The morning after the ball greeted the palace with the hollow silence that follows a storm. The news of Princess Amelia's betrothal to the old Marquis Hawke had already flown across the capital, becoming the main topic of gossip in every drawing room.

  Amelia herself had not slept. She sat by the window in her chambers, watching the sunrise, but seeing only the predatory, yellowish smirk of her fiancé. The rage and despair of the previous night had subsided, leaving behind a cold, ringing void.

  Clara entered the room quietly, carrying a tray of tea, her face full of sincere sympathy.

  "Your Highness, perhaps just a sip?.."

  "Thank you, Clara," Amelia's voice was calm to the point of unnaturalness. She turned, and there were no tears in her eyes—only dry, merciless calculation.

  It's over, the thought was cold and sobering. The trap has snapped shut, and my own mother holds the key.

  She forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to drive away the panic and force her brain to work in its habitual crisis-management mode.

  Right, pull yourself together. Think soberly. Assess the damage... Oh, what the hell kind of damage is this? This is total, complete annihilation! They didn't just choose a husband for me. They sold me to an old ghoul who looked at me yesterday as if I were a cut of veal on his plate.

  She paced the room, feverishly sorting through options.

  Exit strategies... What exit strategies are there? Run away? And go where? I am the Princess of Ethergard; my face is known to every guard. In a week, they'll find me, tie me up, and return me in disgrace, straight into the arms of my 'caring' fiancé. The conditions will only get worse—they'll just lock me up. Cause a scandal? Publicly refuse? Ha! That won't fly in this family. Father would sooner send me to a convent on a remote island than allow me to disgrace the Crown before the whole world. No... direct conflict is suicide.

  She stopped by the window, watching the rising sun. There was no way out. At least, not right now.

  So, only one option remains. Accept the rules. Don the shining armor of the perfect, obedient bride. Survive inside the system. Search for his weaknesses, his vulnerabilities. Every old spider has a rotten thread in his web. I just need to find it. And pull at the most opportune moment.

  There was a knock at the door. A servant relayed that Marquis Garrick Hawke requested a private audience with his fiancée in the winter garden.

  The winter garden was a cold, sterile place filled with exotic plants bearing sharp leaves that looked like the skeletons of bizarre animals. Marquis Hawke was waiting for her, seated in a high-backed chair.

  He was thin and almost withered, and his old-fashioned suit only emphasized this. He wore a doublet of dark, almost black velvet, cut in the fashion of twenty years ago. The high, stiff collar seemed to dig into his wrinkled neck, and the doublet itself hung on his bony shoulders as if on a hanger. In his motionless, angular pose, he looked like an old, dried-up praying mantis, patiently awaiting its prey.

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  "My child," he smiled, baring yellowish teeth. "I am glad we can speak alone, without prying ears."

  He spoke of their future, of the northern lands she would rule as his Marchioness. He spoke of wealth, of power. When the conversation turned to Tristan, he merely waved his hand dismissively.

  "Youthful folly. He will quickly come to his senses when he realizes what profit this union will bring our house."

  Then he opened a casket standing nearby and took out a heavy, massive necklace set with garnets dark as dried blood. The metal of the setting had tarnished with time, and the design was hopelessly archaic.

  "This is an heirloom of our house," he rasped, admiring the jewelry. "My late mother wore it. Then my first wife, God rest her soul. Then the second. And, of course, the third... All of them were beautiful, virtuous women. And they all wore it with pride. Now it is yours, my child."

  He held the necklace out to her. Amelia looked at the dull, ominous stones, and a sticky, paralyzing dread seized her.

  Junk, was her first thought. Dusty, decrepit junk that belongs in a tomb.

  But as he listed the dead owners, her disgust grew into something more.

  No... this isn't just junk. This is... a portable graveyard. A small family crypt that he sequentially hangs around the necks of his wives. Four women... and all of them in the grave. And he still sits here, in this chair, smiling.

  This wasn't a gift. This wasn't just a collar. It was a noose he was passing down by inheritance.

  "It is beautiful, Lord Marquis. You are so kind," Amelia played the role of the grateful bride flawlessly, bowing her head but not allowing him to put the jewelry on her right then. She asked the right questions about their future estate, about his holdings, and all the while her brain scanned him, memorizing every word, every intonation, every senile weakness.

  Leaving the winter garden, she immediately found Leon waiting for her in the corridor.

  "Leon," her voice was quiet, but there was an unyielding quality to it. "The plan has changed. Now our goal is not just survival. Our goal is freedom."

  She made sure no one could hear them and looked him straight in the eye.

  "I need information. All information on Marquis Hawke. His enemies, his secret debts, his illnesses... and most importantly—rumors about the deaths of his past wives. Find everything you can. Through contacts in the city, through servants, through beggars, through anyone. This is priority number one."

  "Understood, Your Highness," Leon replied without hesitation. Unwavering determination could be read in his gaze.

  Without slowing her pace, Amelia issued orders to her loyal officer. In that moment, the resolve of a combat general shone in her gray eyes—something completely unsuited to a fragile young Princess. They turned a corner and nearly collided with her brother. Crown Prince Damian froze right in front of them. He had clearly heard the last phrase.

  His face reflected a mixture of his usual arrogance and new, genuine surprise.

  "Amelia?" he raised a mocking eyebrow. "What kind of... 'priorities' could you possibly have? Besides choosing ribbons for a wedding dress?"

  Amelia transformed instantly. The hard, commanding gleam in her eyes extinguished, replaced by a frightened, tremulous girlish naivety. She took a step toward him, her voice trembling.

  "Brother! Now that... now that the betrothal has been announced... I am so afraid. Marquis Hawke is a very powerful man; he has many enemies, both in the North and here at court. I fear that now I have become a target too. I was simply asking Sir Leon to be vigilant and check all the rumors so I would know what to fear..."

  Damian fell silent for a moment, studying her. This excuse was surprisingly... logical. Perfect, even. And yet he had heard her voice a second ago—cold, imperious, leaving no room for doubt. And he saw her now—a trembling, frightened little sister. These two images refused to merge into a single picture in his mind.

  He said nothing, merely scoffed and walked past. But as Amelia and Leon walked away down the corridor, he stared after them for a long time.

  "Worried"? he thought doubtfully. She didn't sound worried. She sounded like Father giving orders to a general before a battle. What, in the name of all that is holy, is going on with my sister?