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Without him there, touching her, she was entirely alone. Abandoned, by everything. This, too, was a sickness.

Sybil, she thought, closing her eyes. Help me.

But she was so far away now. She pushed herself under the covers and listened to the hush of the castle. Her own breath, slightly ragged. The vague sound of the sea, breathing in and out, splashing against the shore. Horses clopping outside. Voices, laughter, the vielle. The occasional cough of the servant girl she knew was waiting on a chair outside her door.

Then, what seemed like minutes later, she could see, beyond the curtains, that there was movement at the door. And there was his voice.

She sat up.

The curtains moved back, and it was him, the prince, standing in front of her. He was wearing his hunting clothes—a big cloak, his riding cap, his carved ivory horn hanging from a strap around his neck—and he smelled of bark and forest. He breathed life into everything, she thought. Not only her. He was grass and dirt and sun and sky.

“Hello, my love,” he said softly. “I was told you are not feeling well.”

She smiled at him and stretched out her hand. Behind him, the servant girl bent her head and left the room.

“You are not well.”

She shook her head, smiled at him.

I am more than well. I am perfect.

It was the first time he had come to her room rather than send for her. He slipped off the horn, his cap, his cloak, watching her with his strange, beautiful eyes. He was happy, she saw. She could feel it coming off him. Something had happened.

He slipped into bed next to her, under the covers, and pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her slick waist. She smiled as he kissed her neck and jaw.

“Are you feeling better than you were earlier?” he asked.

She nodded, breathing in his scent. She could not get close enough to him. She wanted to disappear into him. There was nothing like this in her own world.

Can’t you remember me?

“You’re so sweet,” he said, smiling at her. “So beautiful.”

Love me.

“Your maids say you might be pregnant …”

She looked at him, confused. He was watching her tenderly. Tracing his warm hand from her neck to her chest to her belly, resting his palm there, causing another wave of sickness to move through her. From her belly to her throat and then down again.

Pregnant?

She shook her head, backed away from him.

“I was told that you had fallen ill, in the woman’s way.”

He put his hand on her belly. She looked down at her own soft, pale skin where before there had been scales, glittering and bright green-silver. Could a child be growing inside of her? What kind of child could she have, in this world?

She tried to ignore the intense feeling of disgust that passed through her.

He noticed her distress and grew worried. “Are you ill again?”

She shook her head, forced herself to smile.

He relaxed, reached out his arm, stroked her hair. His fingers ran over her neck and back, sending shivers up and down her skin. He wants this, she thought.

“My first child,” he said, kissing her jaw. “A son. He will be beautiful, like his mother.”

DINNER THAT NIGHT was a splendid affair. The king and queen were dressed even more finely than usual, seated at the head table, and the service seemed especially extravagant, with elaborately dressed peacocks, their tails erupting at the ends of the silver platters, and pheasant and boar and lamb. Musicians played at the front of the hall, and jugglers made their rounds. Some nobles from a country estate were visiting, taking up one end of one of the long tables. The mood was firelit, jovial.

Though still recovering from her earlier sickness, Lenia was in high spirits. It seemed the whole world was celebrating her good news, though no one mentioned it outright. But Christopher sat next to her on the bench rather than at his father’s table again, and Katrina kept looking over at them, a small smile on her face.

Halfway through dinner, the king stood up and signaled to the musicians to stop playing.

Christopher shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Lenia.

“We have an announcement