband tensed at Ambrose’s words. I grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze to remind him it was all going to be okay. That we had a community to lean on, and we could trust that community. “Every one of our kingdoms has magic that’s special, unique. All the leaders want the same thing: to keep our magic open, free for everyone to use. Coming to our home and attacking our magic would be as good as attacking us.”

Lor’s shoulder’s relaxed at my words, and he shot me a look filled with so much love that my heart felt like it might explode.

“Oh, what are we going to do?” Morton’s voice trembled. “This is a disaster.”

“I’ve checked every painting in this castle.” Meera appeared around the corner at the end of the hallway, prowling toward us. “I can’t find her.”

Morton squeaked, wings fluttering.

“We will find her,” Lor said, voice firm.

“Find who?” Sir Arthur’s voice boomed in the hallway as he clinked and clanked, walking toward us.

Feck. Not this. Not right now.

“Is someone missing?” Sir Arthur asked. “I will find them!”

Ambrose sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“We’ve got it handled, Sir Arthur,” Lor said. “We’ll find Margaret and everything will be okay.”

Sir Arthur stopped. “The Fair Lady Margaret? Ah yes, I bid her farewell not four days ago.”

All the breath was sucked from the room at that proclamation, and we all turned to stare at Sir Arthur, mouths agape.

It took a moment for me to recover enough that I could speak. “What does the mean, Sir Arthur? How did you bid her farewell exactly?”

He reached into his scabbard and pulled out a glowing golden sword. The sword Leena had used to cut through our barrier. The sword that we’d discovered could cut away magic.

Lor stiffened. “What did you do, Sir Arthur?”

“Oh, the fair maiden was feeling upset, you see,” Sir Arthur said. “Tired of being stuck in her paintings, never part of anything. So I told her I knew of a sword that could cut the magic of her painting, allow her to escape.”

Morton sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh no. Margaret’s dead. Sir Arthur cut her painting and killed her!”

“I did no such thing.” Sir Arthur swung his sword toward the bookwyrm. “I must duel you for my honor!”

“Nobody is dueling,” Lor said, rubbing his temples. “Is Margaret dead, Sir Arthur?”

“No!” Sir Arthur turned to face us. “She stepped right out of the painting, happy, free. Then she told me she had to find the tea house.”

“This is the most confusing conversation I’ve ever been a part of,” Meera mumbled.

“Tea house?” I echoed, my gaze lifting to the painting of a teal tea house sitting in a field of marigold flowers. “That tea house?” I pointed.

“The very one,” Sir Arthur said. “She said something about finding the tea house, finding herself. A journey. I told her it was an excellent idea and wished her luck.”

“But Margaret doesn’t know anything about being human,” Ambrose said. “She doesn’t know where she’s going, doesn’t know the dangers lurking about.”

Lor squeezed his eyes shut. “We’ll send guards after her.”

“Can we afford to?” I asked. “With so much happening right now? So much change?”

“I’ll go,” Ambrose said, and my gaze snapped to him.

He swallowed thickly, his golden eyes bouncing between me and Lor. Ah. He needed to get away, and this was his excuse.

“Ambrose, you’re on the council. We can send a guard⁠—”