I.

Castle

To the King, she was Lenore. To everyone else, including Astara, she was the Queen. But before she had arrived there hadn't been a Queen in Callis North for a long time, and never one from beyond the mountains.
King Varus said she was from the islands, a place where they covered themselves in jewelry and wore colored gems in their hair and their hair was the shade of sunsets and open flames. Astara had even heard that people there inked their skin with gold and lived in pits made of mud. The Queen certainly did appear exotic to her, who knew only the wintery, dark green lands of Callis North, its mountains full of brambles and black earth and snow. To look at the Queen was to imagine her growing up along a glistening shore, a place where they dyed silks and taught parrots to speak full paragraphs. And while the Northerners had rounded features and the shadow of the forests in their blood, the Queen had delicately curling red lips and eyes flecked with lavender that she rimmed with kohl. Not like Astara's eyes, which she thought were the color of tree bark.
It had been seven years since her father had wed the Queen. He had met her one day on an expedition to the islands, where she was an ambassador of the primary village. From what he told Astara, she had captured his affections at once, and then they became inseparable. When he brought her back to Callis North, the Court was surprised, but the Queen had performed her role well, reserved and radiant next to her husband's place on the throne. And yet, even after seven years Astara felt she scarcely knew her. She had always been distant, her only engagement with Astara the occasional advice on how to dress a wound or clear pollen from the gardens or create elixirs to ward away black heat. It seemed as though the people of the islands were well-versed in the medicinal properties of certain herbs and plants, just as Astara's own mother was said to have been. But Queen Lenore was guarded with what she knew, and rarely divulged her wisdoms.

Astara had grown used to her stepmother's reticence, allayed by the Queen's affections toward her father, who was enamored with her. She had once spied a letter he had written to the Queen where he confessed that whenever he looked at her, he still saw her as she was the first night, her hair red and curling down her back, slipping out of the white silk in the candlelight. He wrote that he'd imagined her with deer horns, a crown of the wilderness, and that desire immobilized him. Astara had shut the paper quickly back in its drawer.
Now, however, King Varus lay ill in his chambers, some mysterious poison filling his heart. The change had come slowly at first—his labored breathing and forgetfulness, the faraway look in his eyes. One day he had collapsed exiting from the Council Hall. Astara had been beside herself, but the Queen had pulled her away, summoning the Guard to take him to his rooms instead.

The physician had examined him and determined that his heart was getting weaker and his mind was in decline, but from what they couldn't say. The Council had been notified with a promise from the Queen that he was to recover, but Astara knew they were suspicious. The lords and ladies of the Court still didn't know, but how long could they keep his condition private? As for the Queen, she kept him in his chambers each day, only occasionally letting Astara through to visit him. And when she did, the Queen kept a watchful eye. Astara's heart burned with resentment for her.

She was thinking of the Queen now as she navigated the secret paths toward the statue of Calliope in the garden terrace. Astara knew very little of what had been discussed between the Queen and the Council about her father, though certainly the Queen was travelling briskly to and from the Council Hall most days. Why had the Queen not discussed anything with her? When Astara had tried to get answers, she was met with chastisement not to bother her with silly questions. It made her angry again at the thought of it as she traipsed through the garden path, though when she rounded the bend, she nearly stumbled.

The Queen was across the field from her, standing outside the northern stable house.
Astara gasped and ducked down, peering through the brambles at her stepmother's tall figure. She looked to be talking to the head stable boy while the mares whinnied and nudged in their wooden boxes, and the trail of her ivory dress had been sullied by the cut grass. Astara narrowed her eyes and wondered at her. The other stable hands stood a ways from her, averting their eyes. If she had wanted a horse, a page would have fetched it. But she never rode horses.

