“Again,” Lucien said.
Rowan glared at him across the small table.
“No,” she said.
He smiled slowly. “Good,” he said. “But make me *feel* it.”
They were in the same sunken sitting room as before, cushions scattered, low table between them. Today, the decanter held water instead of wine. The chessboard had been pushed aside in favor of a pile of scrolls and a stack of cards.
Lucien’s idea of “Court literacy” had moved from theory to practice.
He’d spent the last hour throwing scenarios at her.
“Maerlyn offers to ‘relieve you of the burden’ of choosing the next King, if you just sign *here.*”
“No,” Rowan had said.
“Too sharp,” Lucien had responded. “She likes sharp, but only when she’s holding the knife.”
“The Mire Queen invites you to her swamp for a ‘spa day.’”
“Hard no,” Rowan had said.
“Correct,” Lucien had said. “That was a trick question.”
“Winter’s Hound sends you a wolf pup.”
“No,” she’d said. “I don’t take gifts with incisors.”
He’d grinned. “You’re learning.”
Now, he leaned back, fingers steepled.
“Okay,” he said. “Realistic scenario. My favorite.”
His expression shifted into something…else.
More formal.
More cutting.
When he spoke again, his voice had Maerlyn’s rhythm.
“The High Seat of Thorns invites you to attend a private strategy session,” he intoned. “To ‘better understand the Court’s needs.’”
Rowan made a face. “That’s a euphemism for ‘we want to pry in your head,’” she said.
“Obviously,” Lucien said. “Answer.”
She thought.
She could say, *No, thanks.* Or *I’d rather gargle nails.* Neither would fly.
“I would be…honored,” she said slowly, “but my calendar is…full. With training. And not dying. And keeping your Court from rotting. Perhaps in a few weeks, when I have more…capacity.”
Lucien’s brows rose. “Not bad,” he said. “You didn’t lie outright. You acknowledged the flattery. You gave a reason that makes sense.” His mouth curved. “You also slipped in a reminder that you’re currently patching *their* walls, which will irk Maerlyn and amuse the King.”
“I like irking Maerlyn,” Rowan said.
“Don’t we all,” Lucien said.
She sighed.
“This is exhausting,” she muttered.
“Court is exhausting,” he said. “That’s why we drink so much.”
She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her chin into her hands. “I don’t know how you’ve done this for centuries without stabbing someone in the face,” she said.
“Oh, I’ve stabbed plenty of people in the face,” he said. “Metaphorically. Once literally. It was a whole thing.”
She squinted. “Do I want to know the story?”
“Not until you’ve eaten,” he said. “Speaking of.” He flicked a card at her. “Food thing.”
She caught it.
A heart.
Great.
“Imagine,” Lucien said, “that at the next feast, someone slides a plate in front of you. Something new. Not obviously enchanted. Looks delicious. Smells amazing. Your stomach is rumbling because you spent the afternoon lifting witches’ cauldrons.”
“Very specific,” she said.
“Let’s say it’s…roasted figs with honey and goat cheese,” he went on.
Her mouth watered. “You’re an asshole,” she said.
He smiled. “And the server says, ‘Compliments of His/Her/Their Highness of [insert Court here].’”
“So not the communal food,” she said. “A…targeted offering.”
“Exactly,” he said. “What do you do?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Send it back,” she said. “Untouched. With a smile. And a, ‘Thank them for the thought, but I’m watching my sugar.’”
Lucien snorted. “Beautiful,” he said. “Petty. Petty is good.”
“I learned from Harper,” she said.
His eyes gleamed. “Your loud friend,” he said. “I like her.”
“You haven’t met her,” she pointed out.
“I’ve *seen* her,” he said. “Whisper’s vines are surprisingly good at peeking.”
She stiffened. “Whisper’s…what.”
“Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “We have rules. Mostly. We don’t *touch.* We just…watch.”
“That’s not better,” she said.
“Debatable,” he said.
He sobered.
“All right,” he said. “Harder one.”
He slid a scroll across the table.
“Imagine this drops in your lap,” he said. “Literally. In a corridor. No name on the seal.” He nodded at the wax blob holding it closed. “You crack it. Inside is…this.”
She raised a brow. “You’ve been writing fanmail as part of my homework?”
“Read it,” he said.
She unrolled the scroll.
The handwriting was elegant. The words were…complimentary.
*Lady Rowan,* it began.
*Your presence in our Court has been most invigorating. It is rare to see such spirit and clarity in these halls. I find myself…intrigued. There is much we might accomplish together, were we to speak plainly, away from prying eyes.*
*j*
*PS: I brought you a gift.*
A small pouch was tied to the end of the scroll.
