Cursed Crowns

by Catherine Doyle, Katherine Webber

Genres: YA Wizards & Witches; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

The second book in the swoony and high-stakes fantasy rom-com series that began with Twin Crowns, about twin princesses separated at birth—from bestselling authors Catherine Doyle and Katherine Webber.

Twin queens Wren and Rose have claimed their crowns…but not everyone is happy about witches sitting on Eana’s throne.

Coolheaded Rose plans a royal tour to establish goodwill throughout the kingdom. But Wren balks—how can they gallivant around Eana when their grandmother Banba is imprisoned in Gevra?

Impatient Wren steals away on a ship to the icy north, where King Alarik offers a deadly magical bargain in exchange for Banba’s freedom. Desperate, Wren agrees. But her spell has unexpected consequences….

Meanwhile, when Rose's royal tour is interrupted by a mysterious stranger claiming to be from the long-lost Sunkissed Kingdom, the strands of destiny pull her south to the ancient Amarach Towers, where only the Seers of Eana know why the Restless Sands are erupting—and why Shen-Lo himself might hold the key.

But back in Anadawn, rebellion is brewing. And if Eana is to stand a chance at peace, the sisters will need to reunite once more and convince their people to forsake old loyalties for new ones.

Release date: May 9, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 512

Sample

Wren

Wren Greenrock’s crown was too tight. The band squeezed her temples, pressing into her skull. She tried not to wince as she stood on the balcony at Anadawn Palace beside her twin sister, looking out over the kingdom they had fought so hard to claim. Wren still couldn’t quite believe it was hers. Or at least half of it was. She and Rose had agreed to share it.

Still, her nerves were frayed. She had been worrying about this moment all morning, steeling herself for the worst. Given the events of the last few days, which had seen the unfortunate death of Rose’s betrothed, Prince Ansel of Gevra, on their wedding day, followed swiftly by the welcome demise of Willem Rathborne, their traitorous Kingsbreath, Wren hadn’t been expecting a big turnout, or even a positive one, but a jubilant sea of people had gathered just beyond the golden gates. Revelers from the nearby town of Eshlinn and beyond had come to wish the twins well on their coronation day. The crowd was so large it stretched all the way back to the woods. Thousands of grinning faces peered up at the white palace, their cheers rising on the summer breeze. They had come to celebrate Wren and Rose, the new twin queens of Eana.

The twins, for their part, stood on the balcony, bedecked in their finest gowns and brand-new crowns, absorbing their adoration like sunlight. Together, they glowed like a beacon—the promise of a new era, in which the witches and non-magical folk of Eana would live side by side in harmony, and all the old superstitions and festering mistrust would finally be laid to rest. It was a day of promise and possibility. Or at least it would have been if Wren’s head hadn’t been pounding like a drum.

“Stop scowling,” said Rose out of the side of her mouth. “They’ll think you’re unhappy.”

Wren glanced sidelong at her sister. Rose’s smile was full and gleaming. It had been perfectly fixed in place for almost an hour. She had been waving for just as long, too, her hand raised high above her head, so every man, woman, and child below could see it and know they were welcome. Cherished. Rose was a natural at this. She had been born for it.

Wren had never felt more like a novice in her life. Her smile had come easily at first, her surprise at hearing the cheers as they opened the doors to the balcony filling her with a rush of relief. But now her energy was waning. She had smiled and waved for so long her arm was exhausted. She was exhausted. It was no wonder. After all, she had grown up among the witches on the windswept beaches of Ortha in the west, far from the pomp and ceremony of Anadawn Palace and all the patience and decorum expected of a princess. “How long do we have to stand out here for?” she hissed. “All this waving is making me ravenous. And my head hurts.”

Rose grabbed Wren’s free hand. She squeezed, and a warm pulse traveled up Wren’s arm. Healing magic. A heartbeat later, Wren’s headache was gone.

“There.” Rose blew out a breath as she released her. “No more complaining.”