After a time the boy chuckled and gave a sharp bow before retreating to the stables. When he returned he was leading Lazarus, Astara's stallion, by the reins.
Astara rose, gasping, ready to bolt to her horse. But the Queen stroked Lazarus, looking into his eyes as though he were her own stallion. Astara held still, her hands poking against the bramble's thorns as she watched. The Queen said something to the boy again, then handed him Lazarus's reins. Without a word he led the horse back into the stable.
The Queen stood a while longer, then abruptly turned back toward the castle path and retreated from sight.
Astara stood watching her, dumbstruck. Then a hand closed around her mouth, and she screamed against it.
Quiet laughter erupted behind her as someone pressed against her back. Astara could smell the scent of vetiver, and her skin sparked. Edwain.
He removed his hand and spun her around, still laughing. "You are a wretch!" she whispered fiercely, trying to slow her heart. "And we're supposed to be quiet here, remember?"
But he was smiling his brilliant pirate smile. "My apologies, Your Highness," he said. "You were frozen in your gaze, and I could not help but tease you."
He led her away from the brambles, and she pictured the curve of his back beneath his shirt and the last time her hand was in his hair, a tangle of amber in the sunlight.

As they sat on the rock below the Calliope statue, Edwain produced two apples from his cloak and handed one to her, his fingers lingering under hers as she closed around it.
"What is it that makes teasing a beautiful girl irresistible?" he said. "I believe I'll never know."
Astara looked away from him, his smile, feeling herself blush as he eyed her. He had told her she reminded him of a winter's forest, her features woodland and fine, with large oval eyes that possessed him. The last time they had met, he mentioned to her that there were often flecks of purple in her black hair and that it shadowed like heather against her pale skin. Today she had braided it with daisies from the garden.
"These apples are from Endley Grove," he continued, slowly removing his hand from hers. "The lame fellow there let me take them, so I searched for one which would be just right for you. He said, 'Anything for the Jewel of Callis North.'"
"His name is Adan," she said, her cheeks coloring at his words. "He's kind. And he isn't lame. His leg was injured from a horse. And you're not supposed to mention me to anyone, remember?"
Edwain took a bite of his apple, watching her. "How could I not mention the name of my love?"
A rush ran through Astara's heart. Edwain was a dashing lad, the envy of the court. They had become secretly inseparable since he had caught her one night in the glow of the Summer Garden and had pressed his lips softly to hers. But he had never called her his love before. She looked down at the white of the apple, wondering if anyone had an inkling of their courtship.
"Astara?"
She looked up and their lips met. She could smell the vetiver again and she thought of leaves and the warmth of the castle fireplace.

The high gold of the afternoon fell across the field as they sat quietly in the grove, inhaling the scent of the dying fall. In a week the lords and ladies would arrive for the Pre-Hunt feast, and it would be time again to make an appearance among them. Only this time she would enter the Great Hall without her father. Astara shuddered, feeling the sadness fall upon her like a veil.

Edwain put his cloak around her. "What possessed your attention back there anyway?" he asked. "I didn't think I could spook you that easily."

Astara hesitated. She had never spoken to him of her feelings for the Queen before. "My…stepmother," she said. "She was at the stables. Petting my horse. It was strange."
"Perhaps she was admiring Lazarus's beauty."
"Perhaps," she said, curling her fingers around his. Then she sat up straighter. "Though all she seems to pay much attention to anymore is her way to and from the Council Hall. I don't see her outside much anymore. And never out here."
"Does that mean you visit this place without me?" he said, a smirk on his lips. "Am I not your only beau, then?"
Astara shook her head and feigned exasperation. "You do so tease me, Edwain. I come here to... to get away." She began tracing the patterns of lavender on her skirt. "To be quite honest, the Queen has not been warm with me of late. She is either with the Council or…by my father's side."

"But, is that not where Her Grace is supposed to be? By the King's side?" Edwain said, threading his arm in hers.

"Of course. And she does seem attentive to him. Perhaps she is even heartbroken." Astara calculated. "But it's strange. I can't seem to get a clear answer from her or the physicians on his health. When I try to talk to her about it she just tells me that I'm bothering her. And the physicians say that they're still in search of what ails him. It's like they're withholding things from me. And…when I visit him, I see all these sorts of concoctions she's made for him on the tables near his bed. Things in vials that I would be surprised the physicians knew about. But perhaps they do. …What the vials are, or where they come from, only Light knows. She can be so mysterious to me." Astara's eyes flickered on his. "I must tell you Edwain, she recently invited a peddler to the castle itself, actually into the foyer. I thought the valets would die of scandal."

