A rustle swept through the hall, murmurs passing from person to person. Poppy reached for Willow’s wrist, and someone behind them let out a low, delighted hum. Serrin took no notice. He remained entranced by the vision in the basin.
“No,” Willow managed. She tore her arm from Poppy’s grip and stumbled toward the dais. “Let me see. Let me!”
She reached the basin and looked down. Framed in the still water was a girl with pale blonde hair and laughing eyes, dressed in a soft lilac gown. Not Willow but—Ash?
No. Ash, like Juniper, had brown hair. Of the three Braselton sisters, only Willow was blonde. And yet the girl in the water bore Ash’s features. The tilt of her smile, the shape of her eyes—it was Ash’s face, softened and brightened by youth and something else. A glow. A promise. A thread of magic woven through her blood.
She wasn’t Ash. But she was undeniably Ash’s kin.
“She’s beautiful,” Serrin murmured. “She’sperfect.”
Willow said nothing. A part of her—perhaps the oldest, most secret part of her—felt oddly quiet. That was all. Not shattered. Just still.
She eased back from the basin. The Wise Woman nodded, and people stirred in their seats, whispering excitedly. That was it, then. The match had been made. The ritual was over.
Aesra’s voice cut through the chatter. “The ceremony is not yet complete.”
The Grand Hall hushed. Willow frowned.
From the shadowed alcove behind the throne, a line of twelve figures emerged, all dressed in white tunics and trousers belted with silver sashes. Their steps were soft, their heads bowed. They moved like sheep—no, not sheep. Like dancers pretending to be sheep. Willow’s gaze snagged on their feet, the gentle shuffle of their procession.
They parted, moving outward in a small circle to reveal Jace, with her red curls cropped close. She held her chin high, and the spoon winked from behind her ear.
She looked no one in the eye. Especially not Willow. Willow saw what care Jace was taking to put on a brave front, and she swayed. Jace pretending she wasn’t afraid? It was terrifying.
Aesra stepped forward, her face pale with triumph. When she spoke, her voice rang through the hall with formal clarity, its cadence drawn from ancient law.
“Let it be known before the gathered court and crown: this wildling, called Jace, did willfully betray the laws of our land. She went against the crown. She went against our queen.”
A collective gasp rose from the audience.
Aesra turned toward Willow. Her chin jerked up, a command. “You. Mortal. Come forward.”
Willow shrank back, and Poppy, standing only feet from her, let out a small bewildered noise. “What? Why her?”
Aesra strode forward, plunged her arm into the crowd, and pulled Willow into full view. She stood exposed beneath the dome, her pearl-strewn gown gleaming like a lie.
“She may not be our future queen,” Aesra announced. “But she is one of us nonetheless. It was the bravery of the mortal that led to the capture of this spy.”
She shoved Jace, and Jace stumbled, the spoon tumbling from behind her ear. It clinked against the stone.
Jace moved to retrieve it, and Aesra kneed her in the gut.
“Leave it,” she commanded.
Jace doubled over. The crowd murmured, but no one stepped forward.
“Would you like to know how we found you, spy?” Aesra asked. “How you were caught?”
Jace pressed a hand to her ribs, her breath shallow.
Aesra looked to Willow. “Would you like to tell her, or shall I?”
Willow opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her shame was a noose, drawing tighter.
Jace turned to Willow, her brows pulled together in confusion.
“No!” Poppy cried. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. Tell them, miss. Tell them it wasn’t you!”
