Outwardly, Ardenthal grew quieter from day to day. The guards at the gate stood once more in their familiar order, the wagons disappeared from the courtyard, and in the fields the work began again to set the rhythm the war had interrupted. Anyone who walked briefly through the town might have believed the land was finding its way back. Yet Alina noticed that this return was a labor no one named aloud. Men reached for tools that were familiar to them and sometimes held them a breath too long. Women handed back tasks and still remained standing nearby, because their bodies still knew how much had depended on them. Old men spoke more again, but they did so more carefully. Children played in the courtyard, yet every clatter made heads lift for a moment. Peace was not simply the absence of war. Peace was the attempt to enter a room again in which everything still stood, but nothing was quite in its old place anymore. Alina went to the writing room in the morning, although fewer people waited there now. There were days when only three or four came, and still the work did not feel lighter. They now wrote to distant relatives, to villages beyond the river, to families who needed a name or a certainty no one could give. Some wanted to say thanks. Others wanted to ask whether someone might perhaps have been overlooked in the lists. Others came only to hear a letter one more time, because the voice of someone returned lay in their hands and they were afraid of losing it when reading alone. Sanna often stayed with her. She spoke less than before, but she saw more. Sometimes one glance from her was enough, and Alina knew which sentence in a letter sounded too beautiful to have come from the person who had dictated it. “Some people do not want to send their fear away,” Sanna said while sorting a stack. “So they send order.” Alina was writing the name of a man from the riverside village on a fresh sheet. “Is that wrong?” “No. Only incomplete.” “Letters almost always are.” Sanna looked at her. “Some people too.” Alina raised her eyes. “Are you speaking of someone in particular?” “I very rarely speak of no one.” Alina dipped the quill into the ink and pretended she had to examine the next sentence. “If you want to say something, say it.” Sanna set a letter aside. “You go to the stables often.” “The horses are still restless.” “That is true.” “Matthis works there.” “That is true as well.” Alina looked at her directly now. “And?” Sanna did not answer at once. That was precisely what made her dangerous. “Truth does not become harmless only because it consists of several correct sentences.” Alina finished the sentence she had begun, though she would probably have to rewrite it later. “You sound like Seraphina.” “That is insulting and reassuring at the same time.” “For whom?” “For both of us.” Alina wanted to smile, but the attempt remained halfway caught in her face. Since the night in the stables, something between her and Matthis had become lighter and heavier at the same time. They had not kissed. They had done nothing that could not, with effort, have been explained. One hand had held another. A few sentences had fallen that no longer fit back into silence. And yet the courtyard had changed. Not visibly for everyone, but for her. Paths became more deliberate. Glances longer. Coincidences had to be built more carefully. The day before she had ordered a box of bandages brought to the North Wing and had passed the stable on the way. Matthis had stood outside, a horse by the reins, and had not stepped toward her. She had not addressed him. Even so, her body had reacted to his nearness before her mind had decided how a princess ought to behave. That was new and ridiculous and dangerous. At midday Arvid came into the writing room. This time without Irma, but with a cane he carried as though it had only happened to be in his hand. Alina saw it and said nothing. Sanna said nothing either, which was almost more remarkable. Arvid stopped at the entrance and looked at the few people in the room. His wound was healing, but it forced him into pauses. He hated pauses. Alina recognized it in the way he filled them by asking questions, examining lists, looking at faces, and pretending all of it was not an evasion of his own body. “How many missing remain unresolved?” he asked. Sanna handed him the corresponding list. “Seven from Ardenthal, two of whom probably died in the camp. For three there are no witnesses. Two may have ended up with other groups, but there is no confirmation of that so far.” Arvid read slowly. Not because he had trouble recognizing the writing, but because every name demanded weight. “And the families?” “Informed, as far as possible,” Alina said. “Not reassured.” Arvid looked at her. “That was not my question.” “No. But it is the answer that matters.” For