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  She stopped at the stump of a once mighty fig tree. Like most of the patriarchal trees of the Eldest’s grounds, it had been torn apart by the Dragon, its ragged stump now the only remaining testament to its existence. Here, the lady fumbled with the clasps of her shimmery overskirt embroidered in silver leaves, edged in still more pearls. With a certain amount of ripping, she freed herself at last and stepped from the collapsed billow of silk and wire structuring, wearing only her underdress . . . which was still far too sumptuous and heavy for what she had in mind. For now, however, it would have to do.

  She reached into her bodice and pulled out the prince’s fool letter.

  There, on the edge of the gorge, feeling the wild exhilaration of dangerous heights, she drew a long breath and read the scrawled lines again. Not a man alive could have deciphered the expression on her stone-quiet face. But when she came to the end, she crumpled the letter with both hands and tossed it over her shoulder.

  When she spoke, it was without malice but with a deep resignation. “That’s what I give for your fine sentiments, Prince Foxbrush.”

  A spasm shot through her body. Hands clasped to her temples, she doubled over. Then, neck craning, she turned her head as though trying to catch a glimpse of something that stood upon her back.

  The moment passed.

  The lady straightened, her shoulders squared. “It’ll drive me mad if I stay,” she whispered.

  Perhaps it had driven her mad already. Why else would she, on her wedding day, stripped of her glory down to her underdress, her dainty shoes worn to shreds, hike up her skirts and, taking a narrow dirt path that was all but invisible, ancient and worn as it was, descend to the waiting darkness of the Wilderlands below?

  She only knew she had no choice.

  “I’ll disappear,” she told herself. “I’ll disappear even as Rose Red did. And like her, I’ll never come back.”

  In the quiet by the old fig tree stump, a bird with a speckled breast alighted on the ground and pecked gently at the discarded letter lying there. Tut, tut, tut. O-lay, o-leeeeee! he sang.

  But Daylily was too far away to hear.

  There was no wedding.

  Yet there was still a wedding feast. Far too much of Baron Middlecrescent’s coin had been spent on fine foreign and expensive delicacies meant to impress dignitaries from far and wide. And the baron declared he would be dragon-blasted before he let any of those sniveling foreigners trundle back to their colder climes without at least one fabulous Southlander meal with which to season their recounting of the day’s extraordinary events.

  The Eldest was not consulted on proceedings. He, dribbling slightly at the mouth, was hastily bundled off to his royal chambers and tucked away out of sight, the crown removed from his head, the silken cloak removed from his shoulders. Stripped of this finery, he looked little better than the drooling beggar at the city gates. He smiled wanly at his servants and asked after his wife, who had died long ago.

  The prince was not consulted either, nor was he offered any of the wedding feast, however hungry he might be. His pride shredded to utter rags, he still managed to clothe himself in just enough dignity not to beg, “Might I have a bite of the, you know, the fish, maybe?”

  No, he sat quietly, if hungrily, in a corner of the baron’s study, doing everything in his power not to let his stomach growl and draw the furious eye of his prospective father-in-law.

  The baron was not a man to storm or rage. That reaction might have been more bearable. Good shouting never hurt anyone, and often the shouter vented all that pent-up emotion in the shouting itself, leaving little energy for any real action. But the baron did not shout.

  From the moment Foxbrush, flanked by the baroness and the maiden aunt, found the baron and informed him of his daughter’s disappearance, Middlecrescent went . . . quiet. His eyes, rather too large for his face to be handsome, may have narrowed a little; his nostrils may have flared; his mouth compressed. But when he spoke, it was in a voice of such calm that his wife went into hysterics on the spot.

  “I see,” he said. Then after another long breath, in an equally mild tone, he said, “Summon my guard.”

  When the baron spoke in that way, no one hesitated to obey. He went on to give a series of commands, including an order for the baroness to shut herself up in the North Tower so as not to make a scene. He also sent for barons Blackrock and Idlewild, both trusted men in his entourage, though officially his peers.

