CHAPTER FIVE

I’m not sure what unsettles me more: the thought that I am willingly about to work with someone from the neighboring kingdom I’ve been raised to loathe, or the heavier truth that I am placing my trust in him—a thief, no less. His sudden admission of where he truly comes from rattled me more than I’d care to admit, yet some part of me clings to it as a reason to trust him. If he were only using me, if he truly despised me or wished to harm me on Cromwell’s behalf, he would never have revealed his origin so freely. He could have kept the truth hidden, spun a lie, and I would never have doubted it. Why expose himself in such a way unless he meant to stand beside me, at least for now? It feels genuine, but sincerity can be dangerous too, especially when I don’t know what drives it.

And then there is his silence. He never once asked why I needed to attend the ball; he never pressed for explanations I wasn’t ready to give. Instead, he simply offered his help. That should comfort me—after all, I despise being forced to explain myself—but strangely, it irritates me instead. It leaves too much room for me to wonder what he already suspects.

I do not linger on the thought for long, because Tremaine’s voice, sharp and biting, cuts across the corridor as I step back into the palace. Her words carry with them that familiar shrillness, echoing against the walls, filling every corner like smoke that cannot be contained. I follow the sound without hesitation, my feet carrying me toward the disturbance until the scene unfolds before me: five servants lined up, heads bowed in submission, while Tremaine scolds them with venom, her words striking sharper than any whip.

At the edge of the commotion, I notice Ali. She leans against the wall, her expression calm, almost detached, as if Tremaine’s tirade is no more than a passing storm she has weathered too many times to be moved by it. Something in her posture, though, tells me she is watchful, weighing each word, each breath.

I approach her, lowering my voice so it doesn’t cut into Tremaine’s fury.

“What is the alarums and excursions all about, Ali? Why is Lady Tremaine laying into one of the servants? Did something happen while I was outdoors?”

She startles slightly at my presence, then bows her head with practiced deference. “Certainly, Lady Solstice. Lady Tremaine was asking one of the servants in regard to her personal possessions.”

“Such as?” I press, curious.

“A book, Lady Solstice.”

I still where I stand, my breath catching. “A book?” I repeat, almost certain I’ve misheard. But Ali nods with quiet certainty.

“What book, Ali?”

Her lips part, then close again. “I have no idea, Lady Solstice. Perhaps, she thinks one of us had taken it and is outraged she couldn’t find it on us.”

My gaze drifts back toward Tremaine. She looks nearly frantic, as if her life depends upon this missing item. Her anger feels less like discipline and more like desperation.

“Did she tell you what book it is? Or what it looks like?”

Ali hesitates before answering. “Lady Tremaine says it is an old book.”

“She didn’t give its name?”

“She doesn’t say anything like that. She simply inquired as to whether we had taken anything from her personal space. We had all seen nothing of the book she’s looking for, which is why she’s going rogue. Someone had gotten away with it, she suspects.”

A frown creases my brow. “Is it really that important for her to behave like that and create such a ruckus?”

“It must be important to her, Lady Solstice.”

I recall, unbidden, the stack of books I had unearthed in the attic, books that whispered of witches. Could one of them belong to her? But if so, why would she, of all people, be researching such things? She must know it is forbidden. Unless she has reason…

“Are you certain none of you had taken it? Perhaps, they were curious enough to lay hold of the book.”

Ali’s face betrays a flicker of something—fear, perhaps—but it vanishes almost as quickly as it had come. “That is impossible, Lady Solstice. Servants are not permitted to enter Lady Tremaine’s private room.”

I nod, though the truth feels heavier. It is known to all that Tremaine’s chamber, Anastasia’s and Drizella’s rooms, and my father’s—now Tremaine’s—are the only ones servants may enter for cleaning. That leaves little room for theft, unless Tremaine is mistaken or… lying.

“I see. Well, let me talk to her. I assume, I have seen the book she is looking for.”