a moment it was quiet between them. Earlier, Alina might have taken back what sounded too sharp. Now she let the sentence stand. At last Arvid nodded. “Good.” That good did not mean agreement with everything. It meant he had heard her. The Master of Stores appeared in the doorway as if the word had called him. “Majesty, the council awaits you.” Arvid turned to him slowly. “The council has expected many things for years.” The Master of Stores lowered his eyes briefly. “In this case, it concerns the distribution of the autumn stores and the question of which obligations toward our allies remain open.” Alina noticed that he had not chosen the word allies by accident. Not neighbors. Not creditors. Not those who had left Arvid behind. Allies. Words ordered the world, and the Master of Stores was good at making order sound as if it were given by nature. Arvid did not go with him at once. “I am coming.” The Master of Stores waited another moment, in which his gaze moved to Alina. “Your Highness, the council would be grateful if you could join us later as well. It concerns the public presentation of the rescue.” “Then I will come,” Alina said. “But not if I am spoken about there before I am in the room.” Arvid did not look at her, but she noticed the slight pull around his mouth. The Master of Stores bowed. “Of course.” After he had gone, Arvid said quietly, “He is becoming more careful.” “More careful is not the same as friendlier.” “No. But more predictable.” Alina laid down the quill. “Do you want me to speak in the council?” Arvid supported himself with one hand on the cane. “I want you to know when you speak and why.” “That is not an answer.” “It is the one that will serve you best.” She looked at him, and for a moment between them there was not only father and daughter, not only king and princess, but something new that did not yet have a name. He no longer tried to keep her away from the weight. Nor did he simply put it into her hands. He let her see that weight was something one had to learn without breaking beneath it. When he left, Alina remained with Sanna. Sanna waited exactly three breaths before saying, “He has changed.” “Yes.” “You too.” “You say that as though it were a diagnosis.” “Some changes are.” Alina took the next letter, but she did not read it at once. In the courtyard she heard hooves. Her gaze moved to the door before she could stop it. Sanna saw it. She said nothing. That did not make it better. In the afternoon Alina had to attend the council. The session lasted longer than it should have and produced less than it promised. The Master of Stores spoke about stocks, harvest projections, and remaining contractual obligations toward the realm that had helped Ardenthal through the years of hunger and then demanded men. Its king’s name was not often spoken. He was referred to as “the western king,” sometimes as “His Majesty beyond the border mountains,” and there was always a caution in these phrases that made Alina angry. A man who held Ardenthal in debt was treated with more verbal softness than the women who had brought their own king back. Seraphina sat beside Arvid, not behind him. The council noticed that too. Arvid allowed it. Perhaps he even wanted it. “The public narrative must show stability,” the Master of Stores said. “Gratitude, homecoming, royal continuity. We should avoid bringing the extraordinary circumstances too much into the foreground.” Alina looked at him. “You mean the women.” “I mean the impression that Ardenthal had to abandon its order in order to save itself.” “It did.” The priest cleared his throat. “Your Highness, that may have been necessary in the situation, but a necessity need not become an example.” “And a failure should not become a habit,” Alina said. Seraphina lowered her gaze briefly. Arvid did not. The Master of Stores pressed his lips together. “No one is speaking of failure.” “Then do not begin by describing the rescue in a way that hurts no one.” “Words can have consequences.” “Yes. That is why they should not lie.” Arvid raised his hand before the Master of Stores could answer. “Enough. The names will be spoken. The tasks will be spoken. The council will not make smaller what brought Ardenthal back. At the same time, no one will be encouraged to set out armed without orders in the future. Both things will have to stand side by side, even if that is uncomfortable.” Alina looked at him. He seemed exhausted, but clear. The council did not receive the decision with enthusiasm, but it received it. That was more than she would have received a few weeks ago. After the session, Seraphina held Alina back in the corridor. “You fight him even when he is currently on your side.” Alina knew at once that she meant the Master of Stores. “He is not on my side.” “No. But he was not openly