Wren refixed her smile and returned to waving. Her head felt better but her chest was still tight. Despite her healing magic, Rose couldn’t mend her sister’s heartache. It bloomed like a dark flower inside Wren, reminding her of Banba. Barely a day had passed since her steel-eyed, fearless grandmother had been taken from the burning Protector’s Vault by King Alarik and his ruthless Gevran soldiers. She had been hauled onto a ship before Wren could get to her. The memory of that awful moment plagued Wren’s every waking thought now, the unfairness of it writhing inside her like a snake.

Wren had become queen, just as her grandmother had always wanted, but Banba wasn’t here to see it. Wasn’t here to help her. Instead, King Alarik, the young, feral king from the northern continent, who harbored a dark fascination with witches, had taken her prisoner. But Wren intended to change that. She had made a vow to herself—and to Rose—that she was going to find a way to rescue her grandmother from the icy maw of Gevra.

Just as soon as she’d finished smiling and waving.

Wren caught the moment Rose’s gaze flickered down to the courtyard, where Shen Lo was reclining along the edge of the fountain that marked the

entryway to the inner palace. He had one arm slung over his forehead to keep the sun from his eyes, the other drifting in the crystalline water.

Wren could tell by his smirk that he wasn’t sleeping. She didn’t have to see his eyes to know he was enjoying the spectacle of Rose glowing in her natural habitat. And Wren squirming like a fish out of water.

“Wren, look!” squealed Rose, grabbing her sister’s hand again. “They’re throwing flowers over the gates!”

Wren looked up just in time to see a bright red rose land in the courtyard. And then another, and another. There was an entire bouquet scattered along the stones—pinks and yellows and reds and purples—and still more sailing over the gates. “Roses,” said Wren with a chuckle. “They really do love you.”

“They’ll love you, too,” said Rose, blowing a kiss to the crowd. A cheer went up. Rose did an elaborate twirl, garnering another. “Just as soon as they properly get to know you.”

“As long as they don’t start flinging dead wrens over the walls.”

“Oh, don’t be so morose.”

Wren made a show of blowing a kiss to the crowd. More whoops and hollers rang out. Down in the courtyard, Shen was laughing, his teeth winking in the afternoon sun.

“This really is too easy,” said Wren, blowing another kiss. “Maybe I should do a cartwheel.”

Rose grabbed her sister’s elbow. “Don’t you dare!”

Wren burst into laughter.

Just then, the crowd surged forward, causing the gates to groan. Arms threaded through the golden railings, grasping for more space, as a single rotten tomato sailed over the spires. It soared as if in slow motion, getting bigger as it came toward them. Thankfully, it fell short of the balustrade and landed in the courtyard with a determined splat.

A ragged shout rose above the cheers. “OUT WITH THE WITCHES!”

Down in the courtyard, Shen jolted upright.

Rose’s smile faltered.

Wren stopped waving. “I think we’re done for the day.”

“Ignore it,” said Rose, quickly regaining her composure. “It’s one tomato.”

“Two,” said Wren as another rotten piece of fruit vaulted over the gates. She watched Shen flit across the courtyard, trying to spot the protester among the masses, or perhaps to discern if there was more than one. The crowd was still surging forward, as though something—or someone—was pushing them.

When the second tomato landed in the fountain, Rose stepped back from the balcony. “Very well,” she said, blowing one last theatrical kiss to the crowd. Another cheer went up, drowning out the next shout, but Wren swore she could hear the word “witch” on the wind. The twins retreated from the balcony, both of them making a show of laughing gaily until they returned to the sanctity of the throne room, where the balcony doors slammed

shut behind them.

They stopped laughing in the same breath.

“Well, that was concerning,” said Wren.

Rose wrinkled her nose. “What a waste of perfectly good food.”

“I knew all those cheers were too good to be true.” Wren scraped her hands through her hair, dislodging her crown. There. Much better. “Eana doesn’t want to be ruled by witches, Rose. Even one they know.”

Rose waved her concerns away. “Oh, please. That little protest wasn’t even enough to make a bowl of soup. There’s no need to be so dramatic.”

But Wren couldn’t help it. Without Banba here, everything felt twisted, wrong. There was a pit in her stomach, and those four simple words—OUT WITH THE WITCHES—were only making it worse.