It jingled softly.
“Who is ‘j’?” Rowan asked.
“Could be anyone,” Lucien said. “Jareth, Juno, Jask. Half of the south orchard lads. Several bored noblewomen. Someone from Summer pretending to be clever. Point is: anonymous, flattering, sneaky. And a gift you didn’t ask for.”
“I don’t open the pouch,” she said.
“Correct,” he said. “What do you do with it?”
She thought.
“Burn it,” she said.
He blinked. “Interesting,” he said. “Dramatic.”
“Or,” she said, “I bring it to Lavinia. Or Brann. Or you. Or Caelan. Ask if anyone recognizes the handwriting. Make it a…group project.”
He smiled slowly. “Very good,” he said. “You’re…getting this.”
“I’ve been dodging scams since my first credit card offer,” she said. “This is just…fancier bullshit.”
He laughed, delighted.
“You know,” he said, “if you hadn’t been stolen, you’d have made an excellent barrister in your world.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to argue about parking tickets,” she said. “I want to argue about things that matter.”
“You are,” he said simply.
She exhaled.
“Can we stop now?” she asked. “My brain is soup.”
“One more,” he said. “Real one.”
He leaned forward.
His expression shifted again—sharpened. Less amused.
“Caelan,” he said, “comes to you with a plan. It’s…good. Bold. Dangerous. It might protect a lot of people. It might kill him.”
Rowan’s chest tightened.
“Not hypothetical,” she muttered.
“He doesn’t *ask* you to sign on,” Lucien went on. “He tells you, ‘This is what I’m doing.’ Because he thinks you’ll argue. And he doesn’t want to be dissuaded. What do you say?”
She stared at him.
“That’s…unfair,” she said.
“That’s Court,” he said.
She thought of Caelan’s bandaged arm. Of the way he’d said, *I’d do it again,* and then, *No, I wouldn’t.*
She thought of Harper’s voice in her head: *Make him bleed for it.* And Gran’s: *Don’t let them write your story.*
She met Lucien’s gaze.
“I say,” she said slowly, “‘You don’t get to decide that without me.’”
Lucien’s brows rose.
“Not ‘no’?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Not yet. I say, ‘If you’re going to risk your life for this Court, for me, then I get a say in the how. I get to look at the costs and choose to either tie myself to your mistake or *walk.*’”
She swallowed.
“And if he’s doing it because he thinks…dying is easier than living with all this,” she went on, voice rough, “I say, ‘Fuck that. You don’t get to leave me with the mess.’”
Silence.
Then Lucien’s mouth curved.
“Well,” he said. “I think I can safely say…you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to his martyrdom complex.”
“Is that a compliment,” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Absolutely.”
She sighed.
“What about you?” she asked impulsively. “If *you* come to me with some…sacrificial nonsense, do I get to say the same?”
He blinked.
Then laughed.
“Oh,” he said. “Aisling was right. You *are* contagious.”
“What,” she demanded.
“Defiance,” he said. “It spreads.” He sipped his water. “Yes, Rowan Vance. If I decide to throw myself between you and, say, a very pointy spear, you get to yell at me about it.”
“I will,” she said.
“I’m counting on it,” he said.
***
Later, alone in her room, Rowan stared at the ceiling.
The candle on her bedside table burned low, wax pooling in a dish shaped like a leaf.
Her body was tired.
Her mind…buzzed.
Mire’s vines. Winter’s teeth. The King’s ask. Lucien’s hypotheticals.
Caelan’s laugh.
Aisling’s almost-vulnerability.
Her own magic, coiling and uncoiling under her skin like a restless animal.
She rolled onto her side.
The room hummed faintly.
The ward they’d set—the claiming of the space—felt like a thin shield pressed close against her ribs.
She thought of home.
Of Harper.
Of Zia.
Of Mrs. Carrow.
Of Gran.
Her chest ached.
She reached under her pillow and pulled out the folded photo.
Gran, young.
Standing in front of the farmhouse.
Hair in a scarf.
Cigarette in one hand.
Middle finger up.
Rowan smiled through the prick of tears.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m trying.”
She tucked the photo back.
Closed her eyes.
Slept.
Dreams came.
Not like before.
Not Caelan’s curated hall scenes or the cracked sky.
Just…bits.
Harper laughing on the couch.
Zia scowling at a burnt pancake.
Ash perched on the crooked tree.
Aisling’s hand, warm at her waist during the dance.
Caelan’s voice: *You’re already enough.*
She woke to the faintest warmth at her wrist.
The bracelet.
She pressed her fingers to it.
Somewhere, across a thin, thin seam, a coin warmed in Harper’s palm.
---