against you just now.” “That is not enough for me.” Seraphina studied her. “I can see that.” “Should it be enough?” “Sometimes, yes.” Alina half turned away. “That sounds like yielding.” “No. It sounds like surviving in rooms where not every knife is drawn before it strikes.” Alina fell silent. Seraphina stepped closer, not threateningly, but clearly. “You have learned to open roads, bypass guards, and get prisoners out. Now you must learn that the court kills more slowly. That does not make it harmless.” “I know.” “No,” Seraphina said calmly. “You suspect it. You will know it only when you wish to protect someone and realize that your nearness makes him more vulnerable.” Alina looked at her. It was not necessary to say Matthis’s name. Precisely because of that, he was there in the corridor between them. “You saw it.” “I see a great deal.” “And what do you think?” Seraphina did not answer immediately. “I think you are young. I think you have carried more than many older people could carry. I think closeness after war is not weakness. And I think that at court nothing remains private if it can become politically useful.” Alina felt her throat tighten. “Should I stay away from him?” “That would be the simple answer.” “And the right one?” Seraphina looked toward the end of the corridor, where light fell across the stone. “There is no answer here that costs nothing. If you stay away, it will cost you something. If you remain, perhaps him. Perhaps you. Probably both of you.” Alina wanted to object, but she found no sentence that would not have sounded childish. Seraphina briefly placed a hand on her arm. “I forbid you nothing. I am only warning you not to believe that a feeling remains innocent simply because it is honest.” Then she went. Alina remained in the corridor until the queen’s steps had faded. In the evening she did not go to the stables. Not directly. She took the path to the river, because supplies for the North Wing were being unloaded there from a boat. That was the reason she gave herself. Two women from the riverside village lifted baskets onto the bank, a boy pulled a rope tight, and Taren stood on the jetty, although his shoulder had not yet healed fully. “You should not lift,” Alina said. Taren looked at her. “I am not lifting. I am telling others that they are lifting wrongly.” “That sounds like recovery.” “It sounds like torture for everyone involved.” She walked past him to the water. The Arden River was calm. Its surface took in the evening light, and for a moment the valley looked almost peaceful. Then she heard steps on the gravel. She knew who it was before she turned around. Matthis stopped beside her, an empty fodder sack over his shoulder, which was a good enough explanation as long as no one asked too closely. “You are not in the stables,” she said. “You are not in the writing room.” “I am here because of supplies.” “So am I.” She looked at the empty sack. “Of course.” He followed her gaze and lifted it slightly. “Very important supplies.” This time she truly smiled. Not for long, but without punishing herself for it at once. Matthis looked toward the water. “Was the council bad?” “Long.” “That means yes.” “Yes.” “And your father?” “Clearer than he should be. Weaker than he wants to admit.” Matthis nodded. “That fits.” “Him?” “Kings. Probably.” “How many do you know?” “One. But he is enough for an opinion.” Alina looked at him from the side. “You should be more careful.” “I am. Otherwise I would have said he is more stubborn than every horse in the stable.” She had to lower her gaze, because otherwise she would have laughed. The laughter would have drawn attention. Taren called from the jetty that a basket had been placed incorrectly. One of the women replied that he should take care of his own shoulder. The moment remained small enough to be safe. Perhaps that was why it was so precious. Matthis grew serious again. “Seraphina knows.” Alina kept looking at the water. “Yes.” “What did she say?” “That nothing remains private if it can become politically useful.” “That sounds like her.” “Yes.” “Is she right?” Alina breathed out slowly. “Yes.” Matthis was silent. Then he said, “I can keep distance.” The sentence struck her unprepared, because it did not sound accusatory. It was an offer. A real one. One that would cost him something. “Do you want that?” she asked. “No.” The answer came at once. Too quickly for protection. Too honestly for politeness. Alina looked at him. This time there was no horse between them, no stall, no stable boy. Only a river, a half darkened path, and enough distance from the others that every word became more risky. “Then do not say it as if it were easy,” she said. “It was not easy.” “It sounded that way.” “Then I hid it better than I thought.” The fodder sack slipped slightly from his shoulder. He