"You're joking."

"I'm not!" she said, laughing and pressing deeper into his arms. "He was one of those nomadic ones, the ones who sell oils and charms and that sort of thing. But listen to this," she said, her eyes alight as she looked up at him. "He somehow had dragged a giant mirror all the way up to the castle for her. I wouldn't have believed it had I not seen it with my own two eyes."

Edwain furrowed his brow as he ran his hand across her arm. "A mirror? But why?"

"Well, I asked her. She couldn't ignore my gaping. Apparently it's supposed to reveal some sort of truth or guidance, perhaps some insight into how to cure him. I remember…it was covered in a black cloth, and the guards weren't allowed to remove it. They kept trying to figure out how to haul it up the stairs, and they nearly let it slip several times."

"I truly have the most bizarre picture in my head of it," Edwain said, laughing.

"It can't be far from the actual spectacle," Astara said. "Perhaps it truly will help him."

For a moment there was silence, Astara's eyes taken to studying the cross stitches of the Calliope statue's dress hem.

"Edwain," she said, after a time. "I fear…I fear he's doing even worse than before. But I am in the dark."

Edwain strengthened his arm about her. "You also mentioned that the Queen has been meeting with the Council?"

Astara hesitated. "I've...seen her emerging from the Council Hall several times a day. She is surely conversing with them. Before my father's illness…I'd never seen her set foot in there before." She blushed, feeling a pang of jealousy.

"And yet...is it not your designated task to meet with the Council in…in lieu of the King?"

Astara dropped her eyes. "They have not called for me. I know I must discuss…contingency plans with her at some point."

Edwain rolled a clover between his palms for a while, studying her. "Astara, does…anyone beyond the Council, or anyone in the Court know of King Varus's illness?"

She watched as the blue of the sky gave way to the creeping pink edges of sunset. "I don't think so. But these things are only a matter of time." She straightened then, and turned to face him. "You know, Sir Edwain. Another thing about the Queen is that she has been spending an awful lot of time with your cousin lately."

"Who, Sir Blakely?"

"Lord Abram."

Edwain snorted. "Surely that's in jest? What does the Queen want with that blackguard?"

"I've seen them walking together in the gardens. More than once, I may add. Does Lord Abram not have a manor to consider?"

"What Lord Abram does or does not consider in his devilish head is no consideration of mine." He took her hand in his, but her hand remained rigid. The thought of the Queen had again made her irate. "Astara," he said seriously, lifting her chin so that her eyes found their way to his. "Emotions are high right now. Perhaps…perhaps the Queen's concoctions, and even her meetings with the Council are just her way of feeling secure. Prepared, perhaps, in case…in case of the worst."

She let her eyes linger on his. When her tears came he brushed at them gently with his thumb. Then he ran a finger along her hand.

"Why not speak to the Council yourself, if the Queen is reluctant to talk? It may make you feel better as well."

She looked down, and sighed. "It is not easy to talk of these things."

"It never is. But a leader must talk."

When she looked up at him, she gave him a small grin and wiped the rest of her tears. But she was thinking of her father again.

As the moon's glow brightened in the dimming lavender sky, they made their way back to the garden's eastmost edge where Edwain was to slip away before anyone saw them together.

"Astara," he said, taking her hand and pulling her back a step. "Come with me a moment."

She gave him a puzzled look but followed him into the alcove behind the entryway's fountain. Hidden in shadows, she watched as he produced a small burgundy box from inside his cloak. Astara furrowed her brow, glancing up at him.

Edwain smiled at her, then opened the box. Inside was a moonstone ring framed with laced silver and patterned emeralds. Astara trembled.

"It was my mother's," Edwain said softly. He raised her finger and placed the ring upon it, then lifted her chin in his hand and locked his blue eyes to hers. "It's been in my family for two centuries. I want you to have it." He smiled. "As my betrothed."

The air seemed to waiver around Astara.

