Elara breathed hard.
Water streamed from her sleeves.
“My family built the western towers of this palace.”
“That does not grant entry.”
“My grandfather died defending this throne.”
“That does not grant entry.”
“My mother served the late Queen.”
“That still does not grant entry.”
Elara stepped closer.
“What would?”
The captain’s expression hardened.
“An invitation.”
Elara smiled slightly.
“I had one.”
“From whom?”
She pulled a small object from beneath her wet cloak.
A silver medallion.
Half a sun.
Half a rose.
The captain stared.
Several guards shifted.
He knew it.
Everyone old enough inside the palace knew it.
The sigil belonged to the Lost Prince.
The Queen’s son.
The man who vanished twenty years ago.
The man officially declared dead after falling from the eastern cliffs.
The man Elara had been promised to as a child before both families abandoned the betrothal after his disappearance.
The captain’s face changed.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother kept it.”
“Why?”
“Because someone gave it to her the night the Prince vanished.”
“Who?”
Elara looked straight at him.
“The Prince.”
Silence.
Then the doors opened from inside.
A court herald stared at the gathering.
“What is happening?”
Elara lifted her chin.
“Apparently I’ve arrived.”
Before anyone could stop her, she walked through.
The throne hall was larger than memory.
She had not entered it since she was fourteen.
Hundreds of candles glowed beneath ribbed stone arches. Tall windows flashed white with lightning. Gold banners hung behind rows of nobles dressed in velvet, silver, crimson, and black.
At the far end rose the throne.
And upon it sat Queen Seraphine.
Not truly Queen.
Dowager Queen.
But no one inside Blackthorn Palace used that correction anymore.
Seraphine was nearly sixty and still striking enough to silence a room.
Her dark hair was arranged beneath a towering silver-and-emerald crown.
Her gown was deep green velvet covered in metallic embroidery.
An emerald necklace rested against her throat.
The jewels looked cold.
So did she.
Elara reached the center aisle.
Water dripped from her dress onto polished stone.
Every eye turned toward her.
A nobleman whispered, “What is she doing?”
Another answered, “Trying to die.”
Seraphine raised one hand.
The entire hall went silent.
Her eyes settled on Elara.
Recognition came instantly.
Followed by displeasure.
“Elara Vayne.”
Elara bowed only her head.
“Your Majesty.”
“You were denied entry.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you are here.”
“Yes.”
Seraphine leaned back.
“You arrive soaking wet, without escort, without invitation, and with enough arrogance to drown a lesser woman.”
Elara looked at the storm outside.
“Fortunately, drowning appears to be tonight’s theme.”
A few nobles almost laughed.
Seraphine’s gaze sharpened.
“Careful.”
Elara said nothing.
The Queen’s eyes dropped to the silver medallion in her hand.
For the first time, Seraphine’s composure cracked.
Only slightly.
But Elara saw it.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
The court gasped.
Seraphine sat straighter.
“What?”
Elara closed her fist around the medallion.
“My mother told me never to surrender it to you.”
Something dangerous entered the Queen’s face.
“She is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps she no longer needs it.”
“She said you would.”
Seraphine stood.
The jewels on her gown flashed.
“What else did your mother say?”
Elara remembered the last night.
Her mother feverish beneath blankets.
Her voice weak.
The locked wooden box beneath the bed.
The letter.