HOWL

Charlotte

Mrs. Fitz, our beloved cook at the convent, always said I was a great actress. Being crowned queen at six days old had made me one. Had I been born into a different life, I might have starred in movies. Actors and I were one and the same—we were always fooling people, always wearing a mask and playing a part. When you thought about it, an actor would probably be fooled by a politician.

Mrs. Fitz used to say that a skillful politician would never make you think. And, well, I thought quite a lot.

The car rolled to a stop before I even realized how long we’d been sitting there. The gentle hum of the engine died, leaving behind a silence that seemed to press against the windows. I was in the backseat of a black sedan, a guard on either side of me, both sitting with their backs straight and their expressions as unreadable as the men carved into the stone figures that lined the tombs of Springridge.

I wondered if they’d ever smiled in their lives.

Perhaps it was a requirement of the position. Smile too much and someone might think you were weak. Frown too often and someone might think you were plotting treason. Better to do nothing but save face.

I had learned that lesson early.

The haunting image of Sister Eleanor hunched over the porridge meant for me still replayed in my mind. Even now, I could see the way her shoulders rounded over the wooden table, her hands trembling as blood pooled from her eyes. The smell was faint, barely noticeable, as though it weren’t meant to alarm anyone.

The spoon slipped from her fingers. I remembered the way she looked at me as foam slowly billowed from her mouth. I hadn’t let my body betray me when I swallowed the scream. I wouldn’t let it betray me now.

I had spent years perfecting the art of appearing perfectly well when I was anything but. I could smile through a headache, sit through a long-winded conversation, and listen to people explain my own kingdom to me as though I were a particularly slow child. A little discomfort was nothing, I told myself.

Besides, fear was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I knew better than to believe the danger had passed simply because I had survived. This could have been the work of any number of packs. Enemies were everywhere, waiting for some confirmation that I was dead so they could descend upon Springridge and claim what was never theirs.

My kingdom was small enough to be coveted and prosperous enough to make the coveting worthwhile. Its borders were valuable, its alliances essential, and its queen apparently inconvenient to someone.

I had been inconvenient since the day I was born. Alpha King James, my father, had made me heir at one day old. This was unheard of for wolves. The male line usually took over, but Springridge was mine. Its people were my own, and I would do anything for them, even marrying a foreigner like Adrian Wilde.

Both car doors creaked open, bringing me out of my thoughts.

I leaned forward, peering past the guard beside me. Beyond the sedan, the forest stretched into darkness. A path of bare branches and dying autumn leaves welcomed us. The narrow trail disappeared between the trees before reemerging near a collection of tents in the distance.

Flickering lamplight danced among the tents and the collection of dark vehicles parked along the tree line. Nothing said welcome to your new home quite like a gathering in the woods after dark. I suppressed the urge to laugh at the sheer thought of how absurd this might seem to a normal human.

The air held the promise of rain as I stepped out of the car slowly. Cold slipped beneath my coat and settled against my skin. I drew my arms around myself, resisting the urge to shiver. I looked up at the treetops. The moon was nearly full.

The clouds moved in a hurry, sweeping across the sky without ever quite obscuring her path. Silver light spilled between the branches, illuminating patches of dead leaves and the muddy ground beneath my shoes. Even the clouds respected the goddess herself. At least someone did.

I always found comfort in the moon. At the convent, the sisters taught us that the Moon Goddess watched over our kind, showing herself even in the most desperate of times. I had listened to those lessons for nineteen years. I had prayed beneath her light, recited the old blessings, and bowed my head during every ceremony that required it. Now, more than ever, I needed her.

For all my devotion, I had never received the one thing that bound me to her—my wolf. Not truly, that is.

I glanced at the guards. Neither seemed particularly bothered by the temperature. Then again, neither had spent the last nineteen years in a convent, practically starved of everything beyond its stone walls.

I had been fed, of course. I wasn’t suggesting the sisters had deliberately left me to waste away. But meals were modest, portions measured, and indulgence was considered a vice best avoided. There had been no midnight feasts, no sneaking into the kitchens for warm bread, no sitting beside a fire with a plate of biscuits and the freedom to eat as many as I pleased.

Mrs. Fitz had remedied that particular injustice whenever she could. She had been the only person who understood that a girl could be both a queen and hungry. I missed her already.

Without a sound, my trusted sentinels moved forward, leading me toward the campsite. I followed, lifting my skirts just enough to keep the hem from dragging through the damp earth.