I step forward, determined, but she does not notice me at first. Her voice is like iron, branding the servants with words they do not deserve.

“You are all irresponsible, thieves—”

“Mother, that is enough.”

She stops mid-word. When her eyes meet mine, her frown deepens, as though my presence offends her more than the missing book. The servants, sensing her shift, glance at me briefly before bowing their heads lower, eager to avoid her wrath.

“You don’t command me, Solstice. Quit sticking your nose in my business,” she snaps, her tone tight with disdain.

“The servants have told you they saw nothing. You cannot force them to say otherwise because it will be a lie.”

Her brows knit, her irritation sharpening. “And who would take a book from my private room other than them?”

My heart twists as I glance at the servants. Their shoulders tremble, their eyes glisten. They are terrified.

“I am certain they have nothing to do with it. I saw some books inside the attic last day. Perhaps one of those is yours?”

For a fraction of a second, I see it—her body stiffens. Her face twists, caught between fear and doubt. She does not like my words, though she tries to mask it.

“What books are those?” she demands.

I glance around us. This is not the place to speak of such things, not with forbidden knowledge at stake. “I carried them all the way to the basement. You can see them for yourself.”

When I mentioned the basement, she wrinkled her nose as though the word itself carried a stench. Her face tightened in disdain, the smallest twitch betraying that I had said something she disliked.

“I am not going to the basement, Solstice. Call the servants back here, and I will check.”

Her tone was clipped, commanding, with that familiar edge of condescension that reminded me I had no real authority within these walls. I exhaled slowly, knowing what would come next. She would find a way to send them away, of course, while I was the one tasked with retrieving the books. The usual balance of power.

“Very well, Mother,” I said, bowing my head slightly, though the word Mother tasted sour on my tongue.

As I turned to leave, my eyes brushed against Ali’s. She lingered nearby, quiet as always, her expression shadowed by something I could not name. Concern, perhaps. Worry, maybe. There was a subtle tightness around her mouth, a stillness to her posture that suggested apprehension. I tried to reassure her with a smile, a flicker of mischief curling at my lips as though this was nothing but another tiresome errand. Yet beneath my grin lay the truth: Tremaine was a nightmare to deal with, and though I knew well how to set her temper alight, I never came away unscathed.

The stairwell leading down to the basement creaked beneath my boots. Wooden steps groaned with each descent, the air cooling as I went deeper. Shadows pressed against the walls, faintly damp-smelling, the silence of the lower floor broken only by the occasional dripping of unseen pipes. I opened the chamber door to my room, the dim light spilling over the table where I had laid out the forbidden books. Their spines, cracked with age, gleamed faintly in the glow. I arranged them carefully, one atop another, the stack growing heavier in my arms. The weight was not only physical—it pressed on me with every step, for these books were not meant to exist here.

If Tremaine claimed them as hers, I would confront her. These were no ordinary tomes; they were outlawed, their possession a crime that could stain the Kingdom’s reputation before the Four Courts. Even to touch them felt dangerous. Yet to conceal them was equally perilous.

When I returned, I expected to face her alone. But Ali remained, stiff and silent, her presence unsettling in its quiet vigilance. Her eyes did not rest on me, though; her gaze drifted elsewhere, fixed in thought. I wondered, briefly, if she would betray me should she glimpse the truth of what I carried. It was not impossible. Punishment for possession was harsh, and I doubted Tremaine would shield me from consequence.

Tremaine, impatient as always, crossed the distance between us in a swish of skirts and a scent of perfume, snatching the books from my hands before I could steady myself. They tumbled in a messy heap upon the floor, their covers flapping like wings, pages whispering as they landed. My heart jerked upward, panic seizing me—not for myself, but for Ali’s eyes. I darted a look toward her, but she remained distant, her expression unreadable, her gaze purposefully elsewhere.

“Which one is yours?” I forced the question out, my voice barely steady, the tremor lodged deep in my throat.

