The morning after the return, the courtyard still smelled of smoke, blood, wet cloth, and horses, although part of that smell now lingered only in the minds of the people who had stood there the day before among wagons, wounded men, and prisoners brought home. The stones had been scrubbed, water had run across dark stains, and the empty buckets now stood beside the well wall. Even so, the courtyard did not feel cleansed. It felt exhausted. Alina stood in the shadow of the arcades and watched two servants carry one of the stretchers back from the North Wing. The cloth over it was fresh, but the wood had darkened along the edges. She did not know whether it had been Nela’s stretcher or another one, and perhaps that was what made it worse, because since their return there were too many things that no longer belonged clearly to a single name. The wounded had been housed in the North Wing. Some were finally sleeping, while others lay awake and stared at ceilings they were meant to recognize without finding any peace in them. During the night Irma had shouted at three men, made two court ladies cry, and forbidden the king to receive visitors until he understood that a wounded body owed no courtly duties. No one had contradicted her. Not even Arvid. Alina was supposed to have slept. Seraphina had said so, Elda had repeated it, and in the end Sanna had silently pressed a cup of water into her hand and looked at her until she drank it. After that she had gone to her room, sat down on the bed, taken off her shoes, and stared at her hands for a while. They had been clean. That had felt wrong. At some point she had lain down, but she could not say for certain whether she had slept. The night had passed beside her rather than around her, without ever fully containing her. Now the day had come, and with it came tasks. People stood in the courtyard who did not know whether they were supposed to stay or leave. Women who had carried burdens the day before were waiting for new instructions. Men who had been freed from the camp searched for family members or for a place to sit without being in the way. Children pushed closer, were pulled back, and then came forward again, because no one in Ardenthal had ever learned how to bring a king back from captivity and then simply return to ordinary life. Alina saw Berit standing by the forge. The blacksmith had her arms crossed and was speaking with one of the younger apprentices. Her face was still hard, but her eyes kept searching the courtyard, again and again, almost imperceptibly. Whenever her gaze reached the place where Maela might have stood, it never lingered long. Nela’s name had been spoken the night before at the fire. Maela’s too. But a name spoken before a fire did not make anyone more tangible. Rena crossed the courtyard carrying a bucket of water. She held it carefully, both hands on the handle, her gaze lowered to the ground. A few days ago Alina would have seen defiance in that. Now she saw concentration. Rena had lost something that had not belonged to her alone, and she was trying not to turn it into a pose. That was more than could be expected of many adults. “You are out early,” Seraphina said beside her. Alina had not heard her approach. That rarely happened, and she did not like it. “I am not sure I was ever really inside,” Alina answered. Seraphina looked out over the courtyard. Her face was composed, but the night was on her too. She had gotten Arvid back, but not in the way a person wants someone returned. He was alive, yes. He was king, yes. But his movements had grown slower, and there was something in his gaze that Alina had not wanted to see yesterday. “Irma is letting no one near him,” Seraphina said. “Good.” “He asked for you.” Alina kept her eyes on the courtyard. “What did you say?” “That you are still standing.” “That sounds like me.” “It did not sound like praise.” “Then it was honest.” Seraphina was silent for a moment before saying, “He will want to speak with you.” “Today?” “If Irma allows it, perhaps. If he forces the matter, sooner.” Alina nodded. She did not know whether she wanted that conversation. Part of her had been waiting for it ever since Arvid had said before everyone in the courtyard that Ardenthal owed her honor. Another part wanted to erase that word from memory, because honor pressed people into shapes that rarely did them any good. “The council will want to speak as well,” Seraphina said. Now Alina finally turned to her. “Of course.” “Not at once. Today they will still give thanks, fall silent, and gather themselves. Tomorrow they will begin to put the story in order.” “What story?” Seraphina kept her gaze on the courtyard. “The one in which you do not become too large.” Alina felt her fingers tighten. The cut on her forearm pulled beneath the bandage. “I did not go looking for a story.” “That does not protect you from becoming one.” Alina did not answer. Down in the courtyard Rena set the bucket on a bench. A freed man drank, choked, and began to cough. Rena held the cup steady until he could breathe again. Then she said something to him. Alina did