"Edwain," she said, scarcely able to speak. "This, this is unexpected…"

"I know it's moving fast," he said quickly. "And it's far from the ideal time. But, it could be the best time we have. Perhaps the only time. Astara," he said, clasping her hand against his chest. "I love you. I want to be the one at your side."
Astara stared at him, her mouth agape. She had prickled at the word love. And marriage had not crossed her mind. Thus far they'd only been able to share their affection in secret corridors and behind brambles and hidden in long glances. Not even her father knew they were sweethearts. And now he would likely never know.

"Your silence worries me," Edwain said.
Before she realized it she felt her tears return, and she wondered at herself. He said he had loved her. Did she love him? She was fixed upon his blue eyes. He made her stomach flutter. He excited her. She thought about him much of the day. When he kissed her it felt as though he were drawing air from her and she would often stand afterwards, trying to catch her breath. Was it love?
"Yes," she said, surprising herself. "I will, Edwain," she said, taking a breath and smiling. "I will be your betrothed."

Edwain let out a breath and laughed, taking both her hands in his now and pulling her close. The ring felt warm upon her skin.

When they pulled apart the dark had descended fully, and the sun had completely disappeared below the tip of the East Atal Hill.

"Edwain," Astara said. "I don't think we should say anything. Not until after the Hunt, anyway. Father…"

Edwain clasped her hand in his. "Of course."

"If it were any other circumstance…" she shook her head. "Oh Edwain," she whispered, "I don't know how long he has left. I'm so scared for him."

Edwain stroked her hair and held her close. "Have heart," he said. "He is the King. He has a strong heart. He will recover." But there was an edge to his voice that made her skin prickle with fear.

A week had passed since Edwain and Astara's secret betrothal, and yet between all the Court functions she was obligated to attend, and constant worry over her father, the only time she was able to reflect on the future was at night as she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her future, which contained Edwain. She imagined him standing before her, not as her betrothed, but as her husband. He looked handsome in her mind's eye. What could she picture about their life? Would her father be a part of it?

Now, on the eve before the Hunt, the Great Hall pulsed with the noise and music of the annual feast. Astara crossed the large room's firelit threshold adorned with ivy and sprigs of lavender and twined silver, careful to enter later than Edwain, as they'd agreed. She had only seen him once since their engagement, and she took care to have her maiden weave a ribbon through her hair and fit her into a gown of light blue, which was his favorite shade. Beneath her gown she had threaded Edwain's mother's ring on the chain of silver she always kept at her heart, the same chain that held her own mother's locket. The metals shimmered together against her skin as the lords and ladies idled on about her.

King Varus had insisted Astara attend the feast without him, but her presence there alone seemed illicit, perhaps even scandalous. She was aware of the eyes of the Court upon her, and imagined an edge to their glances that elevated her senses. Oh yes, they had to know about the King, she thought. And surely they wondered what her plans were, or what plans there were for her.

She made sure to check her posture so that she stood tall, and as Council Farrow approached her she spread her smile into a serene mask, imagining herself adorned in chainmail.

"Princess Astara, you look exquisite tonight," Council Farrow said in his quavering voice, taking her hand and guiding her across the room. "Wherever did your seamstress get such a lovely shade of blue? It looks cut from a square of moonlight."

"You are kind. It was my mother's favorite shade," Astara said, steeling her nerves. "Council Farrow, if I could speak—"

"And I have been notified as well that the King of course will be absent from the Hunt," he went on, his eyes barely visible as he squinted at her.

Astara nodded. "The official reason is, well, what we will communicate to the Court, is that he wanted me to take the lead this year. Sort of a rite of passage I suppose."

"Ahh," he said, "Quite well. Quite well."

Astara took a breath. "Council Farrow, I wanted to talk—" But she was dismayed to see him already leaving her side, pulled away into the busy room by another member of the Council. She called after him, but he had already parted into the crowd. She had wanted to discuss with him the matter of attending the next reconvening and intended to follow him, but Edwain was suddenly at her side, bowing ahead of the other eager young courtiers. They threw disappointed looks as he approached her, and she knew they were jostling to speak with her.