Tremaine frowned, disappointment sharpening the lines of her face. “None of them is the book I am looking for. Are you certain these are the books you found in the attic?”

“Of course, Mother,” I answered quickly. “You may go down and check my room if you like.”

Her hand cut through the air, dismissive. “That is not necessary.”

I held her gaze, willing my face to show calm though my blood throbbed with unease. “Are these books yours, then? Do you own them?”

Her brows arched upward, mocking. “No. Why would I want such things?”

A silence stretched. I searched her eyes, hoping she would see that I did not believe her, that I had seen through the veil she always wore.

“Yet you are not surprised to see them,” I pressed, the words slipping sharper than I intended. “These are forbidden. To own them, to even look upon them, is treason against the Four Courts.”

Her lips curved into that smirk I despised, the one that told me she relished my disquiet. “I am not surprised, Solstice, because I have seen them before. These belonged to your father.”

Her words cut through me like steel. My breath caught, a sharp, involuntary sound. “You are lying.”

“I am not.” She leaned close, her whisper brushing my ear, sweet and venomous at once. My skin prickled, the fine hairs at my nape stiffening. “I saw him with them often. He read them in secret. And I—out of loyalty, out of restraint—chose silence. Think of it, Solstice. The King of Ruby, guardian of the law, the man entrusted to protect the Summer Court… breaking its most sacred edict. Ironic, is it not?”

Her nearness was suffocating. The silk of her hair grazed my shoulder, the dark heat of her presence pressing me still. I could not move, could not breathe, until her eyes flicked toward Ali. That small motion released me, like a spell breaking.

“Burn them,” she said coldly, nodding toward the books. “And you saw nothing.”

Ali bowed her head, obedient. I looked away, unable to meet Tremaine’s eyes.

“I must prepare for the ball,” she added, stepping back, her gown whispering as she moved. “The Kingdom of Larimar awaits my presence, and I cannot disappoint.” With a final sweep of her hair, she left the chamber.

I stared at the scattered books. They were my father’s, she had said. Father, the one who embodied the law. Father, whose death left me beneath her heel. Father, now branded with suspicion by the only lips that could still speak of him.

I bent down, gathering them with Ali, the weight of the tomes heavier than stone.

I am not sure I should believe her. Every word Tremaine spoke might have been intended to poison me, to shake the image I still hold of Father, to convince me that he is not the man I thought him to be. It could all be a calculated effort to drag him down to her level, to make me see him as she is—tainted, cruel, with secrets that rot in the shadows. She thrives on corruption, on pulling strings. Why wouldn’t she try to make me question the one person I still cling to?

Yet the thought needles me as I return to my room. My steps feel heavier, the wooden stairs groaning beneath each one as if echoing the doubt planted in my chest. I shake my head firmly. No—it cannot be. Father would never betray what he stood for. If those books were his, he must have had a reason, one that still honored his role as protector of law and keeper of peace. Research, perhaps. A study of witches, not an indulgence in them.

But then—why?

The question gnaws at me. He was the Kingdom’s shield, the one who vowed to safeguard us from witches, whose very name was synonymous with order and protection. Witches are poison. To even mention them is forbidden. Their kind are not just dangerous—they are outlawed history, a curse that once ruled with dark supremacy. Books like the ones Tremaine accused him of possessing… they are not merely banned for the words they contain, but because opening them means opening a door into that dark world again, a world where witches thrived and held dominion. To read is to remember. To remember is to risk revival.

So what was it, Father? What drew you to them?

Was it Mother’s death? That wound cut deep, yes, but it was years ago. Had he not moved on when he chose Tremaine? Or had grief lingered longer than I understood, pulling him into forbidden places, into pages that whispered promises of what once was?

My hands clench into fists before I realize it, nails biting into my palms. The room feels too small for my questions. If Father were here, I would demand answers, but he is not. He left me with silence, and silence is cruel. It means I must seek out truth myself.

