There is no banquet too abundant for a starving man.

“If you’re looking for reasons why he disappointed you,” Oriana says, “by all accounts, Prince Cardan was a disappointment from the beginning.”

That night, Oriana releases a snowy owl with a letter attached to its claws. As it flies up into the cold sky, I am hopeful.

And later, lying in bed, I scheme as I have not done since my exile. Tomorrow, I will steal the key from Grimsen, and when I leave, I will take the Ghost with me. With what I know about Madoc’s plans and allies and the location of his army, I will force a bargain with Cardan to rescind my exile and to end the inquest into Taryn. I’m not going to let myself get distracted by letters I never received or the way he looked at me when we were alone in his rooms or my father’s theories about his weaknesses.

Unfortunately, from the time I wake, Oriana will not let me leave her side. While she trusts me enough to keep my secret, she doesn’t trust me enough to let me walk around the camp, now that she knows who I truly am.

She gives me wet laundry to spread before the fire, beans to pick from stones, and blankets to fold. I try not to rush through the tasks. I try to appear annoyed only because there seems to be a lot of work for me, though there was never so much work when I was Taryn. I don’t want her to know how frustrated I am as the day wears on. My fingers itch to steal the key from Grimsen.

Finally, as evening sets in, I catch a break. “Take this to your father,” Oriana tells me, setting down a tray bearing a pot of nettle tea, a wrapped-up bundle of biscuits, and a crock of jam to go with them. “In the generals’ tent. He asked for you specifically.”

I grab my cloak, hoping not to seem obviously eager, when the second half of what she said sinks in. A soldier is waiting for me outside the door, amping up my nerves. Oriana said she wouldn’t tell Madoc about me, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have given me away somehow. And it doesn’t mean that Madoc couldn’t have figured it out himself.

The generals’ tent is large and cluttered with all the maps I couldn’t find in his tent. It’s also filled with soldiers sitting on goat-hide camp stools, some armored and some not. When I come in, a few of them glance up, and then their gazes slide away from me as from a servant.

I set down the tray and pour a cup, forcing myself not to look too carefully at the map unfurled in front of them. It’s impossible not to notice that they’re moving little wooden boats across the sea, toward Elfhame.

“Pardon,” I say, setting the nettle tea in front of Madoc.

He gives me an indulgent smile. “Taryn,” he says. “Good. I have been thinking you ought to have your own tent. You’re a widow, not a child.”

“Tha—that’s very kind,” I say, surprised. It is kind, and yet I cannot help wondering if it’s like one of those chess moves that looks innocuous at first but turns out to be the one setting up checkmate.

As he sips his tea, he projects the satisfaction of someone who obviously has more important matters to take care of yet is pleased to have a chance to play the doting father. “I promised your loyalty would be rewarded.”

I cannot help seeing how everything he says and does could be double-edged.

“Come here,” Madoc calls to one of his knights. A goblin in shining golden armor makes an elegant bow. “Find my daughter a tent and supplies to outfit it. Anything she needs.” Then to me. “This is Alver. Do not be too great a torment to him.”

It is not custom to thank the Folk, but I kiss Madoc on his cheek. “You’re too good to me.”

He snorts, a small smile showing a sharp canine. I let my gaze flicker to the map—and the models of boats floating on the paper sea—one more time before I follow Alver out the door.

An hour later, I am setting up a spacious tent erected not far from Madoc’s. Oriana is suspicious when I arrive to move my things, but she allows it to be done. She even brings cheese and bread, placing them on the painted table that was found for me.

“I don’t see why you’re going to all this trouble to decorate,” she says when Alver has finally left. “You’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I echo.

“I received word from your sister. She will be here near dawn to pick you up. You’re to meet her just outside the camp. There’s an outcrop of rocks where Vivi can safely wait for you. And when you leave a note for your father, I expect it to be convincing.”

“I will do my best,” I say.

She presses her lips into a fine line. Maybe I should feel grateful to her, but I am too annoyed. If only she hadn’t wasted the better part of my day, my evening would go a lot easier.

I will have to deal with the Ghost’s guards. There will be no sneaking past them this time. “Will you give me some of your paper?” I ask, and when she agrees, I take a wineskin as well.

Alone in my new tent, I crush the deathsweet and add a little bit to the wine so it can infuse for at least an hour before I strain the vegetal bits. That should be strong enough to cause them to sleep for at least a day and a night but not kill them. I am aware, however, that time to prepare is not on my side. My fingers fumble as I go, nerves getting the better of me.

“Taryn?” Madoc sweeps back the flap of my tent, making me jump. He looks around, admiring his own generosity. Then his gaze returns to me, and he frowns. “Is all well?”

“You surprised me,” I say.

“Come dine with the company,” he says.

For a moment, I try to dream up an excuse, to give him some reason for me to stay behind so that I can slip out to Grimsen’s forge. But I can’t afford his suspicion, not now, when my escape is so close. I resolve to get up in the night, long before dawn, and go then.

And so I eat with Madoc one final time. I pinch some color into my cheeks and rake back my hair into a fresh braid. And if I am particularly kind that evening, particularly deferential, if I laugh particularly loudly, it is because I know I will never do this again. I will never have him behave like this with me again. But for one final night, he’s the father I remember best, the one in whose shadow I have—for better or worse—become what I am.

I wake to the press of a hand over my mouth. I slam my elbow into where I think the person holding me must be and am satisfied to hear a sharp intake of breath, as though I connected with a vulnerable part. There’s a hushed laugh from my left. Two people, then. And one of them is not too worried about me, which is worrisome. I reach under my pillow for my knife.

“Jude,” says the Roach, still laughing. “We’ve come to save you. Screaming would really hurt the plan.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t stab you!” My voice comes out harsher than I intend, anger masking how terrified I was.

“I told him to watch out,” the Roach says. There’s a sharp sound, and light flares from a little box, illuminating the jagged planes of the Roach’s goblin face. He’s grinning. “But would he listen? I’d have ordered him, if not for the little matter of his being the High King.”

“Cardan sent you?” I ask.

“Not exactly,” says the Roach, moving the light so that I can see the person with him, the one I elbowed. The High King of Elfhame, in plain brown wool, a cloak on his back of a fabric so dark it seems to absorb light, leaf blade in the scabbard on his hip. He wears no crown on his brow, no rings on his fingers, nor gold paint limning his cheekbones. He looks every inch a spy from the Court of Shadows, down to the sneaky smile pulling at a corner of his beautiful mouth.