CHAPTER TWO

The path that leads to the attic has always felt different from the path to my own chambers. Cleaner somehow, though no servant ever admits to dusting the stairwell, and brighter too, as if the windows here breathe in the air more freely than the rest of the castle. Perhaps it is only my mind that gives it such a quality, because I remember how often I fled here when Father occupied the library below. He could never abide the way I whispered or hummed lines aloud when a story carried me too far to keep still. I would forget myself, forget him, and he would frown in that grave, weary way of his. Here, however, no one complained. The attic was patient. The books and trunks never minded if my voice slipped into their silence.

It was the same servant who carried away my family’s portrait after Father’s death who told me she had placed it up here, away from Tremaine’s watchful eye. I was grateful, though she never admitted whether she did it out of loyalty to me or only to the memory of the kingdom itself. Either way, had she not, I fear Tremaine would have had the canvas burned, or worse—mocked before others until its dignity crumbled into ash.

When I reach the attic door, the hinges groan, but everything inside remains unchanged, as though no one has dared to disturb it for years. That is the way of attics. They hold memories in the same posture forever, untouched, while the world below shifts and forgets. My stepsisters have no love for this place. I doubt they could find their way here, even if ordered. Anastasia has little patience for dust, and Drizella even less for words on pages. Sometimes I wonder if they can even read.

The portrait is easy to find. It hangs precariously over the tall bookshelf, half-forgotten. I draw it down with care and lay it upon the long table, brushing away the dust that veils its colors. At first, I see only the familiar scene—my father stern but proud, myself laughing upon his lap, and beside us my mother, serene and luminous in her way. But when I lean closer, I see the damage.

There is a thin cut across her cheek, so small it might be mistaken for age in the paint. Yet when I press gently, the slit widens to a tiny hole in the canvas. I look harder and realize it is not just one mark. There are dozens, faint and deliberate, carved into her face alone. Long and short, some shallow, some deep, but all with the same cruel intent. My breath catches. Who could do such a thing? Why only her? Father’s image is untouched, mine remains bright. But my mother—her face has been stabbed, violated, until the beauty the artist captured has been nearly lost.

I whisper to the silence, “Why?” The servant never told me. Did she not see? Or did she fear to speak it aloud?

My thoughts rush toward Tremaine. It must be her, of course. Who else would dare such a thing? It reeks of her—her quiet malice, her hunger to erase my mother’s presence from these halls. The audacity chills me, yet it also makes my blood burn. I cannot mend the cuts; every attempt with my handkerchief only deepens their ugliness. I set the portrait aside with trembling fingers.

The table itself tells another story. Books are scattered across it, some cracked open, others with pages ripped away. As though someone had searched with frantic purpose and cared nothing for what was ruined in the process. My hand drifts toward one of the volumes.

The title alone makes me draw back. The History of Witches and Warlocks.

I nearly drop it. Such books are forbidden within these walls, condemned as dangerous, heretical. Even Father, stern though he was, would never have permitted one in his library. How then is it here, in the attic, with others like it? For when I look again, I see more titles lined along the shelf and strewn upon the table. The Book of Spells and Witchcraft. Witches and Courts: The Battle. Battle of Magic. Witches and Their Origin.

Each title tightens my chest further. They are not simply histories—they are records of a time long erased from memory, when the Four Courts and the witches clashed in fire and ruin. I lift one with shaking hands and feel the weight of the dust and the words it carries. Who brought them here? Why were pages torn from them? Who searched for something hidden within?

***

The Four Courts had always sounded like a fairytale to me. My parents used to say they were once tranquil, each land alive with its own beauty, its people weaving freely between them without fear or borders. There were no cold conflicts, no suspicions whispered in markets, no rulers scheming over who held more sway. But greed does not stay dormant for long. Power, they said, was a drug. The rulers of the courts became obsessed with it—who had more, who deserved more, who would stand tallest. And so the cold wars began. At first it was words, treaties broken in silence, couriers returning with sharpened lies. But as with all things, words became weapons, and soon even the common people were drawn in.

My mother used to tell me bedtime stories about that era, though sometimes I wondered if they were truly stories or fragments of something she wanted me to believe. One in particular has never left me: a war between witches and the people of the Four Courts. I don’t remember all the details—her voice was always soft at that hour, more lull than history—but I remember the sense of it. That there was once magic in this land, fierce and alive. That it had been stolen, stripped away in a single blinding moment. I never asked whether it was true. Perhaps I didn’t want to know. Yet lately I find myself wondering: was it envy that brought the witches here? Did they seek to claim something that belonged to us? Or did we, in our hunger for dominion, force them into war? I wonder who won. Or if anyone truly did.

But that thought drifts away as a sharper voice cuts through the garden.

“Solstice!”

I know it instantly. Tremaine. My stepmother.

The sound of her name alone is enough to make my hands clench. I set down the sprinkler and run toward the castle, my shoes silent on the stone path though my heartbeat is not. She stands already at the foot of the stairs, a tall, austere figure in her customary black. Always black—her gowns, her gloves, even the curtains in her chambers. When I was younger, I thought perhaps it was mourning, a quiet devotion to my mother’s memory. Now I know better. Black is her throne, her weapon, the way she casts herself larger than the walls themselves.

She holds out an envelope, its seal pressed in red wax with the crest of our house. A letter, crisp and deliberate.