caught it, and for a moment his fingers were close to her hand. Not touching. Almost was worse. “I do not want you to become vulnerable because of me,” he said. “I already am.” “Alina.” “No. Not only because of you. Because of everything. Because of what they saw. Because of what my father said. Because of what I did. You are not the cause.” “But I could become the lever.” She did not answer at once. The river moved calmly on, completely unimpressed by the fact that people at its edge were saying things that could change their lives. “Yes,” she said at last. “You could.” Matthis took in the sentence without stepping back. “Then we must be wiser.” “Not less honest?” “No. Only wiser.” She looked at him, and in that moment he was neither the stable boy from her memory nor the prisoner from the camp. He was someone who understood that love was not enough when power noticed it. The thought frightened her because the word love had not yet been spoken and still suddenly stood in the room, unspoken, but no longer far away. Taren called again, this time for Matthis. “The sack!” Matthis lifted the empty sack. “See? Very important supplies.” Alina nodded. “Go.” “Tomorrow?” “Not here.” “Where?” She looked back toward the castle. Windows, walls, paths, eyes. “I do not know.” “Then we will find it.” He left before the sentence could become a promise. Alina remained at the river and felt that Seraphina’s warning had not grown smaller. It had grown larger because Matthis was not naive. It would have been easier if he had been careless. Then she could have hidden behind reason. But he saw the danger and still stayed close enough that she could lose him. The next morning control came dressed in courtesy. Alina had just opened the writing room when Mara brought a message from the small hall. Not urgent, not openly commanding. The council requested her presence as soon as her time allowed. The wording had been chosen so carefully that Alina knew at once it was not a request. Sanna took the sheet from her hand, read it, and gave it back. “They have learned to write more softly.” “That does not make it better.” “No. It only makes it harder to prove them wrong.” Alina laid the message on the table. “I will go after the first stack.” Sanna looked at the waiting letters. “You want to make them wait.” “I do not want to leave the writing room just because the council politely pulls on a leash.” Sanna nodded with satisfaction and sat down. Two hours later Alina entered the small hall. Arvid was already there, Seraphina at his side. The king looked paler that morning, but his eyes were alert. The Master of Stores had spread several sheets before him. The priest sat beside him, hands folded, his face calm in a way that did not reassure Alina. There were two other council members, both from families that understood how to show agreement without committing too early. “Your Highness,” the Master of Stores began, “we thank you for coming.” “You requested it.” “We did.” “Then I am here.” Seraphina’s gaze dropped briefly to the table. Alina did not know whether she was hiding a smile or a warning. The Master of Stores continued without reacting to the tone. “We have spoken about the coming weeks. Ardenthal needs visible signs of stability. The king has returned, but his recovery will take time. The people look to you, and for that very reason it would be sensible to define your role more clearly.” Alina did not sit. “More clearly for whom?” “For the land.” “The land knows who I am.” “The land knows what you have done,” the priest said. “That is not always the same as knowing what place someone occupies.” Now she understood. Perhaps not completely, but enough. “You want to give me a place.” “We want to prevent others from doing so,” the Master of Stores said. “Rumors arise where forms are lacking. If you appear more strongly at official occasions, at thanksgivings, at visits to the wounded, at the distribution of support to the families of the fallen, then your visibility receives a clear order.” “And if I do not appear more strongly?” “Then your visibility remains unframed.” Alina looked at Arvid. He said nothing. Not yet. “Unframed,” she repeated. “That sounds as if I were water on the table.” One of the councilmen cleared his throat. “Your Highness, no one means that disrespectfully.” “That is rarely proof that something is respectful.” Arvid lifted his hand slightly. “Alina.” She looked at him. His gaze was not reproachful, rather testing. He wanted her to understand the room, not only her anger within it. That made it more difficult. The Master of Stores picked up the thread again. “This is not about reducing you. On the contrary. We wish to make you appropriately visible.” “Appropriate is the most dangerous word in this room.” Seraphina now looked openly at her. The