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“Sarra.”

Master Dimos’s voice snaps like a whip, and I force my features into a timid expression as he bears down on me, the pungent scent of herbs that clings to him permeating the air. For the past week, I’ve bent over backward trying to get on Master Dimos’s good side—a side I’m beginning to suspect doesn’t exist. He’s maddeningly easy to displease.

“Apologies, Master Dimos,” I say. “I’ll clean this spill up right away.”

“See that you do.”

He pulls a small clay token from his pocket and tosses it my way. I snatch it from the air, and a quick glance shows me it will grant me a higher level of cleaning access throughout the palace.

Why would he give me this after I’ve apparently made a mess here? It feels like a trap, but I don’t dare question him.

“You will go to the royal gallery afterward,” he says. “There is dust on the frames, and then you can clean the floors there yourself. Thoroughly.”

I dip my head into a respectful bow. “Yes, Master Dimos.”

He storms off and, ignoring my more devious instincts, I stand and retrieve my bucket, shoving the clay token into my pocket.

“It’s a test,” Espris warns me.

“How so?” I ask as I grab fresh rags and start to mop up the water.

“If he receives a report that you did a poor job in the gallery, you’ll be let go immediately.”

I heave a sigh, my hands working faster. It seems I’ll need to have a word with the prince, because if his sabotage continues, my budding career in servitude will come to an unceremonious end before it’s even truly begun.

Ignore me again, Notos, and I’ll be whispering my pleas to Zephyrus by nightfall.

The two guards stationed at the doors of the royal gallery barely spare me a second glance as I show them my token and drag my supplies through the doors.

Located on the third floor, this gallery marks the entrance to the royal quarters, and it’s a world apart from the lively chaos of the rest of the palace. The only sound is the faint echo of my footsteps as I stride into the room.

Tall columns line the corridor, stretching toward a vaulted ceiling where carvings of curling acanthus leaves writhe in the darkness. Opposite the entrance, three pairs of double doors sit evenly spaced between the columns. Portraits of monarchs posed with swords and jewels fill the wall panels between each set, a procession of gilded frames marching from end to end. Royal ancestry displayed in all its self-important glory.

I glance back toward the entrance and notice a fourth door I hadn’t seen before. I investigate it first, pressing my ear against the wood before turning the handle to peek inside. It’s an entertaining parlor of some kind. Low seating lines the windowless walls, and the aroma of incense lingers in the air. I ease the door shut and cross the gallery to the doors on the right side of the far wall. Cautiously, I lay my palm flat against the carved panel and push, but it doesn’t budge. A rattle answers when I try the handle, and I purse my lips. Locked. Creeping past the frames hanging on the wall and ignoring the watchful, painted eyes, I try the other two. Both yield the same result.

The urge to reach for my picks flares hot, but I douse it with a cold splash of reality, my hand tightening around the rough wooden handle of my bucket. The guards are just beyond the gallery doors, and I’m meant to be hiding, not spying.

With a sigh, I set my supplies down beside a column, snatch up a clean rag, and start dusting the frames. Each royal face blends into the next until, at last, I wipe the final speck of dust from the heavy frame of the king’s portrait. His stern face looms above me, the gold accents of the sword in his hand gleaming a little brighter now. Reluctantly, I step to the next in line: Prince Kallias.

I expect to scowl at his smug expression, but instead it makes me pause.

His eyes, painted with meticulous care, seem to follow me not with disdain but with a depth of sorrow I hadn’t anticipated, his grief captured so vividly in oil and canvas. I hesitate, the rag hovering over the frame, as if touching it might disturb the emotion laid bare before me.

“Get a hold of yourself, Nyssa.” I make quick work of the frame as I avert my gaze from those sorrowful eyes and move to the next section of the wall.

My body stills, a sharp pang shooting through my chest.

There’s a blank space where a portrait should hang. No Aella. No trace of her existence.

“Even her memory has been erased,” I whisper.

I tear my gaze away before the pain can swallow me and set to work on the floors. By the time I’m finished, the sun has long since set, and the gallery is cloaked in the dim, flickering light of wall sconces.

Footsteps echo from beyond the entrance, growing louder as they approach the gallery. One voice sends a shiver of dread down my spine.

I dart behind the closest column and peer around the curved edge of marble as two figures enter.

The king of the Sorrows.