“I’m just trying to be realistic.” Wren’s footsteps echoed after her as she marched to her throne. The room was the biggest in the entire palace, the ceiling covered in shining gold leaf. The walls were hung with gilt-framed oil paintings and emerald drapes adding the barest sliver of warmth to the chamber. A couple of hours ago, it had been teeming with envoys and nobles from every corner of the country—as well as the Ortha witches—but it was empty now, save for the twins and the guards standing watch over them.

Wren sank onto the velvet seat and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to calm her rioting thoughts. Willem Rathborne might be dead, but he had left them a legacy of problems. Their evil Kingsbreath had spent eighteen years preaching the same hate as the kingdom’s long-dead Protector and poisoning the country against the witches. Wren and Rose would have to do more than wave from a balcony for a few hours to hope to undo all of it. And until they did, the witches who had come from Ortha only days ago would have to remain at Anadawn, where they could be protected from those in the kingdom who still wished them harm.

Wren massaged the new ache in her temples. If their grandmother were here, she would know exactly what to do. She would lay her hand on Wren’s shoulders and strengthen her with a few choice words, as only Banba could.

“You’re thinking about Banba, aren’t you?” Suddenly, Rose was before Wren, wearing the same look of concern. “No wonder you’re so anxious. I told you, we’re going to get her back.”

“When?” said Wren impatiently. “How?”

“I’m going to write a strategic letter to King Alarik. Monarch to monarch,” said Rose with such sureness Wren dared to hope it might work. “I imagine emotions are still running high after the death of poor Ansel.” Rose flinched at the mention of the prince, no doubt recalling how desperately she had tried to save him, only to fail. “Perhaps a little diplomacy—and a well-worded apology—will do a world of good. I’ll see if he’s willing to open some kind of negotiation for Banba’s release. Once the crowd disperses, I’ll go down to the mews at once.” 

“I’ll come with you.”

“I’d rather you left the diplomacy to me.” Rose patted her sister’s hand. “A queen you might be, but it is going to take awhile for you to learn what it means to be royal.”

Wren glared up at her sister. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I can see that dagger peeking out of your bodice and I know you’ve got another one fastened to your ankle,” said Rose good-naturedly. “And in this delicate negotiation, my darling sister, the quill will be far mightier than the sword.”

“Fine. But if you’re wrong and something happens to Banba, I’m going to drive a big shiny sword through Alarik Felsing’s frosted heart.”

“Oh, Wren, I am never wrong.” Rose picked up her skirts and flounced away, tossing a winning smile over her shoulder.

Rose

An hour or so later, after composing her letter to King Alarik, Rose held her head high as she strode through the palace corridors. She nodded and smiled at passing servants and soldiers, pretending everything was going perfectly to plan. Pretending her reign wasn’t off to a truly terrible start.

Back in the throne room, she’d put on a brave face for Wren, whose temper was always flickering inside her, ready to erupt into a blaze. But as the day wore on, Rose could feel the cold tongue of her fear licking at her toes, and she knew if she let herself give in to it, it would devour her.

So she would simply kick the fear away. As she had always done.

Now that the crowd had dispersed, she needed air and a moment to pull herself together. It was beginning to feel like the stone walls of Anadawn were closing in on her, like if she didn’t get out of the palace immediately, she’d be trapped inside it forever.

She pushed on the door that led out to the courtyard, only for it to refuse to budge. Rose bit her tongue to stop herself from screaming out in frustration. She winced as she shoved it with her shoulder. With one strong push, it groaned open. And then, at last, she was outside, in the fresh afternoon air.

Rose wandered into her garden, at once calmed by the familiar sweetness of her roses. They were at their peak now, bursting into bloom all over, as if each one was trying to outdo the next. She lingered at a vibrant yellow rose bush and closed her eyes, inhaling its scent.

“Lucky flowers,” said a voice right behind her. “I wish you’d smile at me like that.”

Rose yelped, lost her footing, and nearly toppled into the thorns.

Strong hands caught her waist. “Careful, Majesty.”

