I’d known Lachlan’s fears over how I might set Varya toward ruin from the first. He’d threatened and scolded me and made his dislike clear. Our discord had sat between us like a reared-back weapon, but I never once thought he would bring it crashing down so violently.

He raised his brows in unhappy irony and gave my chain a tug. “Rise, Your Majesty.”

Not long ago, the Mage Seer had given me guidance: Take what you want. I wanted to curse and gnash. I wanted to scream and be heeded and see all these guards on their knees. But I also wished, for better or worse, to live.

I stood with my clamped teeth bared.

Lachlan led me by the chain—my crown and sword in his other fist—with two of his guards trailing us. Slowly, painfully, we wove through riotous beds of orange and yellow and red blooms. We passed the glittering fountain that cradled three proud Siren statues in its center. With each step my throat grew thicker.

I’d returned to this place, and all its beauty, with the purpose of ending a threat, but as I moved closer to the palace, glowing pure white in the afternoon sun, I remembered that I was the danger cutting through its grounds. I was the terror encroaching.

As we crossed under a sun-dappled tunnel of vines, its white blooms yawning and plentiful, I stumbled over my own feet. My pain thrummed. It set sparks off in my vision. I closed my eyes, tried to focus on the warm rays of light, how they kissed my cheekbones, and I thought of Theodore.

As intemperate and corrupted as I was, I could never risk his safety, even for Agatha. Not with the dark and terrifying yearning that flooded me at the very thought of him. It came on like a fever, heat storming through me. My mouth watered with a hunger that needed sating. I yearned for his blood, for his flesh between my teeth. For his soft lips against mine.

I stopped hard in my tracks, pulling my chain taut. My eyes flew open. I could hardly delineate between my own care and desire, and the way Eusia wanted to consume him.

Lachlan spun, brow knit as he glared at me over his pauldron.

“Don’t…” I whispered to him, struggling to keep my eyes from welling. “Don’t let him near me.”

Unlike Theodore, Lachlan’s face was readily sculpted by his emotions. Sympathy softened his stern brow. But on its heels came a flash of suspicion. There was a question he wanted answered, a wariness he needed soothed. I held his glare and tried to will his trust, ignoring entirely whether or not I deserved it. His mouth firmed, he gave a brisk nod, then his gaze cut to the soldiers behind me. “You’re dismissed. I have her from here.”

“Sir, we’ll take her,” one of them objected. “You’re not safe with her alone.”

Not safe. How strange to have lived so long ruled by my own fears, only to become the source of it for others.

Lachlan started back down the path, toward the palace. A high whimper split my lips at the sudden movement. “You’ve been given your orders,” he said.

Good. Now we would be free to speak, and I could try to pull him to my side.

The guards lingered behind us for a moment, and as I waited, I studied the rigid line of Lachlan’s shoulders, the determined yet vacant way he seemed to move, as if a vital piece of him had been carved away and it was now sheer force of will that animated him. It was so unlike him—even in his anger he’d been effusive, glinting with mischief.

Finally, we reached the empty palace terrace. I tried to slow my steps. “Lach, wait.” He tugged, and I cried out, but he kept our pace, pressing onward toward the glass door. “Gods damn it, you asshole,” I hissed. “It’s about Agatha.”

His steps hitched. I’d found the crack in his armor, and I knew how tender the flesh was beneath. My words were a well-honed blade. “I know where she is.”

But my attempt didn’t pierce. Lachlan carried on, doggedly as before, and led me through the door. “Did you hear me?” We were in the Garden Room, crossing over its gleaming floors, past its bloom-painted walls. “Lachlan, are you actually going—”

“Quiet.” He took me toward the entry hall, but I’d heard worry in the word.

“We’re running out of time,” I said, voice loud and shaking. “The empress might have—”

He stopped and whirled, eyes wide with a horrific look. “The empress?”

I nodded and took in his stricken face. His neck strained, eyes widening as he composed himself. He gave me a warning glance, then tucked us into the shadows of the eastern stairs before we could be noticed. He scanned the entry hall. A few soldiers milled. Some servants cleared away decorations.

Awareness prickled over my skin, and I finally took in the space myself. When I’d left—just yesterday—it was being set for a wedding. Flowering vines had been woven through the black marble banisters, where they looped around the ankles of the Great Gods’ statues. Obelian sigils had hung beside Varian ones, a mingling of deep blues and greens. Now, all of it was half undone. Before the statue of Ligea, who stood beneath the western stairs, two maids worked together to fold a deep green and gold banner, making crisp creases. They tucked it neatly into a basket at their feet.

“What happened?” My voice was a shaking whisper. “Did he call it off?”

Lachlan’s shadowed brow bent, a wary look in his gaze before eyeing the paneled wall at the base of the western stairs. “Keep moving.”

I dug in my heels. “Did he call it off?”

“Please, be quiet, Imogen.” He scanned the room once more, and whispered, “No.”

“Then what—”

“Not here.” He started us toward the far wall, and the narrow door hidden there. Each step had me feeling like I might crumble. He took my arm when my knees started to give. Hinges squealed, and I hobbled into a small, windowless room. An armory. There was a narrow hearth, a handful of lit torches in their holders. Maces, flails, and battle-axes hung on the dark wood walls. An old table and chairs took up the center of the space.

Lachlan clicked the lock over and stared at me. His even mask fell away, replaced by dire intensity. “Where did the empress take her?”

An awful cold crackled through me. “To Anthemoessa,” I said. “Where Eusia is.”

His color drained, his skin looking suddenly waxen. With a horror-struck look in his eyes, he seemed to sort through battering thoughts.

“Tell me what’s happened with the wedding.” I spoke too strongly, making pain flare deep in my middle. “Yesterday, when I left—”

Lachlan gave a sharp shake. “Yesterday?” The word broke in his throat. He shook his head again. “It’s been two days, Imogen. Two fucking days since you left.”

I sucked in a breath as I tried to comprehend. I could not wrap my mind around it—that I’d spent two whole days on the water, fighting toward land in a spell-sick stupor, clinging to my meager, inactionable plan, while Agatha sailed nearer and nearer to danger. By now, she might have reached it.

“How far is Anthemoessa?” My voice was small and frantic.

“Just over three days.” Wood scraped as he pulled the nearest chair from the table and collapsed into it. He clutched his short hair in his fingers. “But it’s near impossible to get there.”

I gaped at him, willing my pain, and shock, and anger, to solidify into something violent enough to sustain me. “Stand up, you ass.” His head snapped up, wet eyes to mine. “You have pined for her for a lifetime and now you collapse? When she needs you most?”

His fist slammed the table. “What can we do? You’ve been proscribed—”

“No thanks to you—”

“It wasn’t me. The council put it to a vote at Eftan’s insistence.” His look was severe. “Everyone in the palace knows who you are and that you are to be imprisoned until trial. Admitting to regicide, like you just did in the garden, won’t help you either.”

“Tell Theodore to pardon me.”