I reminded myself once more that this was the old way. The handover at the border between Wildwood and Springridge had been performed for centuries. The practice seemed ridiculous, but its origins dated back to when our kind still traveled in carriages and were hunted by men, before treaties had been signed or packs had settled into a political order.

Crossing into Wildwood could have ended with a body left in the dirt and one less wolf in the world.

Eventually, our ancestors had established rules. Representatives would meet at designated boundaries. Names and titles would be acknowledged. Travelers would be formally surrendered to the protection of the receiving territory.

And, for reasons no one had ever adequately explained to me, the women of the royal family had developed a ritual to accompany the handover.

Apparently, I was about to discover exactly what that involved. The sisters had never prepared me for this.

The first tent stood to my left, its canvas sides illuminated by the glow of lanterns. Voices drifted from within, accompanied by the clink of glassware and the occasional burst of laughter. Beyond it, servants hurried between vehicles, carrying garment bags and covered trays.

A man in a dark suit bowed as I passed.

“Your Majesty.”

I offered him a gracious smile.

“Good evening.”

He looked startled.

Either people in Wildwood were unaccustomed to being spoken to politely, or they had expected me to be less pleasant. Neither possibility inspired confidence.

We continued along the path until my sentinels reached a larger tent positioned near the center of the camp. Its entrance was framed by two guards in Wildwood uniforms, their insignia embroidered in silver across their chests.

One stepped aside.

“Her Majesty is expected.”

How reassuring. I would have hated to arrive uninvited at my own handover.

My guards exchanged a brief glance before one of them pulled back the tent flap. Something within me stirred. Well, not something. Someone.

The sensation was familiar now, though that didn’t make it any less unsettling. It began as a faint pressure beneath my ribs, a restless movement that seemed to travel through my body without ever quite becoming physical. Sometimes it felt like a whisper calling my name. Other times, like a hand pressing against the inside of my ribs, pushing gently.

My wolf had never awakened on my fourteenth birthday. I remembered the day with humiliating clarity. I’d spent the morning waiting for something extraordinary to happen, convinced that by evening I would finally understand what everyone else seemed to know instinctively.

The other girls had spoken of their awakenings as though they were inevitable. I had waited for it all. Nothing happened. No heightened senses. No rush of power. Only the steady ticking of the clock in my room and the dreadful realization that something was wrong with me.

The sisters had assured me that not every wolf awakened at the same time. Some were late bloomers. Others needed patience, rest, or a stronger connection to the Moon Goddess.

I had prayed to the Moon Goddess until my knees hurt that night. I had followed every instruction. And when nothing changed, I learned to stop reaching out for her.

No one besides the sisters knew I was wolfless. Not my sentinels. Not the handful of officials permitted to visit me during my years at the convent. At least, no one had admitted to knowing.

For the last three years, however, something had changed. I had begun to feel her stirring beneath my skin. I had spent three years learning to ignore the restlessness, the sudden flashes of instinct, and the strange awareness that something inside me was always listening, even when I wasn’t.

I had never told anyone.

A queen without a wolf was a political liability. A queen whose wolf had awakened late might be an object of suspicion. And a queen who couldn’t explain what was happening inside her own body had very little hope of convincing anyone else that she remained in control.

So I had kept quiet. I had smiled when needed. I bowed when allowed. I pretended that everything was exactly as it should be. I was very good at pretending.

“Your Majesty?” One of the guards had noticed my hesitation.

I looked up and smiled. “Forgive me. The cold has made me slower than usual.”

He inclined his head, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

I stepped through the tent flaps.

Warmth enveloped me immediately. The tent was far more elaborate than I’d expected, its canvas walls concealing a space furnished with carpets, upholstered chairs, and polished tables. Golden lanterns hung from the frame above, casting a soft glow over the room. A large mirror stood against one wall, beside a screen of embroidered fabric that separated the main chamber from a smaller dressing area.

The air was heavy with perfume. Women fluttered about everywhere. Courtiers in elegant gowns moved about the tent, speaking in low voices as servants hurried between them. One woman was examining a collection of folded garments. Another held a small silver tray. Two more stood near a table covered with brushes, ribbons, and glass bottles.

Every conversation seemed to pause when I entered. Their eyes traveled over my coat, my hair, my shoes, and finally my face. Some looked curious. Others looked pleased. A few appeared to be trying very hard not to look disappointed.