For a blissful moment, Rose allowed herself to lean into Shen Lo, resting her head on the hard planes of his chest, breathing him in as she had her roses. Then she came to her senses and stepped away from him.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people that way,” she chided.

“And you shouldn’t close your eyes to your surroundings when you’re out here all by yourself,” said Shen. “Surely, I taught you better than that, Majesty.”

“Perhaps I need more lessons,” said Rose coyly. “And anyway, it’s my rose garden. I’m as safe as can be out here.”

“Well, you are now.” Shen stuck his hands in his pockets, where Rose assumed he had stashed at least three daggers, and flashed a grin that made her knees weak. It was hard to forget they had shared their first kiss in this very place.

And then the following day, Shen had kissed her again, in the heat of battle in the Protector’s Vault, though they hadn’t spoken of it since. They had built a wall around that morning, both of them dutifully pretending that Rose hadn’t almost married Prince Ansel, that the dagger Willem Rathborne had thrown at Wren hadn’t ended up in the prince’s heart, causing him to bleed out in Rose’s arms. Sometimes Rose wondered if she had imagined that brazen kiss. She had certainly allowed herself to imagine many others in the time since.

Shen’s smile faded. “Are you all right? The shouting in the crowd this morning . . .”

“I’m fine,” said Rose, the lie sour in her mouth. She turned from temptation and walked into the garden. Better to look at her roses than into Shen’s eyes. After all, she had come out here to gather herself, not unravel in his arms. He fell into step with her. “What are you still doing out here anyway?”

“I was thinking about picking you a bouquet. Is it bad luck to gift a queen her own flowers on her coronation day?”

“Yes.” Rose chuckled as she looked up at him. “Why do I feel like that isn’t the full truth?”

“All right, maybe I was walking the ramparts. Scanning every face in that crowd to see who was out there throwing rotten fruit at you. I like

 to know who my enemies are.”

“Shen, really, it was just a tomato or two.”

“That’s how it starts,” he said darkly. “Dissent is dangerous. A protester today could be a rebel tomorrow.”

“It’s early yet,” said Rose, as much to herself as to Shen. “Wren and I will win them over.”

Shen huffed a sigh. He lifted one of her curls with his finger, settling it behind her ear. “You are good at that,” he murmured.

Rose grinned. “I know.”

“I just can’t help—”

“Worrying?”

He winked. “I’m not used to worrying, Rose. It doesn’t suit me.”

“Nor me.” She took his hand in hers. “Can’t we set our worries aside and just enjoy today?”

“That’s all I want.” Shen gently tugged her toward him. He was so close now she could see every shade of brown in his dark eyes, the freckle above his brow that she’d somehow never noticed before. “To enjoy this.”

Rose bit her lip. Suddenly, she was feeling dangerously light-headed. “It’s the middle of the day,” she said, a little breathless. “If people saw us together . . .”

“They would think we’re . . . fond of each other.” He dipped his chin. “Is that so bad, Rose?”

“Yes,” she whispered, but she couldn’t quite remember why. All sensible thoughts eddied out of her mind until she could feel nothing but want pulsing between them, then Shen’s arms around her waist, his breath warm on her cheek, his lips nearly brushing against hers—

The bell in the clock tower chimed and Rose jolted backward. The world came crashing in once more, and, with it, the swell of her duties. For goodness’ sake, she was a queen now, not some lovestruck, desert-stranded princess. And she had made a promise to Wren. “I’m afraid I have to visit the mews. It can’t wait.”

Shen’s shoulders slumped. “Then I’ll resume my patrol.”

“There are hundreds of soldiers at Anadawn,” Rose reminded him. “You can take a rest, you know.”

He curled his fists. “Not until every tomato in this land is hunted down and destroyed.”

They dissolved into laughter, Rose threading her arm through his as he walked her down to the mews, both of them pretending that the woes of the past were behind them and the future was theirs for the taking.

Dear King Alarik,

I would like to convey my deepest condolences on the regrettable death of your brother, Prince Ansel, who was a dear friend to my sister and me, and to our country. As you must now be aware, our grandmother Banba was taken—mistakenly, I’m sure—by one of your soldiers in the kerfuffle, and she is very much missed here at Anadawn. Perhaps we can discuss the terms of her imminent return? Despite everything that has happened between our great countries, I believe there is a world in which Eana and Gevra can be allies once more. I hope very much that you agree.

