The letter arrived in the night.

Tell no one, the page said. Read it quick. He insisted on seeing the paper go up in flames before accepting his coin. I recognized Roland’s hand immediately, could picture the delicate fingers wielding the quill, the proud stacks of signet rings collected from powerful men. The pink hair he brushed away from his eyes as he wrote.

I read the invitation over again, then tossed it into the fire. The paper curled in on itself, writhing and twisting. Flames leapt up, well fed, and I watched them thrash for a long while, turning my thoughts over. The world outside began to stretch: the clapping of hooves, the strike of knives against meat at the butchers. Still I waited. Only when the sun was undeniable did I start packing my things.

On the choppy water, in the hull of the rocking boat, I remembered him. My stomach had churned with the ship, so I lay belowdecks on a pallet with my hands clasped over my chest. My girlhood returned to me in the dark.

Roland. Friend. Rival. What else was he to me? His name had gathered weight and influence since we’d known each other as children. Before he became lord chancellor, before his name became synonymous with power, Roland once blushed easily, tides of joy and humiliation sweeping across his face with every compliment. He sometimes played rough and bullied the other children in the palace, but he would shut himself away and cry afterward, deeply ashamed.

Every courtier, even then, loved him by accident. He was a dog they’d shelter for the night, but before they knew it, he’d made a home and was rearranging it the way he liked.

He was too wrecked by his emotions to control his magic the way I could. Often scolded for it. And as time passed, as he emerged from his youth more beautiful than anyone had a right to be, he and Prince Hal would sneak out of the palace and into the city, leaving me behind. I was too young, they said when I begged to come. A girl.