I wondered what they had expected. A taller queen? A prettier one? Perhaps someone who was just not me. I lifted my chin. If they wanted a spectacle, I could certainly give them one. I could turn back now and walk across the border. I was still a queen in my own right. I didn’t need their judgment, I reminded myself. They needed me.

My eyes roamed over them, and then I saw her. Queen Luna Sophia. The reigning queen of Wildwood sat in a chair near the center of the tent, her posture rigid and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore a deep burgundy gown embroidered with silver thread, the fabric draping elegantly over her knees. A necklace rested against her throat, and a diamond glimmered on her finger whenever she moved her hand.

She was regal in the way women in positions of power often were. Every detail seemed deliberate. Her dark hair was arranged in a smooth, elegant bun, and her makeup was subtle enough to suggest that she required very little of it.

She looked like a woman who had never once been forced to eat cold porridge in a drafty room or wonder if she would get her next meal at all.

“Your Majesty.”

“Charlotte.”

Not Queen Charlotte, just Charlotte. Her voice was warm, though I couldn’t tell whether the warmth was genuine or simply another performance. She rose from her chair and approached me with a smile that revealed no more than it intended.

“Welcome to Wildwood.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. It is an honor to be received by you.”

An honor. Truly, it meant very little to me, but saying those words sounded lovely at the time.

Queen Sophia took my hands briefly, studying my face as though she were searching for something. I wondered whether she was looking for signs that I would rather be anywhere else. If she found anything, she gave no indication.

“You must be tired after your journey.”

“No, Your Majesty. Not really.” I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me admit otherwise.

Her smile widened. “Come,” she said, releasing my hands. “There is much to do before we can formally welcome you into Wildwood.”

Before I could ask what she meant, another woman stepped forward.

“Luna Gabrielle,” she introduced herself, although I already knew who she was.

Gabrielle was married to one of Alpha Prince Adrian’s cousins, which made her my future cousin-in-law, at least in the complicated way royal families understood such things. She was a striking woman with long blonde hair, warm eyes, and the kind of effortless elegance that suggested she had never needed to practice walking in heels.

Beside her stood another woman from Adrian’s extended family. She introduced herself with a polite smile, though the name escaped me almost as soon as she spoke it. There were too many names in the royal family. Too many titles, too many cousins, too many people whose exact relationship to the throne seemed to determine how much space they occupied in a room.

I had spent nineteen years studying the history of royal houses. I could recite the lineage of Springridge’s ruling family back several generations, name the treaties that had shaped our borders, and explain the succession laws that prevented distant relatives from murdering one another for the crown.

In theory, at least. In practice, I had never met most of the people whose names I had memorized.

“We’ll be overseeing your ceremony,” Gabrielle explained.

I glanced between her and Queen Sophia. “My ceremony?”

“The cleansing and dressing ceremony,” the other woman clarified. “It’s an old tradition.”

Of course it was. I was beginning to suspect that if I asked why Wildwood’s royal family ate breakfast at a particular hour, someone would inform me that the custom dated back to a battle fought in the thirteenth century over a moonflower.

Gabrielle continued, apparently oblivious to my thoughts. “Before you enter Wildwood, we must cleanse your skin and dress you in garments provided by the receiving household. It’s a symbolic separation from your former life.”

I looked down at my coat. “My former life?”

“Springridge,” she said gently. “Your old household, your old surroundings. You’re crossing into a new territory, Charlotte. The ceremony marks that transition.”

I understood the symbolism well enough. The border handover transferred me from one royal household to another, and the cleansing ritual represented the beginning of my new life. What I didn’t understand was why I couldn’t simply wash my hands and be done with it.

“Once the ceremony is complete,” Gabrielle continued, “you’ll be received as Wildwood’s future Queen Luna Consort.”

I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what that entailed.

“Come along, dear.” She gestured toward the curtained section at the back of the tent.

I followed her, though not without a brief glance toward Queen Sophia. The queen gave me an encouraging nod. I wasn’t certain whether I found that comforting. The women closed the curtains behind us.

What followed was considerably less dignified than I’d hoped.

They began removing my clothes with the brisk efficiency of women who had performed this ritual countless times before. One reached for the buttons of my coat while another moved to the fastening at the back of my skirts.

I stepped back instinctively. “I can manage on my own.”