  To Foxbrush he said only, “Stay by me and, for Lumé’s sake, don’t speak. I can’t stand the sound of your voice just now.”

  Foxbrush hadn’t made a peep since.

  Now he sat in that same corner of the baron’s study, still clad in Tortoiseshell’s jacket, and the light outside was waning so that maids were summoned to light the lamps and, alas, the fire, though it was far too hot and Foxbrush’s chair far too near the blaze. He contemplated the merits of either removing the jacket or relocating his seat. Both ran the risk of calling attention to his corner, however, so he remained where he was, sweating, his hands pressed over his rumbling stomach.

  A series of people, both common and courtly, progressed under the baron’s scrutiny. First Daylily’s goodwoman, who could only repeat what she had told the baroness already: A certain letter had arrived for her lady and, upon receiving it, her lady had sent everyone from the room.

  “And you did not find this strange?” the baron asked.

  “Oh no, your grace,” the goodwoman replied. “My lady has often done as much. She likes her privacy.”

  The baron chewed on that information, asked a few more curt questions, and dismissed the goodwoman. Foxbrush heard him muttering to himself, “Who could have sent the letter? What might it have contained?”

  Foxbrush, no matter how deeply he searched, could not find the courage to provide that information. He sat and sweltered and starved, wishing with a general sort of vagueness that he had never been born.

  Late in the day, the baron’s captain of the guard entered, ushering a group of ragged characters, both men and women, before him. Who could they be? Rebels? Outlaws? Brigands? And what could they possibly add to the sorry story unfolding?

  “Groundskeepers, my lord,” the captain said, which was a bit of a letdown. Like captives, the six or seven individuals arranged themselves before the baron, heads down, hands clasped. They were of all ages, from just past childhood to quite elderly, but each shared a certain rough-cut freshness indicative of those who work soil and tend green growth for a living. They also looked surprisingly guilty.

  “Why have you brought these to my attention?” the baron asked in the same tone a schoolmarm might ask a student about a wormy apple.

  “These people, my lord, are the last to have seen your daughter today. At least, so they claim.”

  “Groundskeepers?” The baron raised his eyebrows, which made his eyes look bigger still. Then, as though performing a task distastefully beneath his dignity, he addressed those gathered. “All right, speak up. Where did you see the Lady Daylily?”

  A woman who appeared to be the leader of the group stepped forward, touching her forehead and scraping respectfully. “My lord,” she said, “we’re keepers of the South Stretch grounds down near Swan Bridge, and we were taking our ease on this day of happiness—”

  “Get to the point.”

  Stoneblossom, for it was she, cleared her throat and spoke as clearly as she could through her nerves. “We saw her ladyship, dressed in her wedding clothes, making her way rather quick-like on the path to Swan Bridge.”

  “Alone?”

  “As far as we could see, my lord. Which was pretty far, I might add.”

  “And how did you know it was the Lady Daylily?”

  “Oh, it’s hard to mistake her ladyship! There’s not another maid in Southlands boasts a head of ginger hair like hers! Not as would be dressed in pearls and silks.”

  There was no denying this. Among the dark and dusky Southlander complexions, Daylily’s pale s
kin and fiery hair stood out like a lighthouse beacon.

  “And you did not see where she went?” the baron asked.

  “I did, sir!” a boy of thirteen or so spoke. “I followed her!”

  “Cheek,” said Stoneblossom and would have cuffed him had not the baron interceded.

  “Let him speak.”

  “I followed her, and I saw her leave the path to Swan Bridge and cut across a field to the old Grandfather Fig what used to stand on the gorge edge, but which is now a stump, your grace-ship,” said the boy.

  “Your lord, you dolt,” Stoneblossom growled, but again the baron ordered peace. “Go on, boy,” he said.

  “Well, she stood there a moment; then she started to take off her skirt.”

  If someone had breathed in the silence that followed, the room might have exploded. Foxbrush did not even move to wipe away the sweat that dripped into his eyes.

  The baron at last said, “And what did you do?”

  “Oh, I turned me back, your grace-lord,” said the boy. “Me mum may be a washer, but she brought me up right. And when I did look again, the lady was gone. Leaving her skirts behind her.”

