Prince Corveaux did not give me time to breathe.

  One morning, he ordered the guards to drag me from Rocher's bedside. They escorted me down two hallways, through an arched door of carved marble, and into a room that looked less like a dressing chamber and more like the inner sanctum of a god.

  Curtains of pale silk drifted from the ceiling. Racks of gowns in every muted jewel tone lined the walls. Perfume clung to the air like mist. At least a dozen attendants turned at once when I entered, eyes bright with expectation.

  Then a voice behind me:

  "Make her presentable."

  Corveaux.

  The attendants descended like a flock of bright, chirping birds.

  I yelped as warm hands caught my elbows, guiding me toward a raised ptform with a silver-framed mirror twice my height.

  "His Highness prefers subtle elegance," one attendant said.

  "No," another corrected. "Refinement."

  "Either way," a third said lightly, "she must be fwless."

  My blouse and skirt vanished in a blur of hands. Towels wrapped around me. Something warm and sweet-smelling poured over my scalp and trickled down my spine. Brushes swept across my skin with maddening efficiency. Every time I tried to speak, someone gently turned my chin or lifted my arm or adjusted the angle of my hips, shaping me as though I were made of pliable cy.

  Corveaux crossed the room with slow, unhurried steps, positioning himself where he could see me through the mirror. He didn't speak. Didn't sit. Just observed, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back, expression composed enough to make my lungs tighten.

  I felt like an exhibit. A nervous, twitching one.

  "Hey," I tried weakly as a comb tugged my scalp. "Could I at least keep a little dignity—"

  "Hold still, my dy," a maid scolded gently, as if I were a fussy kitten.

  And then—

  A peculiar sensation.

  A very peculiar sensation.

  "Um," I squeaked. "What exactly are you doing?"

  "Grooming, my dy," the maid replied pleasantly, as if announcing the weather.

  "...All of it?"

  "Everything below the eyebrows," she confirmed.

  I spped both hands over my burning face. "Goddess kill me dead—"

  A ripple of quiet ughter passed among the attendants.

  Hairpins clicked. Ribbons tightened. Perfume dusted the inside of my wrists. Someone debated whether my freckles should be concealed; Corveaux dismissed the idea with a curt "No," and the jar vanished instantly.

  They eventually wrapped me in a simple linen shift while they fetched the gowns. I barely had time to breathe before Corveaux approached, the air cooling around him like a shadow drawing close.

  He studied my reflection as though evaluating a piece of craftsmanship. A faint glimmer of anticipation flickered through his reflection before settling back into cool composure.

  Heat fred under my skin.

  He stepped closer and adjusted a strand of hair at my shoulder with unsettling gentleness.

  Then he gestured briskly.

  "Present them."

  Chaos resumed instantly. Dresses unfurled like banners—silk, chiffon, velveteen. Jewel tones, winter whites. One gown shimmered rose-gold; another glittered like crushed ice. A maid held each piece up against my body, tilting her head, while yet another whispered measurements under her breath.

  Corveaux dismissed most of them with a single lift of his brow.

  "Too loud."

  "No."

  "Not suitable."

  Finally, a soft ash-blue gown threaded with silver caught the light. The maids murmured approvingly.

  "That one," Corveaux said, voice warming faintly.

  "Why that one?"

  "It suits you," he said. "Subtle. Unassuming. Exceptional, once one bothers to look closely."

  I bristled. "I actually preferred the one before. The blue, with the higher neckline."

  "No. It diminishes your curvature. You will wear the ash-blue."

  My protest died as the gown was swept over my head. Silk whispered down my skin—cool, delicate, far too elegant.

  The ces tightened; I yelped softly as my spine straightened on instinct.

  "Oh!" I croaked. "That's tight—"

  One maid giggled behind her hand.

  Corveaux stepped back, taking in the finished result.

  For a long moment, he said nothing.

  Then his expression softened into something close to satisfaction.

  "This will do," he murmured.

  My hands curled helplessly at my sides. "Do... for what, exactly?"

  "For the ball. You will stand beside me," he said. "As my escort."

  My heartbeat stumbled.

  "It's a celebration for Seraphine," I said. "Not a pce to show off."

  "Can it not be both?" he replied simply. "Thanks to Bishop Halbrecht's... passionate opposition, half the court still whispers that you are a witch. It is with their tacit approval that the Church, the Tower, their padins act so boldly against you."

  Each word dripped with disdain.

  "I granted Miss Seraphine the title of Sage to act as her shield. Now she moves freely, untouchable by Tower censure." He paused to let it sink in. "Would you not enjoy simir protection?"

  Our eyes met through the mirror.

  I carefully nodded.

  "Of course," he said, "you ck her gift for magic. So your protection must take another form."

  I swallowed. "And that is?"

  Corveaux's smile was small, poised, inevitable.

  "Your friends say you are quite clever. Surely this you can puzzle on your own."

  My heart stopped cold. "No... you mean..."

  His smile broadened.

  I looked at him sharply.

  "People forget," Corveaux went on mildly, "that my mother was not always where she ended."

  He watched my reflection as he spoke, as though gauging which words nded and which slid past.

  "Before she was queen-consort, she was nobody," he said. "A mere baron's daughter. Not someone you'd give a second look."

  My stomach tightened.

  "She endured," he continued. "Remained useful. She understood when to be quiet, and when to be indispensable. And in time... her circumstances—her standing with His Majesty—changed."

  He lifted one shoulder in a faint, careless shrug.

  "Quite the fairytale romance, wouldn't you say?" he added softly. "Surely, as a girl, you've dreamed."