“I’m sure you can,” Gabrielle replied pleasantly, reaching for my sleeve. “But tradition requires us to do this for you. It’s an honor for us to prepare the incoming queen.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, dear.”

I looked at the other women. None appeared remotely interested in debating the matter.

I had been raised by nuns, guarded by sentinels, and instructed by people who considered privacy a privilege that could be revoked whenever circumstances required it. I was accustomed to being told what to do. That didn’t mean I had to enjoy it.

Standing completely nude, I crossed my arms over my chest. This was absolutely humiliating, and they didn’t seem bothered at all.

“It’s a little cold in here,” I said.

Gabrielle paused. For a moment, I thought she might laugh.

Instead, she gave me a sympathetic look. “I know it can feel uncomfortable the first time.”

The first time. So there would be another time. Wonderful. A tradition that involved being stripped of one’s clothes in a tent full of strangers, and apparently I was expected to do this again.

I turned toward the screen, keeping my arms folded across myself whenever I could. They worked quickly, their hands brisk and impersonal, as though I were a doll being prepared for a display rather than a person with perfectly reasonable objections. A servant brought forward a basin of warm water and several folded cloths.

“Please stand here,” Gabrielle instructed.

I obeyed.

The women began wiping down my skin with the warm cloths, starting at my shoulders and working carefully down my arms. The process was thorough and accompanied by quiet murmurs I couldn’t quite make out.

I stared at a small embroidered flower on the curtain. I could have been anywhere. But I was a queen standing naked in a tent on the border of two kingdoms, surrounded by women who believed this was perfectly ordinary. I wondered whether the other queens of history had endured the same indignity.

Had Marisa, Queen of Steelfang, ever been subjected to a ceremony she found ridiculous? Had she stood perfectly still while strangers arranged her clothing, her hair, and her future? Perhaps she had. Perhaps every royal woman, regardless of the century in which she lived, eventually discovered that her body could become a matter of public business.

I was beginning to understand why so many queens appeared perpetually exhausted.

When the cleansing was complete, Gabrielle handed me a towel.

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I wrapped the towel around myself. “I shall endeavor to remember the experience fondly for your gentle touch.”

Her lips twitched. “You’ll learn to appreciate our traditions.”

I doubted that very much.

A servant approached with a fresh set of undergarments. The fabric was pale beneath the lantern light. Gabrielle took the bra from the pile and held it open.

“Arms, please.”

I raised my arms.

The bra slipped on, settling against my skin. The fabric was warm and clean, and for a brief moment I was grateful for the simple comfort of it. They adjusted the straps and smoothed the fabric until everything sat properly.

Then Gabrielle turned toward the garments waiting on a nearby stand. She held up a soft rose-pink dress with subtle embroidery along the neckline.

I had never liked pink. Not as a child, not as a teenager, and certainly not now. I couldn’t recall a single occasion on which I’d willingly chosen the color.

There was no arguing that the dress was undoubtedly beautiful, though. Its delicate overlay shimmered softly in the lantern light, and the fabric fell in graceful folds from the waist.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” one of the women remarked as Gabrielle pulled the dress over my head.

I considered telling her the truth. Instead, I smiled. “Lovely.” Another lie for the collection.

“Stand straight,” Gabrielle instructed.

I straightened immediately. She moved behind me and began tightening the bodice. The laces drew the fabric closer around my waist, pulling until the dress fitted snugly against my body.

I inhaled. She tightened it again.

“Not too tight,” I murmured.

“It must sit properly.”

“I’m certain it will sit perfectly well without cutting off my circulation.”

One of the women made a small choking sound. Gabrielle paused, then laughed. It was a genuine laugh, which surprised me more than the dress itself.

“Oh, Charlotte. You have a sharp tongue.”

“Only when necessary.”

“And is this necessary?”

I looked down at the bodice. “At the moment, I’m inclined to say yes.”

Gabrielle shook her head, still smiling, and loosened the laces by the smallest amount. “There. Better?”

I took a careful breath. “Marginally.”

“You’re going to be an interesting addition to this family.”

I wasn’t certain whether that was a compliment.

When the bodice was finally secured, Gabrielle stepped back to inspect her work. She adjusted the neckline, smoothed the fabric at my waist, and tugged gently at the sleeves until everything appeared to satisfy her.

“There,” she declared. “Much better.”

I resisted the urge to ask for whom.