  “Gone, you say?”

  “That’s right. It’s my thinkin’ that she went over the edge, down to the Wilderlands.”

  “You’re daft, Tuftwhistle!” Stoneblossom snapped and snatched at his ear, though he eluded her hand. A look from the baron stilled them both. Then he turned to his captain.

  “Have you any corroboration?”

  “Indeed, my lord, we were able to follow a clear trail left by the lady all the way to the very place the boy indicated.” The captain snapped his fingers, and his men entered, each bearing some token: a pair of lace gloves, a coronet, a necklace in pieces, a jeweled belt, an outer corset, and the ruins of a heavy overskirt in shimmery silver and silk. The remains of Daylily’s wedding gown. Foxbrush paled at the sight, then blushed at the shocking mental image of Daylily in her underdress, however sumptuous it might be. That would be at least as bad as a gentleman appearing publicly in his shirt-sleeves!

  Then a final guard stepped forward, and all other thoughts fell from Foxbrush’s head as he gazed upon what this man held.

  “We found this by the tree stump.”

  The baron stepped forward to take it. “Yes. The catalyst of this mystery,” he said. With careful fingers, he unfolded the letter, which had been crumpled into a tiny wad.

  Foxbrush earnestly hoped to die and be swallowed up by the Realm Unseen.

  The baron scanned the letter. “Ah,” he said and nothing more for several moments. “Perhaps this explains a little,” he said then. “It appears to be a love letter, unsigned, poorly spelled. Perhaps my wayward daughter had a rendezvous in mind when she made her flight.” He ground his teeth, the first sign of anger he had displayed since the whole business began. “A rendezvous with whom, though?”

  No one spoke. But the same thought passed through almost every head: Lionheart, the disinherited prince who had vanished a year ago, after his deposition. Everyone knew that he had been intended to marry Lady Daylily. Everyone knew how she had loved him.

  “It all comes together now,” the baron said.

  Only it didn’t.

  “Um,” said Foxbrush.

  Every gaze, which had mercifully overlooked him for the entirety of the exchange thus far, turned suddenly and fixed upon the prince. His stomach chose that moment to roar its ire, and he leapt to his feet, trying to hide the noise with another. “Um, I, uh. I feel I must . . . well . . .”

  “Have you something to contribute, crown prince?” The baron could order executions in that voice.

  Foxbrush tried to meet the baron’s gaze and, failing that, tried to meet Stoneblossom’s. Failing that as well, he fixed his eyes upon a mark in the wall over the head of young Tuftwhistle.

  “That’s mine,” he said.

  The baron looked from the prince to the letter and back again. “This? Addressed to my daughter?”

  “Um. Yes.”

  “You misspelled ‘devotion.’”

  “It was, um, an early draft. I, uh, I didn’t mean to send it.”

  “No,” said the baron, and his fist clenched, recrumpling the letter. “No, I’m sure you did not.”

  With that, he tossed the sorry little ball of paper at Foxbrush’s feet.

  Every eye in the room fixed upon the crown prince as he bent to retrieve it; everyone in the room knew now why Daylily had fled. Foxbrush sank back into his seat, hanging his head, and felt he would never have the strength to rise again.

  The baron, however, chose once more to dismiss the prince’s existence, addressing himself instead to his captain. “She cannot, as this boy says, have descended to the Wilderlands—”

  “Oi!” Tuftwhistle protested, but Stoneblossom silenced him with a smack and a “Hush up, you!”

  “—so it remains that she must have crossed Swan Bridge and is even now making her way across Evenwell. Put together a company and ride out. Take some of Evenwell’s men with you; they know those roads.”

  The captain saluted and, summoning three of his men, marched from the room. The other guards, at the baron’s indication, shuffled the groundskeepers out. Foxbrush watched them depart as a man watches the last of his allies departing from the field of battle, leaving him alone with the enemy.