not hear the words, but she saw him nod. “What am I supposed to do?” Alina asked. Seraphina looked at her now. “Today?” “Yes.” “Eat. Let your arm be dressed. Let people see that you have not disappeared. And do not answer every face that wants something from you.” “That sounds like very little.” “It is a great deal.” Alina exhaled slowly. “And tomorrow?” “Tomorrow we will see who turns gratitude into politics.” Seraphina did not leave at once. She remained beside her for another moment, and for that moment they were not queen and princess thinking about a kingdom, but simply two women who had slept too little and knew too much. Then Seraphina stepped back. “Go to the stables,” she said. Alina looked at her. “Why?” “Because you are going to look there anyway.” Alina could have argued. She did not. The stables were on the other side of the courtyard, and the path there was short enough to seem harmless. Even so, she felt every step. Not because she was afraid to see Matthis. Fear was the wrong word. She simply did not know what would happen if he were there and she had to look at him without smoke, flight, blood, and necessity standing between them. At the entrance stood two horses that had pulled wagons the day before. One stamped its hoof restlessly. A stable boy, no older than thirteen, held the lead rope too tightly. Alina stopped beside him and said, “Looser.” The boy looked up in alarm. “Your Highness.” “If you pull, it pulls back.” He loosened his grip. The horse snorted, but stayed still. A voice came from inside the stable. “Put your hand on his neck, not on the rope.” Matthis stepped out of the shadow between the stalls. He wore a simple shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His face was washed, but the signs of captivity had not vanished. The bruise at his temple had darkened. A small scratch ran along his jaw. He looked tired and at the same time more awake than before. The stable boy did as Matthis had said. After a moment the horse lowered its head. “Good,” Matthis said. Then he looked at Alina. Not for long, and not openly enough for anyone else to read anything in it, but enough. “Your Highness,” he said. The form of address was correct. It hurt anyway. “Matthis,” she answered. The stable boy looked back and forth between them, evidently recognized nothing, and led the horse away. Alina stepped into the stable. The smell of hay, warm hide, and leather surrounded her. She had once liked this place because it was simpler than the court. Things here had clear reasons. A horse was hungry, a wound had to be cleaned, a strap had torn. Since their return she knew that even simple places did not make people simple. Matthis took a brush from a hook and began to work dust out of the coat of one of the wagon horses. The movement was even. His hand did not tremble. Alina knew all the same that calm was sometimes labor. “You should rest,” she said. “A lot of people are saying that today.” “Perhaps a lot of people are right.” “Perhaps a lot of people do not know what rest does.” She stayed beside the stall. “What does it do?” Matthis kept brushing the horse. “It leaves too much room.” Alina understood that better than she liked. “Irma would disagree with you.” “Irma would probably make me lie down and sit on me until I slept.” This time the hint of a smile truly came through. First on him, then on her, before it disappeared again too quickly. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “Nothing serious.” He lifted his eyes, and before correcting himself he looked at her. “A few bruises. My temple. Maybe a rib. Nothing that would interest Irma any longer than necessary.” “That is not an answer.” “It is. Just not one you like.” She accepted that. It was familiar enough to be dangerous. For a moment only his hands were working. The horse snorted softly. Outside someone called for water. In the courtyard a wheel rolled over stone. “Your father is alive,” Matthis said at last. “Yes.” “He spoke more yesterday than he should have.” “He does that when he believes something must be said.” Matthis nodded. “Then the two of you are alike.” Alina wanted to answer, but the sentence struck a place that had been open since yesterday. She looked down at her bandaged hand. “I do not know if that is a good thing.” Matthis set the brush aside. “Good was never the first thing I thought of when I thought of you.” She looked at him. “What was?” He held her gaze this time longer. “That you remain.” The words were simple. That was exactly why they did not stay on the surface. Alina felt the air between them grow narrower. Not because either of them moved. Because neither looked away. In that look lay the courtyard, the writing room, the sealed letter, the camp, the gap in the palisade, Arvid’s weight between them, the road back, and everything that had remained unsaid because survival had taken precedence. Now they were standing in the stable, and survival was no longer the only command. Matthis did not step closer. That made it harder. “I did not open your letter,” she said quietly. He knew at once which one she meant. “I know.” “I