A servant brought over a pair of shoes, and the women helped me into them. They were delicate, pale pink, and entirely unsuited to walking through a muddy forest. I decided not to comment. There were battles worth fighting, and then there were battles that could be postponed until one was no longer standing in the most hideous shoes in a tent on the border of a foreign kingdom.

“Now, your hair,” Gabrielle said.

She guided me toward a chair before reaching for a brush.

My long brown curls fell down my back, tangled slightly from the journey. I had always liked my hair. It was one of the few things about my appearance that had never seemed to invite criticism or correction. The sisters had insisted I keep it tidy, of course, but they had never tried to make it something it wasn’t.

Gabrielle ran her fingers through the curls.

“Such lovely hair.”

“Thank you.”

She began brushing it, working carefully through the knots. I sat quietly, watching her reflection in the mirror as she separated the strands and gathered them behind my head.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

The sounds of the camp drifted through the curtains: footsteps, the distant rumble of a vehicle, and the low murmur of voices. Somewhere outside, a gust of wind rattled the tent canvas.

I wondered how far we were from the actual border. I wondered how many miles separated me from Springridge now, and whether Mrs. Fitz had received the letter I’d left for her. Most of all, I wondered what would happen when I reached Wildwood’s palace.

I had spent nineteen years in a convent, surrounded by stone walls and familiar routines. I knew the smell of the chapel at dawn, the sound of bells marking the hours, and the precise way the afternoon light fell across the courtyard. I knew the sisters who had raised me, the servants who had cared for me, and the handful of people who had been permitted to visit.

But Wildwood was different.

Wildwood was a place I had studied from a distance, a kingdom whose history had been written by people who were now dead and whose present was controlled by people I barely knew. Its court was larger than Springridge’s. Its royal family was more powerful. Its alliances stretched across territories whose rulers had spent centuries competing for influence.

And I was going to marry its Alpha prince. Alpha Prince Adrian.

I had seen his portrait, naturally. There were several portraits of him in the official documents sent to Springridge, each one depicting a handsome young man with a composed expression and an impeccable wardrobe. He looked like a prince. That was the problem with princes. They were trained to look the part long before anyone expected them to play it. I knew very little about the man himself.

I knew his age, his position in the line of succession, and the political responsibilities attached to his title. I knew which charities he supported, which ceremonies he attended, and the names of several organizations he had publicly endorsed. I knew what his advisors wanted me to know.

I had no idea what he was like when no one was watching. Perhaps he was kind. Perhaps he was cruel. Perhaps he was simply a man who had been told he would marry a queen and had decided to make the best of an arrangement neither of us had chosen.

I could hardly blame him for that. The thought did little to settle my nerves.

“You’re very quiet,” Gabrielle observed.

“I was thinking.”

“About the prince?”

I met her gaze in the mirror, refusing to comment.

“Every woman I’ve ever prepared for a royal marriage has worn that exact expression,” Gabrielle said with a smile.

“What expression?”

“The one that suggests she’s wondering whether she might still escape over the border.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “I don’t believe these shoes would get me very far.”

“No, I don’t believe they would.”

I smiled. Gabrielle seemed pleased with herself as she resumed brushing my hair. She gathered the curls into sections and began weaving them into a braid, her fingers moving with practiced ease.

It occurred to me that she might have once sat in a chair much like this one, wearing a dress chosen by someone else, preparing to enter a family that expected her to become someone new. Perhaps she’d hated her dress, too.

“Tell me something, Gabrielle.”

“Of course.”

“Did you enjoy your own handover?”

She considered the question.

“Enjoy it? No. Understand its purpose? Eventually.”

“That sounds reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be reassuring.”

I glanced at her reflection. She smiled faintly.

“Royal life is full of things we do because they are expected of us. Some are foolish. Some are necessary. The trick is learning which is which.”

“And which category does this ceremony belong to?”

“That depends on whom you ask.”

“How convenient.”

“Very.”

She finished braiding my hair and secured it with a ribbon. The braid lay neatly against my back, pulling my curls away from my face.

I barely recognized myself.

The woman in the mirror wore a pink dress, delicate shoes, and an expression of perfect composure. She looked like the sort of queen who would spend her days attending garden parties and her evenings dancing beneath crystal chandeliers. She did not look like someone who had spent nineteen years being raised by the sisters, surrounded by stone walls and strict routines. She most certainly did not look like someone who had watched a woman collapse beside a bowl of porridge and wondered whether she would be next.