"Your Highness," he said, nodding as he presented a silver glass to her. "Please accept this cup of wine."

"Thank you, Sir Edwain," she said, trying to hide the edge in her voice. The courtiers had made her conscious of the stares about them. "You're…looking well tonight."

Edwain flashed a splendid smile. "It brings me great honor for the Princess to bestow a compliment upon me," he said, his blue-green eyes sparkling as he looked down at her. "And for that I grow bold and ask Your Highness to share a dance with me."

Astara sipped at her glass, feeling the shape of the ring at her chest. Was this really her betrothed here before her? It seemed as though it were a dream, the faces around her a part of the ivy or colored glass.

Edwain watched her while the glass lingered at her lips, his face still in a half-smirk. When she lingered still, his eyebrow rose, and despite her irritation at losing Council Farrow, she felt herself break into a grin.

"I will accept your proposal, Sir Edwain."

They walked toward the middle of the stone floor, and Astara let him take her hand in his as they began to move to the bright sounds of the dulcimer. As he softly turned her Astara caught the admiration or clandestine envy of the ladies, the searching, dark looks of the courtiers. Inside she felt weightless, as though the air about them transformed her skin into a vessel of birds taking flight. But when Edwain turned her toward the western entrance she caught the Queen sitting side by side with Lord Abram, laughing delicately at his words, and an anger pulsed through her.

"Your cousin is entertaining again."

Edwain followed her gaze and stiffened slightly. "So it would seem."

Astara tossed her hair behind her back. "She appears so merry that I suppose he is telling her jokes. Although I confess, I did not mistake the Queen for one with a sense of humor before."

"I sense you hold more opinions the Queen than you initially let on," he said, cocking his eyebrow.

Astara shook her head. "I can't make sense of their alliance. I have never seen her speaking to Lord Abram before until recently. And you must admit he could hardly be called a Court favorite."

Edwain dipped her, the dancing lights flickering against the bones of his face as he looked upon her. "You know, Princess, it could be a possibility that Lord Abram is simply kind to the Queen. Perhaps he has expressed grief for King Varus's condition. That is…if he knows."

Astara narrowed her eyes, her skin bristling. "With Lord Abram's reputation at the gambling halls, I still say her laughing with him at the feast is highly inappropriate. Especially when her husband is ailing upstairs."

Edwain said nothing, moving her easily across the room in the candlelight.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Astara said, as he unended her left hand with a twirl.

He brought her back into him. "We are betrothed, are we not?"

"Of course," she said, blushing. "And we'll announce it. But here, in front of everyone, without my father—"

"Your Highness, I have but asked you to dance." Edwain smiled. "There is nothing unchaste about such a request." He leaned inward and grazed her neck, whispering in her ear. "A request you did not refuse to me."

As they danced Astara allowed herself to feel afloat and warm in the middle of the hanging plants and lanterns and firelight of the large stone room, its high archways leading to the castle foyer on one side and the gardens on the other. All about them ladies swirled in their shining gowns, and lords bowed to their partners and led them in dance and occasionally made them giggle in pleasure. Astara leaned into Edwain, inhaling the scent of oak and twilight from the cool October breeze. She let herself be dazzled by his dangerous gazes, nearly forgetting about the Queen until she heard her rare laugh in the night air. When she looked back toward the table the Queen occupied, she couldn't help but observe the way she craned her neck toward Lord Abram, listening to some smirking story of his while she tapped her goblet with her jeweled fingers. The smile upon her face, Astara saw, was the same one she had used often with her father. Her stomach flooded with dread.

The Queen had moved on already.

And her father upstairs, lingering.

What honor have I? she thought. Who will defend him?

Before she realized it she had pulled away from Edwain, who tried to grab at her wrist but was too astonished to move quickly, and her feet were carrying her through the lords and ladies to the Queen. The candles around them blurred to a soft yellow outline as the Queen's eyes landed on her, narrowing slightly.

Astara curtsied. "My Queen," she said. "You are in good health tonight."