saw it after we came back.” “And?” “It is still there.” Matthis took the rope from the hook and inspected it, though it was not damaged. “Then let it stay there.” “Do you want it back?” He did not look at her. “No.” “Why not?” Now he raised his eyes again. “Because the man who dictated it thought he might not come back.” “And the man who did come back?” Matthis took half a step closer. It was barely a movement. Even so, Alina felt it through her whole body. “He does not yet know what to do with his words.” A voice called from the entrance of the stable. The stable boy was calling for Matthis because a strap had torn. Both of them turned away at the same moment. The moment closed, but it did not vanish. Matthis went to the boy, took the strap, checked the buckle, and calmly explained how to secure it for the time being. Alina stayed, although she could have left. She watched him and realized that he had not merely returned. He had brought something back from the camp that made him quieter without making him smaller. He was no longer a boy standing in the courtyard hearing his name on a list. He was not a hero either. That would have been too simple. He was a person working with horses again because hands sometimes knew better than thoughts how to go on living. When the stable boy had gone, Matthis came back, but not quite all the way to her. “You should not stay here too long,” he said. “Because it will be noticed?” “Yes.” “And if I say that I was checking on the horses?” “Then that would be true.” “But not all of it.” “At court truth rarely has to be complete in order to become dangerous.” Alina looked toward the open entrance. People were moving through the courtyard outside. No one seemed to be paying attention to them. That was exactly what made it deceptive. “Are you afraid?” she asked. Matthis did not answer at once. “For you?” “That was not my question.” “Then yes.” She looked at him again. “Of what?” “That we will believe the war is over just because we came back.” Alina wanted to say that she did not believe that. But she did not know whether it would be true. Part of her had hoped that after returning something like peace would come. Not ease, not wholeness, but at least a direction without blood. Now they stood here, and even the closeness between them did not feel peaceful. It felt precious, and everything precious drew danger toward itself. “I have to go,” she said. Matthis nodded. She walked to the door, but stopped before fully stepping out. “Matthis?” “Yes?” “Stay close to the stables today.” He looked at her. “Why?” “Because I do not know whether the council has already begun pushing people back into their old places.” His gaze grew more serious. “And my old place is here.” “Yes.” “And yours?” Alina looked out over the courtyard. “At the moment, that is the question.” She left before he could answer. In the courtyard the movement had thickened. Two stewards stood by the well speaking with the Master of Stores. When Alina approached, they did not fall silent, but their voices grew smoother. That was almost worse. Open silence was honest. Smooth voices were preparation. The Master of Stores bowed briefly. “Your Highness.” “You are looking for Seraphina?” “That as well.” “That sounds like a conversation already begun.” He folded his hands before him. “We must speak about the coming days. The king’s return is a blessing, but it brings new duties.” “We had new duties yesterday as well.” “Yesterday was about immediate care. Today is about order.” Alina looked at him. “And what is meant to be ordered?” “Perception.” There it was. Not hidden, not even especially cautious. “Whose perception?” she asked. The Master of Stores held her gaze. “That of the land. That of the neighboring realms. That of the alliance. That of the court itself.” “You mean mine.” “You are part of it.” “That is not the same thing.” He inclined his head. “No. But it is connected.” Alina felt the weariness behind her eyes, but she did not let it into her voice. “Speak to Seraphina. And if you are speaking about me, make sure I am in the room.” The Master of Stores looked for a moment as if he wished to object. Then he bowed again. “As you wish.” “No,” Alina said calmly. “As is necessary.” She went on without looking back. In the North Wing it was warm, too warm for people already feverish and exhausted. The air smelled of herbs, soup, wounds, and bodies that had lain still for too long. Elda looked up when Alina entered and came toward her immediately. “Your bandage,” she said. “Later.” “Now.” Alina wanted to object, but Elda had already taken her arm. The cloth had gone dark at the edge. Alina had not noticed, or had not wanted to notice. “You are not useful if it festers,” Elda said. “That is a very kind way of expressing concern.” “It was not concern. It was a statement.” Alina sat down. While Elda loosened the bandage, Alina looked toward the beds. Arvid lay in the back, half upright, eyes closed. Seraphina sat beside him reading a letter. Not aloud, only to herself. Arvid might have been sleeping. Perhaps not. “Is he in pain?” Alina asked