Master of Stores paused. Alina breathed through and forced herself not to speak further out of anger. “You want me to be more visible as long as you decide what I am seen doing. You want to place me beside wounded men, but not beside decisions. You want me to comfort, thank, smile, represent, and thereby calm the unease you do not wish to name.” The priest leaned forward slightly. “Comfort is no small task.” “No. But comfort becomes small when it is used to avoid questions.” The room was silent. Arvid leaned back, and Alina saw that the movement cost him strength. Finally he said, “What do you propose?” The Master of Stores seemed surprised that Arvid asked her. Alina was not. Still, she needed a moment to think. “I will go to the wounded because I do so anyway. I will speak with families because they deserve answers. I will stand at public thanks if the names of all are spoken and not only those that fit comfortably into a story. But I will not be placed in a role that makes me visible without allowing me to speak.” Seraphina nodded almost invisibly. Arvid looked at the Master of Stores. “That is reasonable.” “Majesty, it is demanding.” “That is not the same as unreasonable.” With that the proposal was not finished, but it had lost its harmless skin. Alina sat down after all. Not from compliance, but because she realized that standing looked too much like battle. The rest of the meeting revolved around dates, names, support, lists, and places. The Master of Stores twice tried to suggest formulations in which Alina’s role sounded softer. Both times Alina changed individual words. Not much. Enough. When she left the hall, she was more tired than after a long morning in the writing room. Seraphina followed her into the corridor. “You understood well what they wanted.” “And still they will keep trying.” “Of course. They would be poor politicians if they gave up after one attempt.” Alina looked at her. “That almost sounds admiring.” “No. Only sober.” Seraphina walked beside her. “You are right not to let yourself be reduced to comfort. But do not underestimate how much power lies in who is publicly allowed to comfort.” “That sounds like another warning.” “It is. And a tool.” Alina stopped. “You sometimes speak as if everything were a blade.” “At court, many things are blades. Some simply cut more slowly.” “And Matthis?” The question came faster than Alina had intended. Seraphina stopped as well. “Matthis is not a blade.” “I did not say he was.” “No. But he can be made into one if someone takes him by the hilt.” Alina lowered her gaze. “I know.” “Then act in a way that does not let you forget it.” Seraphina continued before Alina could answer. In the courtyard the day had grown warm. Work moved in an ordinary disorder that Alina found almost comforting. A wheel was being repaired, two children carried a blanket too large for them, and at the edge of the stables the stable boy was arguing with an older man Alina knew from the group of freed prisoners. Matthis stood a few steps away with a saddle blanket in his hand. He said nothing, but his shoulders were tense. Alina did not go there at once. She remained near the well wall and pretended to examine the path to the North Wing. The older man laughed briefly. It was not a cruel laugh, but not a friendly one either. “Since the rescue you are more than a stable hand now, are you?” The stable boy looked awkwardly at the ground. Matthis laid the saddle blanket over a beam. “I am exactly what I was before.” “Then you should be careful not to forget where before was.” Matthis looked at the man. “Do you have a problem with me, Orven?” The man raised his hands. “No problem. I am only saying that some doors are not open just because a princess walks through them once.” Alina felt her body want to react. A step, a word, an intervention. She did nothing. Not because it did not matter to her, but because Seraphina’s warning still lay within her. If she went to Matthis now, she would confirm the man’s sentence. If she defended him publicly, she would give it weight. Matthis answered calmly. “Then it is good that I work in the stables. Here most doors have bolts one can see.” Orven looked at him for a moment, then snorted and went away. The stable boy remained uncertainly where he was. Matthis picked up the saddle blanket again and said, “If you talk to everyone who enjoys sounding clever, you will never finish.” The boy nodded quickly and continued working. Alina waited until Matthis was alone. Then she did not go to him, but toward the North Wing. Halfway there their paths crossed because he was carrying a bucket of water to the rear trough. It looked accidental. Perhaps it even was, at least halfway. “I heard it,” she said softly. Matthis looked ahead. “I thought you might.” “I am sorry.” “You did not say