Yours sincerely,

Her Majesty Queen Rose Valhart of Eana

Wren

Thirteen days after the twins’ coronation, when roses and rotten fruit had been hurled over the golden gates, Wren, dressed no less finely in a sweeping violet gown embroidered with golden thread, and with her crown still digging into her scalp, found herself back in the throne room.

“You’re slouching,” said Rose, who had been sitting ramrod straight all morning, and yet somehow still possessed the composure of a queen in an oil painting.

“I’m trying to take a subtle nap,” said Wren without bothering to stifle her yawn. Last night, she had dreamed of Banba again. Her sleep had been fitful, her every thought haunted by visions of her grandmother, frail and suffering, all alone in Gevra. Back at Ortha, Banba had spent years teaching Wren to be brave in the face of danger, to be clever and resourceful, but she had never taught Wren how to face a world without her grandmother at her side. That was a fear Wren was not able to conquer. It plagued her even as she slept.

Rose pinched her hand, jolting her awake.

“Ow! Don’t harm the queen,” snapped Wren.

“Then start acting like one,” said Rose. “Today is important.”

Over the last two weeks, Wren had come to learn that every day as a queen was important. Especially as a queen of a new world that welcomed the witches, that saw them not just as equals, but as integral to the prosperity of the kingdom. There was much to do, and untangling the ancient tapestry of Eana from the threads of anti-witch sentiment that had been stitched into it under the legacy of the Great Protector was no easy task. The Kingsbreath, Willem Rathborne, although dead, had cast a long shadow over Anadawn. There were hundreds of laws to discard. Treaties to assess, territories to resettle, and new edicts to sign. Proclamations to make. Governors to appoint.

Governors to fire.

Eana was home to the witches again. No. Eana belonged to the witches, and yet most of them were still sheltering at Anadawn Palace. It was Wren’s and Rose’s solemn duty to restore the kingdom to its former glory without the bloodshed and conflict that had once destroyed it, so that their kin could venture safely beyond the golden palace gates and make their lives in whatever part of the country they wished to. It was busy work. Hard work.

And then there was today.

As part of a monthly tradition established centuries ago by King Thormund Valhart and insisted upon by Chapman, the scurrying palace steward, the twin queens were holding their first-ever Kingdom’s Call. An entire day dedicated to personally receiving visitors (and, more often than not, their complaints) from every corner of Eana.

Already the new queens had presided over a lengthy land dispute between rival farmers in the Errinwilde, had approved a delivery of six hundred barrels of grain for the sprawling town of Norbrook, and had appointed no less than fourteen new governors to preside over the various provinces of Eana. They had also received formal banquet invitations from almost every noble family in the country and had even welcomed a missive from the neighboring country of Caro, whose queen, Eliziana, had sent her warmest wishes, alongside three crates of summer wine and a beautiful olive tree, which now stood proudly on the throne room balcony.

And yet, despite such well-received gifts, the only royal Wren truly wished to hear from was continuing his infuriating silence. Despite Rose’s diplomatic letter to King Alarik—and the further three that had followed it—the Gevran king had yet to respond. For all Wren knew, Banba was already dead. The very thought made her want to run all the way to Gevra and rip that feral king apart with her bare hands.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” said Rose encouragingly. “I’ve asked Cam to make his delicious beef stew again. It’s your favorite.”

Wren picked at her nails. “So long as there’s wine.”

Whoops and hollers reached her from the courtyard, the familiar trill of Rowena’s laugh finding her through the open window. Over the last two weeks, the witches of Ortha had made themselves at h

ome at Anadawn Palace, much to the chagrin of the servants and more than a few guards. Wren caught a glimpse of her friend’s tempest magic now as Rose’s favorite ballgown floated across the balcony like a ghost.

A laugh sprang from Wren, earning her an admonishing glare from her sister.