I lower onto the bed, my weight sinking into sheets that still hold a faint scent of lavender. My fingers clutch the blanket absently, seeking steadiness. With my other hand, I touch the necklace at my throat—a keepsake, a comfort, the one thing that still feels wholly mine. I draw a breath to steady myself, preparing to rise, when a small sliver of shadow beneath my pillow catches my eye.

Curiosity pricks. I lift the pillow, and there it is. A book I had not given Tremaine. The one I had forgotten.

The Book of Prophecy.

My pulse stutters. I draw it onto my lap, the weight of it far heavier than its size should allow. My fingertips glide over the rough, dark cover. The surface feels like stone worn by time, the edges hard, the golden letters engraved deep as though pressed by fire itself. I trace the title with careful reverence. It is strange—I must have seen it before, but tonight, its presence strikes me differently, sharp as a revelation. The design, old and formal, belongs to another age. But it is not the exterior that compels me. What matters lies inside.

Could this be the book Tremaine hunts?

If so, then the lie is even deeper. She said the books were Father’s. And this, too, I found in the same place. So whose is it really? Hers? His? Both possibilities cut in different directions, neither offering comfort.

I slide the book back beneath my pillow, tucking it carefully out of sight. At least it is mine for now, something that belonged to Father—or so I tell myself. The castle, the crown, the throne, the very Kingdom—those slipped into Tremaine’s hands. But this small relic rests with me.

The hours crawl. I stay in my chamber, threading needle through fabric as if sewing could mend more than cloth. From the chaos of Drizella’s and Anastasia’s rooms I’ve scavenged bits of fabric, enough to stitch something simple. Not a gown—never that. Tonight requires movement, not display. My fingers move swiftly, shaping a tunic, practical and unrestricting, each seam a quiet defiance against the world Tremaine believes she controls.

By the time I raise it into the air, the garment looks almost like something Father would have approved of—sturdy, purposeful. I set it down and reach beneath my bed for the worn leather boots I’ve hidden away, and from the window’s ledge I take the rough trousers I’ve left hanging. Piece by piece, I prepare. As though preparing could shield me from the uncertainty of the night.

Tremaine’s call shatters the quiet. Her voice rises through the house, sharp and impatient. I gather my things quickly, straightening as I hear her grow louder, her irritation curling like smoke. I stumble up the wooden stairs, catching my breath just in time to see them at the gate.

She is dressed differently tonight. For the first time, she wears not black, but crimson. The gown flares wide, rich with petticoat, a river of red spilling across the stones. Her long black hair is pulled back tightly, severe as always, but the color softens nothing of her face. Behind her waits the carriage, an extravagant display, its body shining with inlaid stones and polished ornaments that catch the fading light.

“We are about to go, Solstice,” she says, her voice as smooth as ice. “Assure me the palace will remain untouched until we return.”

I incline my head. “I will do nothing out of line, Mother. I will pray for your safe journey.”

Her frown sharpens. “That will not be necessary. The Kingdom of Larimar is close to the Summer Court. It will not be a long journey.”

My lip catches between my teeth before I speak. “Oh. What a shame. I know nothing of Cromwell’s Kingdom’s placement.”

Her eyes roll with contempt. “Of course not. After your mother’s death, your father sealed you away like treasure—precious, but useless. Your ignorance is hardly surprising. And so I do not permit you to attend. It is no more than you deserve.”

The words strike, but I force my smile to remain, bowing slightly. “Of course, Mother.”

Her gaze narrows, still suspicious. “I expect you will not cause trouble in our absence.”

“I will not,” I answer smoothly.

“Very well.”

From the carriage, Drizella’s voice shrieks, impatient. “Mother, come on! We’ll be late!”

Tremaine’s eyes flick to me once more, her stare a silent warning. She turns, sweeping toward the carriage, but I cannot let her leave without one last question.

“Mother.”

She halts. Irritation bristles in her voice. “What now, Solstice?”

“Will the Winter Court be at the ball?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why does that concern you?”