it.” “No. But I am the reason he could.” Matthis did not stop. They walked slowly beside one another, with enough distance between them to remain explainable. “You are not the reason people confuse station and fear.” “That sounds like Sanna.” “Perhaps we all become unbearably clever when we do not sleep.” Alina almost smiled. “Did it hit you?” Matthis was silent for a moment. “Yes.” She looked at him, but he kept his eyes forward. “Not because I believe he is right. Because I know he is not alone in thinking it.” “And what do you think?” “That he is right and still wrong.” This time Alina stopped. Matthis took one more step and then stopped too. “He is right that doors are not open simply because you walk through them,” he said. “He is wrong if he believes I do not know what wood they are made of.” Alina took in that sentence with a mixture of pain and admiration. Matthis did not want to deceive himself. He did not want to pretend love was stronger than rank, law, court, and council only because it felt true. Precisely because of that it became harder to keep distance. “I wanted to say something earlier,” she admitted. “I know.” “You would have hated it.” “Perhaps.” “And needed it?” He looked at her now. “No. Not there.” The answer was clear, and it still hurt. “Later,” he said more softly, “perhaps.” A call from the North Wing interrupted them. Elda asked for water, and Matthis lifted the bucket slightly. “I have very important supplies,” he said. The sentence now belonged to them, and precisely because of that no one was allowed to notice that it meant something. In the late afternoon Alina was called to a public distribution. The first support for the families of the fallen was to be handed out. It was not a great sum, not rescue from poverty, only grain, cloths, some oil, and a promise of help with the coming harvest. The council had deliberately placed this appointment in the courtyard. Visibility, Alina thought. Framed. Appropriate. She stood beside Seraphina while the names were called. She handed out cloths, took hands, heard thanks she could hardly endure. When Henrik’s mother came, she accepted the bundle, looked at Alina, and said, “He was afraid after all.” Alina held her gaze. “Yes.” “Thank you for not laughing at him then.” “No one would have been allowed to.” “People do many things they are not allowed to.” The woman pressed the bundle to herself and went. Alina remained behind and felt again that comfort was no small task. It was only dangerous when others built it as a cage. After the distribution the Master of Stores stood nearby and spoke with one of the stewards. Alina did not hear her name, but she heard the way the voices lowered as she passed. Seraphina stepped beside her. “Do you see?” “Yes.” “Good. Do not let it blind you.” “To what?” “To the moments that are real all the same.” Alina looked at her. Seraphina returned the look calmly. “Not every public gesture is a trap. Not every private wish is rescue. You will have to distinguish both.” With that she left Alina standing. In the evening Alina was exhausted enough not to want to go to the stables and restless enough almost to do it anyway. Instead she went to the writing room, because two letters still lay there that had to be answered. One was addressed to a family beyond the river. The other concerned a man who had died in the camp and whose name had been passed on only by another prisoner. She wrote slowly and crossed out less than usual. At some point the door opened. Matthis stood in the frame with a folded note in his hand. “Sanna said I should bring this.” Alina looked up. “Sanna is not here.” “I noticed that.” “And still you came?” “The note is real.” He placed it on the table. Alina took it and recognized Sanna’s handwriting. A list of names that were to be given to the stables in the morning, because some of those returned were being assigned light work there. It was a perfect reason. Too perfect. “She is becoming intolerable,” Alina said. “Who?” “Sanna.” “Then she is probably right.” Matthis remained near the door. “I can go again.” “Do you want that?” “No.” The answer again came too quickly. This time it frightened Alina less. “Then stay a moment.” He did not close the door. That was wise. Nor did he come too close to the table. That was wiser still and harder still. “Orven apologized,” he said. “Did he mean it?” “No. But he did it.” “Why?” “Berit told him she would intentionally forge his stable hooks crooked in future if he kept talking.” Alina stared at him for a moment. Then she laughed softly. Not for long, but genuinely. Matthis looked at her, and in his gaze there was something warm that almost struck her more than his seriousness. “You should do that more often,” he said. “Have Berit threaten people?” “Laugh.” She lowered her eyes to the note. “There