“For the hundredth time, Wren, can you please tell Rowena to stop treating Anadawn as her personal fairground? And what is she doing in my closet? She shouldn’t even be in my room!”

Thea, Banba’s wife, who was attending the Kingdom’s Call in her new role as the Queensbreath, sighed. “I sent Rowena and Bryony to pick apples in the orchard hours ago. I thought if they could find a way of putting their magic to use around here, it would go a long way to helping them fit in.”

The ghostly dress began to cartwheel as the wind picked up. “I don’t think they care about fitting in,” said Wren, who desperately wanted to be outside cartwheeling, too. “How many more people do we have to see before lunch?”

Rose looked to Chapman.

The steward’s finely curated moustache twitched as he glanced at his never-ending scroll. “Just twelve. Wait, no. Thirteen. The Morwell family have put in a last-minute request for an audience. They wish to raise a dispute with their farrier. They suspect he’s been stealing horseshoes.”

Wren closed her eyes. “Rose. I am losing the will to live.”

“Do try to salvage it,” said Chapman pointedly. “The Morwells have long been allies of the throne and are a family of considerable influence here in Eshlinn.”

“Archer Morwell,” said Wren, suddenly recalling the name. She snapped her eyes open. “I’m sure Celeste knows one of their sons. Rather well, if I remember correctly. Apparently, he has very impressive shoulders.”

“Wren!” hissed Rose. “That is entirely improper throne room conversation!”

“Oh, calm down. No one cares.” Wren swept her hand around, indicating the ten bored-looking soldiers in their midst. Captain Davers, the stern-faced head of the royal guard, was standing sentry by the doorway, keeping a watchful eye over the proceedings. And then there was only Thea, who was making a valiant effort to stifle her chuckle at the mention of Rose’s best friend’s dalliance.

Chapman cleared his throat awkwardly. “Onward.” He glanced at his scroll. “Captain Davers, send in the messenger from Gallanth, please.” A moment later, the doors to the throne room swung open, and a boy with unkempt black hair and a paltry goatee was ushered in.

He bowed at the waist. “Your Majesties,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I, er, well, firstly, congratulations, on, um, well, there being two of you, I suppose, and, uh, well, we in the city of Gallanth are most honored to—”

“Please get to the point,” Wren called out.

Rose swatted her hand.

“Sorry,” said Wren

quickly. “I only meant that you can drop the pleasantries.”

Rose offered the nervous messenger a beatific smile. “Though we do so appreciate the good wishes. Thank you, sir.”

“What of Gallanth?” prompted Wren, picturing in her mind the sunset city that lay to the west of the desert, its mighty clock tower rising high above its sandstone walls.

“It’s not Gallanth.” The boy swept the hair from his eyes. “It’s the desert. It’s moving.”

“The desert is always moving,” said Wren. “That’s why we call it the Restless Sands.”

“Only it’s not just restless,” the boy went on. “It’s more . . . um, angry?”

The twins exchanged a look. “Angry?” they chorused.

“It’s the sand . . . it’s started spilling over our walls,” the boy went on. “Every so often, it comes like a wave and floods our city. It’s buried half the Kerrcal trading route.”

“Goodness.” Rose pressed a hand to her chest. “Has anyone been hurt?”

“We’ve lost camels. My father’s best mule was swept away. And it’s swallowed the huts closest to the border.”

Wren glanced at Thea. The healer was unusually grim-faced. “Peculiar,” she muttered. “The desert has always kept to its own rhythm, but it’s never encroached on the Kerrcal Road before. Nor has it breached the border towns.”

“We must send someone out there to investigate,” said Rose.

Chapman frowned. “The Ganyeve Desert is beyond Anadawn’s reach. It’s unsurvivable.”

“Not to everyone,” said Rose, and Wren knew she was thinking of Shen, who was somewhere close at hand. Drinking wine in the kitchens with Cam and Celeste, most likely, or perhaps he was training Tilda, the youngest warrior witch, out in the courtyard. In any case, they would have to tell him of this as soon as possible. After all, Shen was desert-born. He knew the currents of the sand better than anyone. If something was amiss in the Ganyeve, he would want to know of it.

