The man at the door was not Aric.

He was forty-something, palace livery, the specific bearing of someone accustomed to delivering messages of significance. He had two guards with him.

"Miss Anand," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"My name is Harlan Voss. I'm the Crown Prince's personal secretary." He paused. "His Royal Highness requests the honor of an audience."

*Requests the honor.* The formal language landing in my doorway like a stone in still water.

"An audience," I said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Here?" I said.

"His Highness is currently—" Voss paused. "In the village."

I looked at him.

"He's here," I said.

"He arrived this morning," Voss said.

I held the doorframe.

Six years. Six years of silence — not because he hadn't looked, I'd understood later, but because I'd been careful. Different name on the medical records, different pharmacy network, a postal address in the next town. I'd been so careful.

"What changed?" I said. "What changed that he's here now?"

Voss looked at the ground.

"His engagement was dissolved eight months ago," he said. "Lady Serana and His Highness reached a mutual agreement."

"That's not why he's here," I said.

Voss held his breath.

"No," he said. "Ma'am. Someone provided information. About — a child."

My chest went cold.

"Someone provided information," I said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Who?"

He didn't answer, which was its own answer.

"I'll come," I said. "But I'm coming alone. No guards in my house."

"His Highness is outside," Voss said. "In the garden."

I looked past him.

The garden. The beds I'd mulched for winter. The greenhouse at the back. And a figure at the edge of it — tall, standing very still, looking at the dormant beds with the focused attention of someone who was using the looking to avoid something else.

Six years.

He looked the same. Darker under the eyes. The bearing that was his as naturally as his name. The same careful stillness.

I took a breath.

I walked out.

He heard me coming. Turned.

For a moment neither of us said anything.

"Priya," he said.

"Your Highness," I said.

"Don't," he said.

"Don't what?" I said.

"Don't call me that," he said.

I held my arms at my sides.

"Why are you here, Aric?" I said.

"I think you know," he said.

"Tell me anyway," I said.

He looked at the greenhouse.

"There are records," he said. "A midwife in Harren. Six years ago. The child's name. The mother's name." He looked at me. "The father's section was left blank."

I said nothing.

"I need to know," he said. "I need to hear it from you."

The garden was very still.

"Come back tomorrow," I said.

"Priya—"

"Tomorrow," I said. "Come alone. No guards, no Voss. Come tomorrow at nine and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

He held my gaze.

His eyes were the color of old silver. A color I'd spent six years not letting myself think about.

"All right," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

I went back inside.

I went to Yola's house.

I held my son.

I told myself: tomorrow. You'll figure it out tomorrow.

But lying in the dark that night, listening to Kael's breathing from the next room, I understood that figuring it out had just stopped being an option.

The question was what happened next.