The Queen's eyes glittered. But she smiled gracefully at Astara, rising to curtsy back at her, Lord Abram also rising to a bow by her side. Astara had always been struck by her tall form, her delicate body, her sharp eyes, but tried to remain tall and still herself. "Likewise, Your Highness," the Queen said. "One can only take such a compliment as pity from such a youthful and beautiful Princess."

Astara straightened. "I hope you are enjoying the evening, Your Grace."

The Queen nodded. "The eve of the Great Hunt is always a lively occasion, if not downright raucous. It is hard to resist its merry appeal." She shifted her eyes toward Lord Abram, who was staring fixed at Astara, something like amusement playing across his dark features. "What say you, Lord Abram?"

"Marvelous," he said, taking a drink from his goblet and wiping away the excess across his chin, his eyes never leaving Astara's. "You will forgive me, Your Highness. Though I have seen you in the Court, it has been a while since we spoke face to face. You grow lovelier each day."

Astara nodded, then shifted her eyes back to the Queen, trying to ignore his leer. "Have you seen my father lately, Your Grace?"

The Queen blinked, her smile remaining. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness?"

"My father. King Varus," Astara said, feeling the waver in her voice. "He is your husband, you must recall."

The Queen watched her, silent, her eyes narrowing further. "Dare you repeat what you just said?" she whispered after a time.

Astara felt buzzing in her ears. "I would repeat it if I weren't already sure that you heard it."

"Your Highness," Lord Abram said briskly, his eyes darting quickly between her and the Queen. "Please forgive me for being so bold. I have been accompanying Queen Lenore at the behest of King Varus. As you know he has been…occupied as of late," he said, dropping his voice, though his meekness never reached his eyes. "Queen Lenore, if I may speak so freely, has been under considerable stress."

Astara faltered back a step. Had King Varus really asked Lord Abram to comfort the Queen? She could not believe it, and yet she had felt so isolated from the discussions surrounding her father that she could hardly be sure.

"If I didn't know better, I would say you were making an accusation, your Highness," the Queen said beside him, clasping her hands before her. Astara felt her resolve begin to tremble, her mind racing for the words she sought. But before she could speak again she started at a hand on her shoulder. Edwain had joined at her side.

"Your Highness," he said breathlessly, rising from a bow. Lord Abram watched him as a man might watch a snake.

"If I may," Edwain said, staring pointedly at her, "I would ask for the selfish pleasure of another dance." He lowered his head to Lord Abram, then flourished his deepest bow toward the Queen. "Good evening, Your Grace. You are looking lovely tonight."

"Thank you very much Sir Edwain," Astara said quickly, feeling herself color at the thought of her own brashness. "But I must be retiring now. The Hunt is long, and I must be sure to rest." She turned to the Queen again and curtsied, feeling hollow inside. "Forgive me if there was any mention of upsetting subjects this eve. It's been quite strenuous lately."

"Surely," the Queen whispered, her eyes flitting across Astara and Edwain. "Rest well, dear."

Astara nodded, then dropped her eyes from the Queen. She longed to grab Edwain's hand in hers and pull him close, but instead she turned on her heel and exited through the crowd, her thoughts full.

Back in her chamber Astara sat thinking darkly of her behavior, her fingers stroking the loop-de-loop pattern of rose stitches across her quilt. On and on she traced, repeating her words in her mind, her actions, how she must have looked to the Queen and Edwain. Despite her mind's protests she felt ashamed, and regretted the entire night from the very moment Council Farrow had dismissed her. If she were to be bold, it should have been in a decisive moment. All she had accomplished in the end was to appear as a petulant child lashing out.

She rose and moved to hide Edwain's ring in her dresser, trying to make sense of the night's events and how she felt. Despite her embarrassment, the fact remained without prejudice that the Queen had still been withholding information from her, both about her father and about what should happen next with the Council. Why was it?

She stared upon a vermillion dancing maid on her wallpaper and thought again of Council Farrow's quick departure from her in the Great Hall. Could his evasiveness have been by design—some allegiance to the Queen over herself? It would make sense in the framework of her seeming exclusion from the Council meetings.

Astara turned toward her door, pondering the space beyond it. It was approaching midnight, but the ball would still be underway. Hesitating, she strode gingerly toward her door and cracked it open, peaking down the hallway left and right.