quietly. Elda followed her gaze. “Yes.” “Does he say so?” “No.” “Of course not.” Elda cleaned the cut. Alina drew in a sharp breath, but said nothing. “He keeps asking for you,” Elda said. “I know.” “Then go to him before he decides to stand up and come looking for you.” Alina looked at her. “Would he do that?” “He is a king and wounded. That is a bad combination.” Alina stood when Elda was finished. The new bandage was firm, but not too tight. She went to Arvid’s bed. Seraphina lifted her eyes. “He is not asleep.” Arvid opened his eyes. “I tried.” “Not convincingly,” Seraphina said. Alina stepped closer. “You should rest.” “That seems to be what everyone knows today.” “Then it may be true.” Arvid looked at her, and for a moment the courtyard of the previous day was there again. His voice naming her before everyone. His recognition. Her refusal. “Sit down,” he said. She sat on the chair Seraphina freed for her. The queen remained standing, but did not go away. Arvid looked at Alina’s bandage and asked, “Elda?” “Yes.” “Good.” A silence arose. It was not empty, but it was unpracticed. They had rarely spoken without maps, council, or decisions lying between them. Now there was a bandage between them. Several bandages, if one was honest. “You brought me back,” Arvid said. “We brought you back.” “I know what you said yesterday.” “Then you know I meant it.” “I do not doubt that.” Alina waited. Arvid was breathing more shallowly than he probably wanted to. “I should have asked you earlier what you see.” The sentence was quiet, but it struck harder than an apology would have. Alina looked at him. “When?” “In the hunger years. With the treaties. Before the departure. Afterward.” “You let me listen.” “That is not the same.” Seraphina did not move, but Alina felt that she took in the sentence. “No,” Alina said. “It is not the same.” Arvid closed his eyes briefly. “I thought I was preparing you.” “For what?” He opened his eyes again. “For decisions.” “By making them without me?” The question stood between them. This time it was truly a question, not an accusation in polite form. Alina wanted to hear the answer, even if she might not like it. Arvid looked at her for a long moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “And that may have been the mistake.” Alina did not know what she had expected. A justification perhaps. A reference to duty. An explanation that kings had to decide alone. Instead there was an admission, small and heavy. “You were not alone,” she said. “I was,” he answered. “I only allowed other people to be in the room.” Seraphina looked at him. There was something in her gaze Alina could not fully read. Arvid lifted a hand slightly and said, “Not now. I know.” Seraphina said nothing. Alina asked, “What happens now?” Arvid’s gaze grew clearer again. “Now the council tries to pull order back into place.” “And you?” “I am trying not to lie in bed while others decide.” “That is not an answer.” A tired smile touched his face for a moment. “No. But it is honest.” Alina looked down at her hands. “The Master of Stores spoke of perception.” “Of course.” “He wants to make me smaller.” Arvid was silent for a moment. “He wants to make the land smaller, so it fits into his order. You are only the most visible part that no longer fits.” That was not reassuring. “And what do you want?” she asked. Arvid did not look at her as a child. Not even as a daughter alone. That made his answer more significant. “I want to know whether you are ready to remain visible when it becomes unpleasant.” Alina thought of the courtyard, the women, Matthis in the stables, Nela’s stretcher, Maela’s absent body, and her father’s words before all those people. Visibility had felt like danger yesterday. Today it felt like something that had already happened. “I do not know whether I am ready,” she said. “But I know I will not become invisible just because it helps others.” Arvid nodded slowly. “Good.” He said nothing more, and this time it was enough. When Alina left the North Wing, the day had grown brighter. The courtyard had filled further. People worked, searched, waited, talked. Somewhere a wagon was being unloaded. Somewhere someone was crying. Somewhere a child laughed too loudly and was immediately hushed. At the far end of the courtyard Matthis stepped out of the stables. He did not see her at once. He carried a saddle over one shoulder, spoke with the stable boy, and pointed to a strap. Then he lifted his gaze. This time they did not look at each other only for an instant. No one seemed to notice. Perhaps someone did. Perhaps that was already the beginning of something that would later be used against them. Alina did not know. She knew only that she did not lower her gaze at once. Matthis did not either. Then he went on, and so did she. Peace had begun. It did not feel peaceful. The afternoon did not bring rest, but order in a form Alina distrusted. The courtyard grew emptier because the wounded were taken into the North Wing, families were assigned, and wagons were pushed aside. What had looked in the morning like an open return was now being distributed