“And in the meantime,” Rose went on, “we’ll send as many soldiers as we can spare back to Gallanth with you. You’ll need to reinforce the town walls and erect new lodgings, as far from the desert boundary as you can.” She nodded to Captain Davers. “See that the guards check on the town of Dearg as well. They’re part of the desert trading route, after all, and if memory serves me, their walls are lower. Their risk is even greater.”

Davers dipped his chin. “I’ll see to it, Queen Rose.”

“Wise as ever,” said Chapman approvingly.

Not for the first time that day, Wren felt woefully out of her depth. She was grateful for her sister, who was not only born to rule but had prepared for it. Committed her life to it. Wren had committed hers to Banba. Her grandmother had been preparing for this queendom for the last eighteen years, after all. Wren had only ever planned as far as her coronation day. She had always expected Banba to be there for that moment, and all the ones that came after, for her guiding hand to sit heavy on Wren’s shoulder. Back a

t Ortha, they would talk about it most mornings when they walked the cliffs, tending to their vegetables. And sometimes late at night, when the beach fires burned low, and it felt like their dreams of the future were dancing in the smoke.

We will rule the new world together, little bird, Banba used to promise her. We will bring our people home at last, and the great witch, Eana, will smile down on us from the skies.

The longer Wren went on without her grandmother, the more her guilt grew. It gnawed at the very edges of her heart, whispered to her in the quiet of night. If King Alarik didn’t respond to Rose soon, she would have to take matters into her own hands. To forsake the pen and use the sword instead.

After all, Banba would do the same for her.

There is no weapon sharp enough to keep us apart, little bird. No world cruel enough to deny our destinies.

The boy from Gallanth left, and, just as quickly, another messenger arrived. And after that, another, and another, and another. And then, finally, there was silence.

“Ah,” said Rose, smiling at the ornate grandfather clock. “I believe it’s time for lunch.”

“How about a working lunch?” said Chapman, who, to Wren’s utter dismay, unfurled another scroll. “I thought it might be prudent to discuss plans for the upcoming royal tour.”

“Can’t it wait?” said Wren, who was already halfway to the door.

Rose blushed at her own grumbling stomach. “I’m afraid I’m far too famished to even think about the royal tour right now, Chapman.”

Chapman opened his mouth to protest when the doors flew open, and a harried-looking soldier rushed in. He went straight to Captain Davers, both of them muttering in low, urgent tones, until Rose interrupted the men to insist they address the entire room, and indeed the queens that stood within it.

“There’s a protest in Eshlinn,” explained the soldier. “They’ve set fire to the mill.” He glanced at Davers. “We’ve had word it was organized by Barron. He was overheard spouting about it just yesterday in the Howling Wolf.”

Rose frowned. “What kind of protest?”

The soldier gulped. “A protest against the crown.”

“You mean a protest against the witches,” said Wren.

The soldier’s eyes darted as he looked between them. Then at Thea. Wren got the sense he was uncomfortable, not because of the protest in Eshlinn but by his presence here, among the very witches he had been taught his entire life to fear.

Coward, she thought viciously.

“Well,” said Captain Davers, stepping into the conversation, “these days, they are one and the same, are they not? It stands to reason that there would be some people in Eshlinn, and indeed throughout Eana, who wish to remain loyal to the old ways.”

“Of hating and harming defenseless witches, you mean?” said Wren.

Captain Davers raised his chin, meeting the challenge in her gaze. “Witchcraft

is as strong a weapon as any. That is simply the truth.”

“An unhelpful one,” said Wren, deciding in that moment that she disliked him, too.

“That’s quite enough,” said Rose impatiently. “Who is this Barron, and what precisely does he want?”

“That would be Sir Edgar Barron,” said Chapman, his frown deepening. “You might recall he was the governor of Eshlinn, appointed by the Kingsbreath some years ago. Indeed, he trained under Captain Davers in the royal guard before his promotion. It was his job to keep a wary eye out for signs of . . . well, witchcraft. He was, shall we say, highly devoted to his job.”

“And then we fired him,” said Wren, recalling the name, among many others who had met with the same fate the day after their coronation. “Mere days after we killed Rathborne, Barron’s benefactor.”