“Deliver this,” she says, her voice smooth as polished steel.

I take it, feeling the weight of the paper though it is feather-light. “What is it for?”

“A message,” she replies. “Addressed to Charlemagne.”

The name makes my breath catch. My brow furrows. “Charlemagne? The Winter Court?”

Her eyes narrow, cold slits that could cut flesh. “It is not your place to question. You will take it to the downtown post. At once.”

“But… Mother, we are not supposed to—”

Her hand slices the air, silencing me. “Do as I say.”

I close my lips on the words I want to hurl and lower my head instead. If I press her, if I show even a hint of resistance, she will find a punishment suited to her cruelty. So I tuck the envelope into my bag, though already my mind is racing. Why would she send word to Winter Court? Why to Charlemagne, of all families, the one my father mistrusted most? I remember that court too clearly: the stone towers crusted with frost, the silent stares of their nobles, the feeling that the very air was colder because we were not welcome there. I never accompanied Father again after that visit. Now Tremaine, of all people, seeks their correspondence. Why?

I cannot ask. Not yet.

I retreat to my quarters to gather my things, sliding the hood over my hair, tying the sling bag at my hip. I do not fear recognition. No one beyond these walls knows me—no one even knows I live. They believe Solstice, daughter of King Ashwell and Queen Mirabelle, died in the fire alongside her mother. Father made certain of it. For years he kept my existence buried, a shadow in the halls, a secret tucked away for my safety. To the kingdom I am no more than a rumor that burned away with the smoke. To them, the only heir is gone, and Lady Tremaine is the widow who remains.

As I step through the gates, the servants bow their heads, furtive and brief. They dare not show loyalty too openly, not with Tremaine’s spies lurking in every corridor. But I see it in the quick flicker of their eyes—that they prefer me, though it changes nothing. Tremaine has the power. I have only silence.

The sun sears as I enter the streets, bright and relentless, and yet I welcome it. Summer Court’s warmth feels like breath after suffocation. The cobblestones grow louder with every step toward downtown, the air thickening with sweat, voices, and grief. Father’s death lingers over everything, a pall that no sunlight can lift. He was loved here, more than I allowed myself to realize. And though I walk faceless among them, I feel the shame heavy in my chest—shame that I still breathe while they mourn him, shame that they do not know his daughter walks among them, unclaimed, unvoiced.

A cry rises from the marketplace.

“Sol! Sol!”

I turn, and a small boy pushes through the crowd, thin arms weaving like a reed through water. Anton. His grin nearly splits his face when he reaches me.

“You promised me bread!” he exclaims, eyes alight with a hunger that is not only for food.

I laugh softly and draw the paper bag from my sling, handing him the loaf I tucked aside for him. He clutches it as though it were treasure. I remember the first day we met, when he stole my bread out of desperation, and how quickly guilt replaced anger in me. Since then, I have brought him what little I can spare. One boy among hundreds. It is nothing. Yet it matters to him.

We sit beneath a tree as he devours it, and for a moment I almost forget the envelope in my bag. Almost.

Then I see it—movement at the edge of the crowd. A man, tall, lean, sliding up behind an old woman. His hand darts, deft as a snake, and her purse is gone before she even shifts her weight.

My blood spikes.

“Stop!” I call, shoving through the bodies, my hood falling back as I chase. He turns when he hears me, his face unreadable, his hair a striking brown that catches the sun. He holds out his empty hands, palms raised, as if mocking me.

“I don’t know what you mean, lady,” he says, his voice calm, smooth. “I have nothing.”

I glare at him. “I saw you. The purse. You took it.”

“Are you certain?” His lips curve, infuriating. “Perhaps it was someone else.”

“No. I followed you.” I search him quickly, pulling at his coat, his sleeves, his belt. Nothing. My heart stutters. Where is it?

He leans closer, eyes glinting with something too sharp to be amusement. “Perhaps it was only a trick of the mind.”

“You don’t need to steal,” I tell him, anger mixing with desperation. “You could work. Do anything else. The people here already have so little. How can you rob them of what little remains?”

For a moment he studies me, gaze fixed, and I wish I had not spoken, for it feels as though he sees deeper than I intended. Then he glances at my hood, at the strands of gold hair that have slipped free.

“Your hair,” he says softly. “It reminds me of the late King.”

My breath snags. I turn quickly away, fumbling for words. “I colored it.”

He smiles faintly, and with an almost careless motion he gestures to my bag. “Perhaps you should check again.”

Confused, I open it. My stomach lurches. The purse is there, resting atop my things. How—? And worse, the second loaf of bread I brought is gone.

When I lift my gaze, I see it in his hand. My bread, his grin.

“If you are so determined to return the purse, then I will settle for your bread,” he says easily, as if the exchange is fair.

I cannot even speak. How had he done it? Not only to steal, but to return what he stole, to switch it all without my noticing? He is no common thief.

“What is your name?” he asks suddenly.

I frown, suspicious. “Why should I tell you?”

“Perhaps,” he says with a half-smile, “because I may wish to steal again, and I’d like to know whom to thank when I do.”

I hesitate, then answer with the name I wear beyond the palace walls. “Sol.”

“Sol.” He rolls it on his tongue as if tasting it. “A fine name.” He bows lightly, mocking in its grace. “I am Flynn.”

And just like that, he is gone into the crowd, leaving only the weight of his name and the hollow where my bread had been.