into lists, rooms, and responsibilities. Sanna sat at a small table near the entrance to the North Wing writing down names, while Lio stood beside her and quietly repeated what men told him when they were too exhausted to speak clearly themselves. Rena carried water, Elda changed dressings, and Irma argued with anyone who thought a wound would heal faster if one behaved especially bravely about it. Berit had disappeared and reappeared, this time with a bundle of old iron hooks that she laid down near the stretchers without explanation. No one asked what they were for. On that day in Ardenthal people asked less often about reasons so long as hands were doing something useful. Alina moved from place to place, neither quickly nor slowly, but in such a way that people could see her. Seraphina’s advice had been simple, but it had weight. To disappear would have left an empty place into which people would have poured their own thoughts. Visibility was unpleasant, but it prevented others from inventing too much on her behalf. An old man from the riverside village stopped her at the well. He had found his son again, but the son recognized him only at intervals. “Will that remain?” he asked. Alina knew he was not expecting a medical answer. He wanted to know whether a person could return and still remain absent. “I do not know,” she said. “But he is here, and you are here. That is the beginning you have today.” The man nodded, though the answer was not enough, and went back toward the North Wing. Alina watched him go and wondered how many things she had said that day that were true and still insufficient. Toward evening Seraphina summoned the inner council to the small hall, not the great one. That was deliberate. The great hall made things public even when the doors were shut. The small hall forced people closer together, and closeness made certain evasions sound worse. Arvid was not present. Irma had kept him in the North Wing with a mixture of threat and reason, and Seraphina had not merely tolerated that decision, but protected it. Alina entered the room last. The Master of Stores was already there, along with the priest, two village stewards, and the old captain of the gate watch. Three lists lay on the table. One with the names of the men who had returned, one with the wounded, and one with the names of the dead and missing, as far as they were known so far. Alina saw at once that Sanna’s handwriting was on two of the sheets. She was glad of that. Sanna wrote names without smoothing them down. The Master of Stores rose slightly. “Your Highness,” he said. Alina remained standing. “You wished to speak about order.” Seraphina sat at the head of the table, but she was not leaning back. “We are speaking about the next few days. The king will not yet be able to govern, not with full strength. I will take the running decisions until he is strong enough again.” The priest lowered his head. “That matches the situation.” The Master of Stores nodded, but Alina could see by his face that the easy part was now over. “In addition,” Seraphina continued, “there will be a public announcement tomorrow. Not today. Today the people are too exhausted. Tomorrow we will explain which men have returned, which are still being cared for, which names we know, and which are still missing.” “And the rescue?” one of the village stewards asked. Seraphina looked at him. “What do you mean?” The man cleared his throat. “People are talking about it. They are talking about the women who went. About the princess. About the prisoners. About the king. It is becoming a story whether we shape it or not.” The Master of Stores seized upon that thought at once. “That is precisely why we must be careful. The rescue must not be told in a way that undermines the order of the land. No one questions what was done. But if people begin to believe that every emergency can be solved in future by acting on one’s own authority, then we have a problem.” Alina looked at him. “On one’s own authority.” “You know what I mean.” “Yes,” Alina said. “I only want to hear whether you know it as well.” The old captain set both hands on his cane. “Without that acting on one’s own authority, our king would still be sitting in a wooden pen.” The Master of Stores turned toward him. “And with all respect, without order there would be no land for him to return to.” “Both are true,” Seraphina said. The two men fell silent. “And that is exactly why no one will declare tomorrow that Ardenthal was saved through disobedience. But neither will anyone declare that the rescue was merely an unfortunate exception after which we now return to routine.” She looked at Alina. “The names will be spoken. All of them, so far as we know them. The tasks will be spoken too. Not only fighting, but carrying, dressing wounds, driving, opening, securing, waiting, and bringing people back. No one will be made smaller so that others may feel larger.” The Master of Stores inhaled through his nose. “And the princess?” Seraphina did not answer at once. Alina knew she was leaving it to her. “The princess stands where she must