I smiled at my reflection. Mrs. Fitz would have been proud.

“There,” Gabrielle said, securing the last ribbon. “Now you look ready.”

Ready for what, I thought to myself.

“Thank you.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “You’re welcome, Charlotte.”

For the first time since entering the tent, I felt something close to gratitude toward her. She had been brisk, certainly, and the dress remained an unforgivable shade of pink, but she had at least spoken to me as though I were a person rather than an object being prepared for delivery. It was a small kindness. I had learned to appreciate those.

The curtains parted, and Queen Sophia approached. She had changed nothing about her appearance, yet somehow her presence seemed to alter the atmosphere of the room. The other women straightened as she approached, and the conversations that had resumed during my dressing faded once more.

She looked me over, taking in the dress, the braid, and the shoes.

“Beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Ready to begin my new life.”

The words came easily.

Sophia held my gaze for a moment, and I wondered whether she recognized the lie. She was a queen, after all. She had likely spent years surrounded by people who smiled while concealing their true intentions. If she saw through me, she gave no indication. Instead, she held out her hand.

“Come, Charlotte.”

I placed mine in hers. Her fingers were warm, her grip firm without being uncomfortable. She led me through the tent, past the courtiers who had gathered to witness my transformation.

Their gazes followed me. I could feel them assessing the way I walked. Some looked curious, others approving. I wondered whether they were discussing the color of the dress through the pack link. If they were, I hoped they disliked it as much as I did.

A queen could not afford to look uncomfortable, especially not when everyone was watching. So I smiled. I smiled because I had been taught that a queen’s expression could become the subject of an entire day’s gossip. And I smiled because, somewhere beneath my ribs, my wolf was stirring again. It was a strange sensation, like standing beside a door and knowing that someone on the other side was waiting for me to open it.

I flexed my free hand. Not now. I had no intention of allowing my wolf to become the center of attention on my first night in Wildwood. I had enough to worry about.

Queen Sophia guided me toward the tent entrance, where the canvas flaps had been pulled aside. The night air swept in, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant rain.

Outside, the moon shone between the clouds. I looked up at her. For a moment, I imagined that the goddess was watching me, observing the procession as I crossed the threshold into my new life. I wondered what she thought of me. A queen without a fully awakened wolf. Perhaps the goddess was amused. Perhaps she was disappointed.

I drew a slow breath. The cold filled my lungs.

“Charlotte,” Sophia said gently.

I looked at her.

“You are now entering Wildwood territory. You leave Springridge behind you, along with the life you have known. From this moment forward, you must learn to embrace the life awaiting you here.”

I stared at her for a moment. “And what if the life awaiting me isn’t one I want?”

The question escaped before I could stop it.

For the first time, Sophia’s expression changed. Only slightly, but I caught it. A brief tightening around her eyes. Then she smiled.

“Wanting and needing are rarely the same thing, my dear.”

There it was again. A royal answer that said absolutely everything and nothing at all.

I drew another breath and nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

She gave my hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.

“Welcome to Wildwood, Charlotte.”

I gathered the pink skirts around my legs and followed Sophia toward the waiting vehicles. Guards stood stationed along the path, their dark uniforms illuminated by lanterns hanging from the tent poles. Beyond them, the forest stretched into the night, its branches swaying in the rising wind.

One of the guards stepped forward and opened the rear door of a waiting car.

“This way, Your Highness.”

I paused.

Your Highness. Not Your Majesty.

It was a small distinction, but a deliberate one. In Springridge, I had been addressed as queen since before I could speak. In Wildwood, I was the future Queen Consort, the bride-to-be, the woman who would enter another royal family through marriage.

My crown had not crossed the border with me. Not in the eyes of these people, at least. All evening, they had been testing my reactions, but I was still a queen.

I gathered my skirts and lowered myself into the car, careful not to catch the hem in the door. The interior smelled faintly of leather and cedar, and the seats were considerably more comfortable than those in the vehicle that had brought me through the forest. I settled back against the cushion and smoothed my dress over my knees.

Then I looked up.

Three familiar faces stared back at me.

For a moment, I forgot the cold, the uncomfortable dress, and the weight of the crown I’d carried since infancy. I knew these girls. I’d known them since childhood. And judging by the expressions on their faces, they were just as surprised to see me as I was to see them.