  Silence stretched.

  I pushed down the scoff building in my throat. He didn't know me from the fantasy he was selling me.

  "You're not saying—"

  "I am not saying anything," Corveaux replied pleasantly. "I am merely reminding you that my favor has its advantages."

  He stepped closer.

  "Think about it," he said, quieter. "By my side, empty whispers become empty no longer. They become treason."

  He lifted a lock of my hair, brought it near his face, and inhaled softly.

  Revulsion crawled down my spine. "Your Highness..."

  "Of course," he continued, "you are free to refuse. This is not a condition Her Holiness negotiated. I'm under no illusion she would ever agree. Consider it... a gesture of my goodwill."

  I bit my lip.

  My thoughts went to Rocher, lying helpless and comatose in the Crown Prince's grip. To Seraphine, who now walked freely because he allowed it. To Evelyn, whose immunity and position hinged on his say-so. To Lumiere, who'd lost the Goddess's favor and now retained the title of Saintess only through his support.

  Corveaux didn't need to threaten them aloud. He'd already shown how easily he could reach into my life and rearrange it.

  I clenched my fists. I could not overpower him. Not now. But I could defer. Choose where the damage nded.

  Something in my chest twisted, sharp and sudden. I swallowed it down, and let reason take its pce.

  This was not the first role I'd worked to my advantage. I'd been a nun. A maid. A prisoner. A sister. A friend.

  I would survive this too. Find his weaknesses. Gain the advantage.

  No pyer before had learned what made him tick. But no one had gotten this close either.

  I lifted my chin, heart aching as I forced the words out.

  "I'll give you my answer," I said. "After the ball."

  The corners of his mouth lifted, the expression of a man watching the st piece fall exactly where he intended.

  "Good," he said. "I knew you were a smart girl."

  He gestured to the gown, the hair, the pageantry of it.

  "All of this will make you untouchable."

  Untouchable.

  I didn't feel untouchable. I felt handled.

  All I wanted was to go home.

  To Rocher. Lumiere. Evelyn and Seraphine.

  To all the fractured, complicated, messy people who made me feel like myself.

  Instead I stood here—polished and preened—staring at a reflection I barely recognized.

  Corveaux watched me in quiet satisfaction.

  "The first step is over," he said at st.

  "The first?" I echoed weakly.

  "Next come the lessons. Etiquette. Dance."

  The attendants bowed to me as if to a noblewoman.

  Even though I still felt like an imposter in borrowed skin.

  By the time they returned me to Rocher's room, the gown and gold pins and ornaments were gone—and I was grateful for even that small piece of myself returned.

  Rocher surfaced slowly.

  As if rising through warm syrup—thoughts thick, heavy, reluctant to form.Breath in.Breath out.A fire crackled somewhere nearby, its glow brushing against his eyelids.

  Then a scent drifted toward him. Soft. Floral. Warm in a way that seemed too close, too intimate, to belong to anyone but—

  Someone.

  Someone leaning over him.

  His eyes dragged open.

  Light blurred. Shapes wavered. The world felt different, subtly rearranged while he slept. For a heartbeat he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or waking.

  And then she came into focus.

  A woman.

  No—at first, she was just light. Fire-soft. Silhouetting her in a halo that made his dazed mind reach for the only word it had:

  Beautiful.

  Her chestnut hair was braided in some delicate pattern he didn't recognize, gleaming as though kissed by the firelight. Her skin looked impossibly smooth, softened to a glow by some warm radiance he couldn't name. A whisper of perfume touched the air—gentle, inviting, nothing he remembered ever breathing.

  Something deep inside him stirred.

  Her hands cupped his face. Warm. Trembling. Strangely familiar.

  As if he should know her, should reach for her name—but every thought slid away like water through his fingers.

  His chest tightened, instinct preceding memory.

  "Rocher?" Her voice wavered.

  His heart lurched—an instinctive ache, as if he should know that voice, should fold into it, should answer without thinking. Something in him leaned toward her despite the fog choking his memories.

  Then she colpsed against him—arms around him, face pressed to his bare chest, breath shuddering like the world had almost ended.

  He froze.

  Then heat washed through him, sudden and overwhelming.

  She was soft against him.And warm.And heartbreakingly present.

  His hand lifted on instinct, fingers brushing her hair—silky, too silky, as though someone had tended it with impossible care. He didn't know who would do that for her. He didn't know why she smelled like flowers. He didn't know anything at all—

  But he knew he didn't want her to pull away.

  She lifted her head. Her eyes shone with relief so raw it nearly undid him.

  He searched his mind. For a name. For a memory. For some piece of himself that recognized her the way his body clearly did.

  Nothing came.

  Just a vague ache, sharp and hollow, where something important should have been.

  She cupped his cheek again, thumb trembling against his skin.

  "Thank the Goddess... I thought you wouldn't wake up. I thought I lost you."

  Lost him?

  Rocher swallowed hard. Shame pricked under his ribs—shame at the truth he could feel tightening his throat.

  He didn't want to say it. Not to her.

  "...I'm sorry," he said, voice low.

  She blinked, startled. "Sorry?"

  His chest tightened. The ache behind it twisted, growing sharper, as though his body knew exactly what she meant to him even while his mind failed to.

  He wished he could hide the truth.He wished he could give her what she wanted—whatever it was.He wished he could reach the memory that should have been hers.

  But he couldn't.

  He met her eyes—saw hope forming in them, fragile as blown sugar—and felt it crack even before he spoke the words.

  "Who..." he managed, voice barely a whisper, "are you?"