  But one of the groundskeepers, who had stood silently by with the others, a low green hood pulled over his face, paused in the doorway, his brown hand clutching the frame so that even when the guard hustling him out pushed his shoulder he remained in place. He said in a thick voice, “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  The baron, who had turned to contemplate the fire, looked up. The firelight playing in his eyes gave him the appearance of some devil trying to recall his victim’s sin. “What did you say?” he demanded of the lone groundsman.

  “I said, I wouldn’t put it past her. Climbing down to the Wilderlands, that is.” Suddenly the groundskeeper’s voice altered and became almost, but not quite, familiar. He said, “I wouldn’t put anything past Lady Daylily. Best not to underestimate her.”

  Before the baron could reply, the hooded man was gone. The baron took two steps in pursuit before halting and deciding against such a chase. He returned to his study of the fire, and Foxbrush, in his hungry, sweating corner, could only hope the baron would not turn those devil eyes upon him.

  At length the baron said, very quietly, “Get out.”

  Foxbrush mustered himself and fled.

  The figs in the basket had all turned to putrid mush in the heat of the day. Foxbrush, hungry as he was, was not quite as disappointed as he might have been. There were times when, no matter how urgently a man’s body might cry out, a man’s spirit cannot comply.

  He felt sick to his stomach.

  Foxbrush, like most young men of limited experience misled by centuries of poets, had always believed that heartbreak would lodge itself in . . . well, in the heart. Yet his heart beat on at a healthy if rapid rate.

  His gut, however, felt as though someone had scooped it out and filled it with gnawing worms.

  He sat gingerly at his desk, perched on the edge of his seat. No one had thought to light so much as a candle in his study, and little of the sky’s dusky glow found its way through the window into his room. It was very like—and he shuddered at this—the gloom of the Occupation.

  He should light a lamp. One sat at the ready by his elbow. But somehow he could not bear the notion of being alone with himself that night, and the dark kept his thoughts momentarily at bay.

  He bowed his head and the worms in his belly writhed. “Why in Lumé’s name did I write that dragon-eaten letter?”

  What was it Daylily had said to him those few short months ago when he, down on one knee, had asked the crucial question?

  “I’ll marry you, Prince Foxbrush,” she’d said, “but only with the understanding that you will never love me.”

  But she knew. Dragons blast it, t
he whole kingdom knew that he adored her! Had he not made a fool of himself during her previous wedding week last winter, when her then groom, Lionheart, had left her alone in the middle of the dance floor before the eyes of the whole court? And Foxbrush had stepped forward and taken her in his arms. Gallant Foxbrush, ready to save the day! Noble Foxbrush, eager to salvage his fair one’s honor!

  Clumsy Foxbrush, who danced like a clockwork soldier, and within three turns had trod upon her dress once and her feet twice.

  “Let me go, you dolt,” Daylily had hissed so that none but he would hear above the music. And she’d wrenched herself from his arms, and it was his turn to be left alone in the middle of the dance floor, while she made her way after Lionheart.

  From that day on, he’d heard the young gallants of the court whisper behind his back: “Foxbrush Left Feet!” But really, Hymlumé love him, was it his fault that in all his academic pursuits, he’d never encountered a course on courtly dancing?

  There was no one to blame but himself, however, for writing those letters.

  In the dark, Foxbrush flipped a switch to open a “secret” compartment in his desk—which wasn’t so much “secret” anymore as “understood to be private.” A stack of letters emerged as the compartment slid open, letters tied up with a limp silk ribbon. Anyone coming upon them could see in a glance that they were love letters. Not everyone, however, would guess they’d all been written by Foxbrush himself. Written and never delivered.

  Foxbrush pulled them out, several years’ worth of the most tender and romantic feelings he’d ever put to paper. Such as this one: And a union of our two houses would prove as profitable to the improvement of our estates as would the union of our hearts to the improvement of our lives.

  Or this: When weighed upon the joint scales of reason and regard, the balance of my affections proves a sound measure upon which to make your judgment.

  The idiotic yearnings of youthful fancy, perhaps, but truly, if rather haltingly, expressed. Only, thank the Lights Above, he’d never let one of these fall into the adored object’s hands!