“Curiosity only,” I reply, my tone deliberately casual.

Her lips twitch, but she answers. “Yes. The Charlemagnes. The Chudleighs refused. Is that sufficient? I have no more time for your idle questions.”

I nod with a smile. “Certainly, Mother. Take care.”

She says nothing, slipping into the carriage. The door shuts. Hooves clatter against stone, and soon the carriage disappears down the road.

I stand in the gathering dusk, the chill breeze brushing against my skin. Wrapping my arms around myself, I tilt my face to the sky. The moon has risen early, silver against the lingering light of day. My thoughts drift to Father and Mother both, to the nights when we lay on the grass and watched the moon together. A memory now. One of many.

Back in my chamber, I change quickly into my tunic and trousers, tying my hair back into a careless ponytail. The bag waits, already packed.

Flynn’s words echo in my mind. He promised help. A thief’s word. Can such a thing be trusted? I do not know. I will never know, unless I go.

The house is silent, its walls no longer suffocating me with Tremaine’s presence. Slipping away is easy—I know every shadow, every hidden turn. Far easier than sneaking in.

The city shifts with night. Gone is the clamor of day; in its place a hush falls, broken only by the echo of my boots against stone and the faint jingle of coins in my bag. Streetlamps flicker at distant crossings, their light weak against the darkness creeping in. The air is thick with the stench of refuse, rank and sour, rising from the crowded houses. I cover my mouth with my hand, quickening my pace, swallowing nausea.

And then—the tree. It waits ahead, silvered by moonlight, the place where Flynn promised to meet me. A shadow leans there, a figure already waiting. My heart lurches, though I school my face to calm.

He straightens when he sees me, brushing his hair aside, a smirk curling his mouth. Relief softens his features, though he hides it poorly. His clothes are as before—worn shirt, baggy trousers, nothing polished, nothing noble.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice betrays his smirk.

I let out a slow breath, smiling faintly. Relief stirs in me, though I would die before admitting it.

“You said you came from the Kingdom of Larimar,” I begin, my tone deliberate, cautious.

His brow lifts, as though the question surprises him. But he nods. “Certainly.”

“Is it more prosperous than here?” The memory of the city’s stench lingers in my throat.

He studies me, brow arching higher. “Is that truly what you wish to know?”

“I have every reason to be curious about your Kingdom,” I reply evenly.

“I thought you despised it.”

“I do. I only ask out of curiosity.”

He leans back against the tree, thoughtful, his hand propping his chin. When his gaze returns to me, it is steady, almost amused. “The Cromwells rule differently than the Canmores. And I will say this—they do it better.”

The words cut. My face tightens before I can stop it. “How can you say that?”

“Because I lived there,” he answers simply. “And it is not like this place. I did not see hunger, or theft, or blood spilled on every corner. They have peace. They have joy. They have lives untouched by the rot you see here.”

I growl softly. “Are you saying this Kingdom is lesser?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible.”

“Wait until you see,” he says, almost gently.

I wave the thought away, unwilling to let it take root. “That will not be necessary. I would never wander a Kingdom I despise. I will go only for the ball.”

“You despise a place you’ve never seen?” His smirk fades into curiosity. “What makes you hate it so?”

I shrug, uncomfortable. “I do not know.” Then, quickly, I turn the question. “How did you get here? Do the guards not secure the borders?”

His grin returns. “I got here because I can. My sneaking is unmatched.”

I roll my eyes, though his confidence tugs a smile from me. “Perhaps you can prove that to me later.”

“Gladly,” he replies, settling back on the grass with a grin.

I hesitate, then lower myself beside him, careful to keep distance, the space between us a shield.

“What will you do if we succeed?” he asks suddenly, eyes glinting. “Will you dance with princes?”

I scoff. “Hardly.”

“Then what is your plan?”

I brush dirt from my trousers, rising again. “We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He laughs quietly, content with the answer, and when he rises too, the grin remains.