When she woke, the carriage was once more on the move, and Bella was dozing in the corner on the opposite side of the coach. Kham pushed herself up and stifled a groan. The skin of her back felt tight and tender, and her stomach gave a threatening lurch.

A warble called out from the birdcage. Bella had removed the cover earlier in the day. Within the cage, the mating pair of songbirds clung to their swaying perches. A gift from Spring, the birds were Khamsin’s favorite: scarlet tanagers. During spring and summer breeding, the male’s plumage turned a brilliant shade of scarlet, striking against the glossy black of his wings and tail, but even though it wasn’t yet September, both birds still wore the greenish yellow of their winter, nonbreeding plumage.

“Poor little things,” she murmured. “You both look as green as I feel.”

Remembering the orange she had discarded earlier, Kham opened the hamper on the coach floor, found the remaining pieces of fruit wrapped in cheesecloth, and slipped one of the plump segments into the bottom of the birdcage. The male was the first to hop off his perch and inspect the fruit. His head dipped, beak nipping experimentally at the bit of orange. A few moments later, his mate joined him, chirping brightly and fluttering her greenish gray wings.

Leaving the birds to their meal, Kham leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes. She couldn’t get comfortable. Every lurch and jolt of the carriage pulled at her tender back, and though the cushions were upholstered in velvet, the constant rubbing quickly became a painful friction and forced her to lie back down just to stop aggravating her wounds.

Bella woke and applied more of Tildy’s cream, for what good it did. She tried to keep Kham entertained by reading from the collection of Summerlea histories, but the familiar tales didn’t hold half their usual fascination. The little bit of food Kham had eaten churned about in her stomach for the next two hours, and when they stopped again to rest the horses, Khamsin voluntarily went racing for the privacy of a snow-blanketed cornfield.

The guards Valik had assigned to her attempted to follow, but she whirled on them. “I will have privacy,” she snapped. “I promise if you follow me, it will be the last living thing you ever do.” Her hair crackled about her. It wasn’t a bluff. Sick as she felt, there was enough sunlight to feed her power, and her limited supply of docile, obedient Khamsin had run out hours ago. Agreeing to eat that godforsaken stew was the last concession she was capable of today.

Luckily for them, their years of serving the Winter King had taught the men when a weatherwitch meant business. They backed off and simply stood guard near the edge of the frozen field.

She plunged deep into the cornfield with no fear of getting lost in the six-foot stalks. The sun, the source of her power, was in the sky. Even hidden behind a blanket of winter gray clouds, she knew exactly where it was and she knew her exact position relative to it. When the sun was in the sky, no Heir of the Rose would ever be lost.

When she reached a spot far enough away from the road to be truly private, she stopped. What remained of the food in her stomach didn’t take much coaxing to leave her, and she immediately felt worlds better. She even took the time to step a little farther off and tend to her other needs—an experience she found thoroughly primitive and revolting. She’d never been a pampered princess, but now she realized there were some things she considered basic necessities of life. Like a working toilet. And something besides snow and dried corn husks to go with it.

When she returned to the field, Valik was waiting, blue eyes flashing and a scold on his lips for the way she’d gone off without her guards.

She brushed aside his objections. “There are some matters I refuse to tend to with an audience, Lord Valik. Since you won’t give me the luxury of a posting inn, the least you can afford me is privacy.” When he opened his mouth to object again, she held up a hand. “That is not negotiable.”

Valik went off muttering.

Khamsin smiled for the first time all day. The victory was small, but it was hers. Gathering her skirts, she stepped up on the mounting block positioned by the carriage door. A silvery glint at the corner of her eye made her pause and turn. Her smile faded.

Half a mile up the line, the unmistakable figure of Wynter, shining in polished steel armor, was seated on his impressive white charger. The distance was too great to see his face, but somehow she knew his gaze was fixed upon her. For several seconds, she stood there, frozen by some unnameable force. Then a soldier approached Wynter, and his head turned, and the spell was broken.

Khamsin dove for the protection of the coach. Her heart pounded like a hammer in her chest, and her skin felt flushed and chilled all at the same time. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. What was it about the Winter King that drove through her defenses as if they were paper and shattered her senses with a single glance?

“Ma’am?” Bella’s dark eyes watched her with open concern. “Are you still feeling ill? Should I call for Lord Valik?”

“No,” Kham said quickly. “No, Bella, thank you. I’m fine. I’m feeling much better.”

Strangely enough, it was true. Even from a distance, that one brief, electric exchange with Wynter felt like a shot of pure, unrefracted sunlight. The powerful energy of it still tingled throughout her body, shocking and revitalizing.

Unfortunately, that energy didn’t last long . . . and neither did the respite from the travel sickness that had plagued Khamsin all day. Shortly after resuming their journey, she was back to feeling green and wishing she were anywhere but in a carriage. The interior of the sumptuous, velvet-lined coach began to feel like a torture chamber.