Except for the dancing torches that lined the walls every six paces there was no movement up or down the long narrow corridor. Guards would be posted at each entryway, as they always were, but she would be free to go where she pleased. Everywhere, she thought darkly, except for her father's chambers. She closed the door behind her and began to walk, headed toward the eastern spiraled staircase.

It had been a year or more since Astara had ascended this staircase to the narrow hallway three floors above her bedroom. There were no torches on this length of stairs, and no windows either, so she had to feel her way up the damp and cold stone wall that twisted with each pace as she carefully maneuvered the slender steps. She couldn't remember ever climbing this tower at night, and thoughts of horned beasts and floating ghouls struck her heart until she hummed a fairy tune to calm herself.

Finally upon the threshold of the narrow upper hallway, she was relieved to see that the torches were lit once more, although the air was much colder and staler than at the floors below. She shivered and began her trek down the long path, staying close to the lights that pegged her journey. After travelling for what seemed like half an hour down corridors that moved left, right, and right again, she finally reached the door where the Queen had set up her crafting room.

Astara stood before it, staring through the shadows at its arched wooden shape. She had often put it out of her mind, so rarely was she up here. But this room had used to be her mother's reading room before she was born. She could only imagine that when she was alive, the entire floor was filled with light and movement. Now, only the Queen and the chambermaids rankled its dust.

She tried the handle, certain it would be locked tight. But it gave way with a small click, and she breathed out her surprise.

The room was in darkness save for a small sliver of moonlight from one of the windows within. Astara plucked up a nearby wall torch and returned, holding her breath as she tiptoed across the threshold.

Inside, there was a daybed, a table, and the mirror the Queen had bought from the peddler, its cabinet doors shut. She peered around at the rest of the room, training her eyes on other shapes in the soft light of the fire. Once her vision adjusted, she took in the spiked candlesticks and twinkling dark gauze across the windows, and upon various shelves she saw there were books in non-Northern languages that the Queen may have brought with her when she arrived.

Near the mirror, there was a window facing a parapet outside where the moonlight fell through. This window faced south, and she realized the orchard lay at the grounds below. Astara looked down on its silver-lit rows of trees, never seeing them from this height before. She leaned forward and put her hand upon the window ledge, but started at a softness below her fingertips. There was a tiny red figure made of cloth there, man-shaped, in a kneeling position. Astara lifted it, noticing soot or something similar near its head. It looked strangely menacing, and she dropped it back on the sill.

There was another window on the other side of the room that looked down upon a courtyard, and across this one the Queen had strung dried herbs and flowers. Astara stared, trying to identify what they could be, but she was unable to make them out in the small light she had. She had once heard the Queen describe hanging herbs and plants as being "good for the air." She supposed it was innocent enough.

Her curiosity satisfied, she turned back to the mirror behind her. Since it had been shrouded in cloth when it arrived, this was the first time she had seen it without its covering. It was so large that its apex nearly touched the ceiling, and in the darkness its heavy frame looked wrought from the blackest iron. She only imagined that it took the Queen's entire strength to pry both of its cabinet doors open. She peered closer to the doors and noticed that there appeared to be animal etchings across its surface. What were they? She leaned in closer.

She felt a quick, soft motion against her ankle and she gasped and jumped back, dropping the torch on the ground and killing its fire. In the dark, she scrambled to her feet and knocked a hard object over, which shattered across the stone floor as she pressed her back against the dresser. She tried frantically to adjust her eyes to the dark, looking around for what had touched her.

There was no movement she could detect—all remained still in the soft light. But she had felt something, hadn't she? Something against her ankle. That meant something moving around her feet, something scaly perhaps—or had she imagined that detail? She willed her heart to be still and tried to control her breath, then told herself to move.

She walked slowly toward the distant light of the hallway that came from the crack in the door, eyeing the shape of the mirror and the spot she had just been standing in. But before she reached the door, her heart thundered. The mirror's cabinets were open.

Astara's stomach dropped, and she felt sick with fear. She had just noticed the animal etchings in the shut wood.