stand,” Alina said. “Neither higher nor lower.” The Master of Stores held her gaze. “That will not be enough for people. They want faces. They want figures. They want someone they can thank.” “Then let them give thanks,” Alina said. “But not in such a way that gratitude becomes obedience.” The priest watched her closely. “You fear obedience?” “I fear false simplicity,” Alina answered. “If people believe I alone brought their king back, they forget the dead, the wounded, and the labor of those who stayed behind. If they believe no one led, then we are lying as well.” Seraphina nodded almost imperceptibly. The old captain seemed satisfied, though he did not show it openly. The Master of Stores was silent longer than Alina had expected. Then he said, “You will have to learn that perception is not the same as truth.” “I know that already,” Alina said. “Today I saw how quickly people try to put truth in order once it becomes inconvenient.” The sentence was spoken calmly, but it landed. The Master of Stores lowered his eyes to the lists. “Then we should at least see to it that the inconvenience remains manageable.” Seraphina ended the discussion before it could begin to circle. Tasks were distributed. The lists were to be completed by morning. Care for the wounded took precedence over any courtly ceremony. The dead were not to be buried too soon, so that families could say farewell, but not so late that the courtyard became a place of paralysis. Whoever was missing would remain missing until certainty existed. No family was to be given a lie for the sake of convenience, neither a hopeful one nor a cruel one. When the men left the room, Alina remained behind. Seraphina took the list of the dead and ran her finger over the names without touching any of them. “You held yourself well,” she said. Alina leaned against the edge of the table. “I do not want to be praised for surviving a council.” “Then do not take it as praise. Take it as a sign that you have not yet become useless.” Alina looked at her. “That sounds more like you.” Seraphina set the list down. “You still have to eat today.” “You too.” “I have eaten.” Alina did not believe her, but did not have the strength to turn it into an argument. “What happens to Matthis?” Seraphina lifted her gaze. The question was not casual, and both of them knew it. “Officially?” “Officially first.” “He returns to the stables, as long as his injuries allow it. He is on the list of those freed, and he receives the same share of provisions as the others.” “And unofficially?” Seraphina studied her for a moment. “Unofficially, people will watch him because you watch him.” Alina was silent. “Was I that obvious?” “Today? No. In the last weeks? Perhaps not to everyone. For the wrong people, less is enough.” Alina went to the window. The courtyard lay in the last light of the day. Matthis was nowhere in sight. That should have reassured her. It did not. “He has done nothing.” “That will not protect him.” “I know.” “And you will not be able to protect him by pretending he is no one.” Alina turned back toward her. “Then what am I supposed to do?” Seraphina stepped beside her at the window. “Today, nothing at all. That is perhaps the hardest thing I can say to you.” Alina did not laugh. “It feels wrong.” “Many right things feel wrong when one learns too late how much damage well meant movement can do.” The sentence remained between them. Alina did not know whether Seraphina was speaking about her, about Arvid, about herself, or about all of them at once. Perhaps that was why it was true. Later, when the courtyard had grown darker and the torches were lit, Alina went once more to the writing room. She had no task there. That was exactly why it drew her. The room was cleaner than it had been in the morning, but not orderly. Scraps of parchment lay on one table, and on another a bowl full of broken seals. The smell of wax and ink had grown fainter, but it was still there. Once she had recorded other people’s words in this room. Then she had read death messages. Then she had made decisions here that sent people onto roads from which not all had returned. The writing room was no longer a little place for practice. It was a place where Ardenthal had learned that words had weight. Alina went to the cabinet where the sealed letters had been kept. Most had by now been assigned, taken away, or opened. A few were still there because no one knew to whom they now belonged. Matthis’s letter was not on top. She did not have to search long. She did not recognize it by the hand, because the writing was not his. She recognized it by the small note the scribe had once placed in the margin. To be opened only in the event of his death. She took it out. The wax was unbroken. Part of her hated this letter. Not because of what it contained, which she did not know, but because it came from a time when Matthis had already reckoned with his death while she had still been trying to keep her own voice steady. Now he lived. That had not made the letter empty. It had only pushed it into a strange in between world. Alina sat at the table and