That . . . doesn’t sound like a good sign.

She’d expected him to deny it. But his mind dimmed a little, before he changed the subject. So what did you need to tell me?

Right. Brace yourself. This is going to be tough to see. She gathered her concentration and replayed what Lady Gisela had told her word for word.

That . . . complicates things, he mumbled. And it could all be a trick.

It definitely could.

But you think I should do what she said and get out?

It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s not like you listen to me.

The thought had a snap to it, and Sophie could see Keefe’s mind sting. But she wasn’t going to apologize.

I think a better question is, CAN you get out? she asked.

It’ll be rough, he admitted. But my escape plan will still work. If I use it, though, it’ll destroy every single thing I’ve been working toward.

I guess you’ll have to decide what’s most important, then.

His mind seemed to ripple with a sigh. What happens if I leave?

What do you mean?

I mean . . . doesn’t everyone hate me?

Sophie glanced at her friends, each watching her silently from their fancy chairs. You have some serious apologizing to do, she said. But I don’t think any of us can actually hate you—even when we really, really, really want to.

I could’ve done without that third “really.”

Maybe. But you deserve it.

I do. He replayed his mom’s words again before he told her, I’d better get back—but that’s not my decision. I need more time to think.

Think away, Sophie told him. You know where to find me.

“Actually, you won’t be here if Mr. Sencen decides to come home in the next few days,” Mr. Forkle warned after she’d closed down the mental conversation. “That’s why I needed you to focus. I received a scroll this morning—as I’m sure your mother did as well—informing me that the envoy will be retrieving me at five o’clock this evening to bring me to Lumenaria. The Councillors finally agreed that it’s imperative we interrogate Ruy and Brant as soon as possible. So they’re moving up the Peace Summit, starting tonight.”

SEVENTY-FIVE

SOPHIE AND EDALINE’S envoys arrived at Sandor’s house at five o’clock sharp, and Sophie was relieved one of them was a familiar face—Righty, the goblin who’d helped guide her when she’d visited Lumenaria. Apparently, Righty had been assigned as Sophie’s personal guard for the course of the summit, and the other envoy would be guarding Edaline.

Sandor gave both goblins a long list of procedures and instructions—along with a few threats of violence and dismemberment if anything went wrong.

“We’ve been well trained,” Edaline’s guard assured him.

Sophie decided to call her Bunhead. It matched her hairstyle, and her graceful movements as she crossed the room, handing them black tunics, pants, slipperlike shoes, and gloves to change into.

“The simple garb is just until you clear security,” Righty explained. “Once you’re settled into your rooms you’ll find more proper attire for the summit.”

“Will our rooms be near each other?” Edaline asked.

“You’ll have your own double suite,” Bunhead told her.

That was, unfortunately, the only good news. The rest was a whole lot of yuck, starting with the fact that Sophie wasn’t allowed to bring Ella. No jewelry was allowed either, except their registry pendants, so Sophie had to leave behind her Cognate rings, panic switch, and Sucker Punch.

“Be safe,” Grady whispered as he strangle-hugged his wife and daughter. “And here’s hoping this will be a quick summit.”

“What’s the longest one has ever gone?” Sophie asked, regretting the question when Edaline told her, “A little over three months.”

The words kept repeating in Sophie’s mind as she endured the security searches at Lumenaria’s gates—and the dread grew much louder during the lecture on castle rules. The basic gist was: If you aren’t in an assigned meeting or gala, you’ll be locked in your room for your own safety. It was hard to decide what sounded scarier—the locked-in-her-room part, or the gala.

And it could stretch on for months.

Even the walk to her room felt endless. No blindfolds that time, not that it made the journey any clearer, considering how twisty the halls were, and all the identical staircases and doors.

“Your rooms will not have a view,” Bunhead warned. “The Council wanted you in the underground quarters, where the security is easier for us to control.”

“So basically, they’re locking us in the dungeon,” Sophie said.

Righty smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find the accommodations much more pleasant.”

Their rooms were beautiful—marble floors, and walls broken up with intricate tapestries and paintings. Ornate chandeliers cast a warm pink light, and all the furniture was overstuffed and draped in luxurious fabrics. The décor was elegant and tasteful—the colors lush and regal. But the lack of windows still made it feel like a cell.

Their door also had two locks—one to keep anyone from getting in. The other to prevent them from leaving.

“We’ll let you get changed for the introductory dinner,” Bunhead told them. “Knock four quick times when you’re ready to go and we’ll open the door.”

The lock clicked, and Sophie’s misery was sealed when she checked her new wardrobe. Her “day gowns” had so many ruffles and gathers they made Cotillion dresses look plain. And her “evening gowns” had just as many frills—with fun bonuses like sweeping trains and corseted bodices and all kinds of other things that were clearly meant to destroy her.

“Remind me what any of this has to do with negotiating a peace treaty?” Sophie asked as Edaline helped her fasten the hundreds of tiny buttons that secured the silky teal gown she’d chosen. The color was her favorite, and the skirt wasn’t as puffy as a lot of the others. But the drop-waist bodice was so fitted, she wondered how she would sit. And the neckline scooped and squeezed in ways that made her cheeks blush.

“This summit is about more than making King Dimitar sign his name on a piece of paper,” Edaline told her. “It’s about reminding the world of the sheer magnificence of our culture. Displaying our wealth, beauty, and confidence all work to create the ideal impression.”