has been little cause.” “I know.” The laughter was gone, but the warmth remained. Matthis did take one step closer now. “You were in the courtyard today.” “I was visible.” “You were good.” “That word is following me.” “Then differently. You were there, and the people knew you were not only there because of the form.” Alina looked up at him. “And you? Did you know that too?” “Yes.” “Then it was enough.” Outside, footsteps approached. They both heard them at the same time. Matthis stepped back, Alina lowered her gaze to the letter, and when a court lady shortly afterward put her head through the door, she saw only a princess at the table and a stable worker at an appropriate distance. “Forgive me, Your Highness. Sanna asked for the list.” Alina lifted the note. “I have it.” The court lady nodded and left again. The steps withdrew. Alina breathed out. Matthis looked toward the door. “That was close enough.” “It was nothing.” “Yet.” The word remained between them. Alina stood, went to the shelf, and placed the list where Sanna would find it. When she turned around, Matthis stood closer than before. Not directly in front of her. Not so near that it would have been inevitable. But close enough that she felt the decision that would have lain in every further step. “I should go,” he said. “Yes.” Neither moved. In the courtyard a call sounded, far enough away not to belong to them. Alina noticed that her hand trembled slightly. Perhaps from exhaustion. Perhaps not. Matthis saw it. He did not reach for her at once. He waited for a moment in which she could have stepped back. Then he took her hand. Not as in the stable, where darkness and the horses had protected them. Here, in the light of the writing room, the touch was more deliberate. His fingers closed around hers, warm, firm enough to be there, cautious enough not to become a demand. Alina looked at their hands. “This is unwise.” “Yes.” “You say that too calmly.” “Because otherwise I would have to let go.” She looked up at him. His face was serious, but not hard. The distance between them grew smaller, although neither of them visibly moved. Alina felt the wish to step closer not as a thought, but as a pull in her body. For one moment she wanted no lists, no roles, no doors that had not been built for him. She wanted to feel his other hand at her waist and find out whether he would still breathe in such a controlled way then. The thought was not innocent. It was alive. Matthis lowered his gaze to her mouth and immediately raised it again. That very restraint made it worse. “Alina,” he said softly. Outside, steps came again. This time several. They separated at once. Alina reached for a parchment, Matthis stepped to the door and took the empty basket standing there as if he had only come to collect it. The door opened before both of them had fully found their roles again. Sanna entered. Her gaze went from Alina to Matthis, to the basket, to the parchment, then back to Alina. “I am interrupting,” she said. “No,” they both answered at once. Sanna raised an eyebrow. “That was convincing.” Matthis cleared his throat. “I am taking the basket back.” “Of course,” Sanna said. “Baskets are very independent today.” He bowed briefly to Alina, not too deeply, not too familiarly, and left the room. When the door had closed behind him, Sanna remained standing. “You must be more careful.” Alina sat down. “I know.” “No. You must be more careful when you believe you are being careful.” That struck. “Did you see us?” “I saw enough to know that others would need less.” Alina set the parchment aside. “I do not know how to do this.” “What?” “Not seek him.” Sanna’s face softened, but not pityingly. “Perhaps it is not about not seeking him. Perhaps it is about knowing who is watching when you find him.” Alina closed her eyes briefly. “That sounds terrible.” “That is court.” Later, when she was alone, Alina remained in the writing room for a long time. The door was closed, the table cleared, the list in its place. Her hand still felt warm. Again. She might have laughed at that if it had not been so dangerous. Outside, the courtyard passed into night. Voices grew quieter, torches burned down, and somewhere in the stables a horse moved. Alina thought of Matthis’s sentence about doors. Some were not open simply because she walked through them. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps it was even the heart of everything that lay ahead of them. Between court and stable there were paths, but no safe ones. There were reasons to meet, but none that would carry forever. There was truth, but no innocence. And still his hand had held hers, in the light, not in shadow. For one moment she had felt freer than anywhere else in Ardenthal. Then steps had come, and freedom had retreated back into an in between place.