laid it before her. She did not open it. She did not immediately put it back either. Instead she looked at it and tried not to imagine what words lay inside. A farewell to someone? A request? A confession he had not wanted to dictate to her? A sentence that was better left sealed because the living man could no longer carry it? The door opened quietly. Alina did not turn at once. “I thought you were in the North Wing,” Sanna said. “I thought you were everywhere,” Alina answered. Sanna came in and closed the door behind her. “Almost everywhere.” She came closer, saw the letter, and stopped. “Should I go?” “No.” Sanna did not sit down, but remained standing on the other side of the table. “It does not belong to you.” “I know.” “But it concerns you.” Alina looked up at her. “How do you know that?” Sanna lifted one shoulder slightly. “Because you are looking at it as though it might answer you.” Alina laid her hand beside the letter, not on it. “He lives.” “Yes.” “So it stays closed.” “That sounds decided.” “Is it?” Sanna looked at her calmly. “No. But it is enough for today.” Alina slid the letter back into the cabinet. This time she did not place it all the way at the back. She did not know why. Perhaps because she did not want it to disappear. Perhaps because she did not trust herself if she hid it too well. “The Master of Stores is not going to stop,” Sanna said. “I know.” “He will not work openly against you. Not yet. He will try to possess the words.” Alina closed the cabinet. “Then we must watch which ones we give him.” “Exactly.” Sanna looked tired, but satisfied, because she liked that answer. “And Matthis?” Alina looked at her. “Why is everyone asking about Matthis today?” “Because you are not.” That was unpleasantly precise. “He is in the stables.” “He used to be in the stables too.” “A great deal is different now.” “That is my point.” Alina went to the door. “I do not know what he is to me.” Sanna followed her. “You do. You only do not yet know what may be allowed to come of it.” Alina opened the door, but remained in the frame. “And if nothing may come of it?” “Then it will become dangerous.” “That is not an answer.” “It is,” Sanna said. “Just not one you like.” Alina looked at her, and for a moment she thought of Matthis in the stables, who had said almost the same words. She wondered whether everyone who came close enough to her eventually began to become unbearably honest. On the way back to her room she passed the courtyard. By now it was dark, but the stables were still lit. Through the open door she saw Matthis. He stood beside a horse, one hand on its neck, head slightly bowed. For a moment he seemed alone, though the stable boy was working not far away. Alina stopped in the shadow of the passageway. She should have gone on. She did not. Matthis raised his head. Perhaps he had heard her, perhaps he had sensed her. He did not step out of the stable, and she did not step inside. Between them lay the courtyard, dark and open, far too visible for all that remained unspoken. Even so, she stayed. Matthis did not raise a hand. He did not smile. He only looked at her, and this time there was no question in his gaze. Perhaps that was why she did not look away. They did not have to decide anything. Not today. Today it was enough that both of them lived and could see one another without bars, smoke, or a crowd of wounded men between them. Then Matthis lowered his gaze and turned back to the horse. Alina went on. Her room was cold. Someone had set out a bowl of water and fresh cloths. On the table lay a small piece of bread, some cheese, and an apple. Seraphina, she thought. Or Sanna. Perhaps both. She sat down, ate slowly, and only then realized how hungry she was. Afterward she washed as well as she could without loosening the bandage. She took off the dress whose hem still carried dust and set it apart from the clean things. It no longer belonged with them. Later she went to the window. From here Ardenthal looked quieter than it was. The fields lay dark, the roofs of the town were only lines, and the Arden River caught what little light the sky still gave. She thought of the morning when she had stood here and looked over the green fields before the lists had been read aloud. Then she had believed the worst thing was to watch people leave. Now she knew that return could be more complicated than farewell. Behind her, the sealed letter lay in the cabinet of the writing room. Below her, Matthis was working in the stables. In the North Wing her father lay trying to become king again before his body was ready. Seraphina was holding the land together while the council was probably already beginning to search for the right formulations for the next day. Alina laid her hand against the window frame. Peace had begun, but it was not an ending. It was only another room in which the same people found new wounds. And somewhere in that room stood Matthis, alive, near enough for her body to know it, and far enough away that the court could still pretend nothing had happened. That was where the danger lay. That was where the beginning lay.