Captain Davers stiffened. “Succinctly put.”

Rose folded her arms. “Why can’t these men ever just go quietly? I mean, truly, take up candle making or carpentry. There are plenty of honorable ways to make a living that don’t involve killing innocent people.”

Wren was about to point out the irony of saying such a thing to Captain Davers, a man who had once supported a war against the witches, but she was startled by a loud crack! from outside.

“Oh, that wayward Rowena.” Thea groaned, getting to her feet. “I’ll see to her.”

The old witch had barely taken a step when a scream rang out. Wren leaped up from her throne, just in time to see a flaming arrow vault over the gates. It landed in the courtyard, releasing a plume of acrid smoke. She rushed to the window.

“What’s happening?” said Rose shrilly, as two more flaming arrows soared over the gates. Wren could see an angry crowd had gathered just beyond them.

“Goodness,” said Thea. “I’d call this more than a protest.”

“Captain Davers!” cried Rose. “Why on earth are you still standing there? Arrest those miscreants before one of their arrows strikes someone in my courtyard!”

“At once, Queen Rose.” The captain spun on his bootheel, barking orders to his soldiers as he left the throne room.

Wren frantically scanned the courtyard. The witches had retreated inside but she caught sight of Shen, who was running toward the commotion rather than away from it. He had already scaled the outer wall and was treading along the ramparts now. His head was low, his gaze fixed on the gathering below. They were yelling now, sending shouts of guttural fury along with each arrow.

Another flaming arrow sailed over the gate, this one higher and brighter than the one before it. The air turned hazy and gray as Davers and his soldiers rushed out of the palace with their swords drawn.

The crowd began to disperse, but not before another arrow flew. This one sailed through the courtyard and struck the balcony window. Wren

 shouted in fury as it exploded in a shower of sparks, setting the olive tree ablaze. Smoke streamed in through the open window, making her cough.

“Get back!” Thea pulled her away from the glass, offering a quick pulse of healing magic to settle the spasm in her lungs. “Keep your wits about you, Wren.”

Wren exhaled through her nose, trying to control her anger.

“CHAPMAN!” Rose’s voice rang out as she stalked across the throne room. “This Edgar Barron. Is he known to you?”

Chapman tore his gaze from the window, his eyes wide with horror. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said breathlessly. “Or indeed he was.”

“Good. I want you to bring him to us,” she commanded. “At once.”

Rose

Rose sat by the window in the drawing room at Anadawn Palace and reminded herself that she was queen. That her people loved her. That she was a capable ruler. That everything was going to be fine. Better than fine. Everything was going to be wonderful. She had a vision for the future of her kingdom, a world in which the witches and non-magical folk lived side by side in harmony, and she was not about to let a man like Edgar Barron—or any man for that matter—get in her way.

But a queen shouldn’t have sweaty palms, whispered a voice in her head.

Or a racing heart.

Or a stomach tied up in knots.

Ping! An F-sharp interrupted her anxiety. She looked over her shoulder.

Wren was walking her fingers and up and down the pianoforte, creating a clumsy melody. “This stupid thing is out of tune.”

“You’re the one out of tune,” said Rose. “Perhaps you should take lessons.”

Shen, who was standing by the door doing his best impression of an official palace soldier, snorted. A lock of black hair had come loose from its leather strap, and there was a fresh graze on his cheek from when he had chased down the palace assailants days ago, but apart from that, he looked completely fine. Better than fine. He looked irresistibly and irritatingly dashing. “If you’ve ever tried to teach Wren anything, then you’ll know she doesn’t take kindly to instruction. Or rhythm.”

Wren stuck her tongue out. “You’re fired.”

“I don’t work for you.” Shen must have sensed Rose staring at him, because he met her gaze and held it, the heat of it making her pulse race. She snapped her chin down and fiddled with the hem of her sleeve as he surrendered his post and crossed the room. Her heart hitched as he leaned against the window ledge, the warmth of his body easing the trembling in her bones. His smile was easy, but there was concern brewing in his dark eyes. ...