Strangely, she noticed herself walking toward it, catching her reflection in the shadows of the long sheet of glass. As she moved closer to it, she was struck by the way her eyes looked in her reflection. They were so clear that they were almost glowing, so that she could see their deep brown color as brightly as though it were daytime. Was this the effect of the type of glass, or something else?

Now she was right before it. She reached out and touched its surface, studying its warmth. The glass didn't feel hard; in fact it felt rather pliable, as though she were touching her own fingertips.

Suddenly there was movement at the bottom of the glass, and Astara saw something emerge from the darkness behind her reflection: a snake? Impossibly large, its body emerald and black in the faint moonlight as it hissed and began to rise in height, its head above the level of her waist now. Astara had frozen in fear at the sight of it by the time the door to the hallway crashed open.

The Queen was rushing toward her, followed by another figure. "What are you doing in here?" she shrieked, grabbing Astara by the wrist and pulling her out of the room. Astara tried to looke about her for the serpent, but the Queen quickly slammed the door shut behind them before she could utter a warning.

Astara tried to catch her breath, her hand going to the part of her wrist where the Queen's nails had dug into her skin. When she looked at it, she was vaguely surprised to see droplets of blood forming there. Beside her in the hallway was the other figure, which she now saw was her father's physician, looking alarmed.

The Queen moved before her, her arms crossed as she looked down upon her. Her eyes were smoldering with rage. "Well?"

"I just thought…" she began, rubbing her wrist. "I just wanted to see—"

"You wanted to see what? My personal room, three floors above your bedchamber?" The Queen's fingers upon her elbow contracted into a fist, as though she were restraining herself from pouncing. Astara tensed. The Queen had never touched her before, and Astara had never seen her so incensed before.

"Your Grace, I saw…I saw a serpent in your room!"

The Queen's eyes widened, and she stepped back as the physician cried, "A serpent?" Astara must have sounded mad to them, but her heart was beating ever faster as she pictured the creature again in her mind's eye.

The Queen shook her head a few times, evidently speechless, then smoothed her dress and once again crossed her arms over her chest. A frown of concern had appeared, though her eyes still gleamed with rage.

"You've been under so much stress, my dear," she said after a moment, her voice its normal ice again. But her cheeks were deeply colored. "It surely was a trick of the eye. This room," she said, waving her hand in front of the door. "It's filled with many sentimental items for me. If you have a concern for me, I beg you to come directly to me next time."

"Queen…Queen Lenore," Astara said. She had no good answer for what she was looking for, or what her motive even was. Evidence, perhaps? But of what, concealment? And yet what she had found…. "The snake could have wandered in from the wilderness. I beg of you, please have the guards check your room for it."

"Don't be stupid," the Queen said sharply, and Astara bristled. "A snake could not wander all the way up here undetected."

Astara stared hotly at her, feeling humiliated as tears fell across her face. "I want to see my father!" she said, her hands trembling.

The physician looked at her, troubled. "Your Highness, the King is sleeping right now. I told him to get as much rest as he can. It may behoove you to try again tomorrow. Seeing you will make his spirits brighten in the best way."

Astara nodded and wiped her face, a smattering of blood still on her wrist. In her heart she felt hatred for Queen Lenore. "Thank you. I will take leave to my chambers now." She glanced at the Queen, but her face was a mask.

Back in her room, Astara locked the door behind her and collapsed upon the bed.

She had seen the creature inside the room. And so had the Queen.

In the night she dreamt of the Queen roaming across the empty hallways above, her feet hovering over the stone floors. She saw her in and out of windows and archways, and once above the sleeping figure of her father, lifting some sort of jeweled, twisting dagger above his chest as she chanted something indecipherable. And something always slithering at the edges of the room. Astara woke several times with a start, feeling as though her mind were travelling a thousand paces at once.

The last dreams she had before daybreak were not of serpents but of ravens, a sea of them flying across her room and out through the castle window. They flew across the fields, across the mountains, until they dove into the ocean. The moon shone on their heads, and they moved together like waves. Slowly they all started to croak.