“Oh, he’ll be here any minute,” the Foundress cries as she straightens a painting on the wall. “Only a day’s notice! Honestly, is that boy set on giving me a stroke?” Despite her words, she beams at everything around her, steps spirited as she tidies here and there.

  I sit beside the window in the sitting room, fanning myself as a stifling breeze only a fraction cooler than the interior of this room blows in across my neck. I keep casting glances out the window at the palace and its looming mountain spire. Any day now they’ll come for me. Disgrace me. It’s just… not happened yet.

  I’d returned home that fateful afternoon, after the Prince and after striking my deal with Abel, to shocked questions about the Wyvern Bell they’d heard from the townhouse. It’d been all too easy to lie, to say he’d had to return to duty, that our ride was cut short. And, with not a word of correspondence from the Prince since, it’s a lie I haven’t gotten caught red-handed in… yet.

  Clara scowls from her perch on the sofa at the servants dashing about to the Foundress’s every whim with apparent delight. Servants aren’t supposed to like their mistresses.

  Lilianna sits in the armchair positioned by the window next to mine, and she’s the only one who seems to sense something’s off. She keeps sending me sidelong glances and catching me in the hallways to ask me privately if anything’s wrong. I keep lying, of course. As much as I’d like to confide in someone, anyone, I won’t put that burden on her.

  I long to tell Clara everything. To tell her what I saw, how the Prince touched me, the horrible way I’d felt. Sometimes I fantasize that she’ll understand, that she’ll throw her arms around my shoulders and promise everything will be okay.

  I know better. And so I keep my mouth shut and pray I can get away with it all just a little longer. Long enough to hear from Abel. Long enough to save Farnell. And maybe, if I’m lucky, long enough to find an alternative marriage prospect. Anyone but Maurus, Skies.

  The front door bangs open.

  A man, dressed in silvers and emeralds and purple linens, bursts straight from the foyer and into the sitting room. “Ma’ma!” A huge grin spreads across his light brown face, freckled so much like the Foundress’s.

  The Foundress Privett shrieks and rushes across the room to throw her arms around him. “Oh! Taron! You’re finally home.”

  Lord Privett laughs, a big laugh that holds the same boisterousness as his mother.

  She draws back, holding him at arm’s length, and looks him over. “You look famished. Come, Bens will bring us some food. I want to hear everything—well, not everything. Oh, you know what I mean.”

  Lilianna and I launch to our feet and dip into a deep curtsy.

  Lord Privett draws up short at the sight of me and his eyebrows shoot up. A devilish smile dances across his face. “Mother, you got me a wife? A pretty Gold, too. You shouldn’t have.”

  The Foundress laughs and swats his arm. “Now, now, Taron, don’t you be a flirt. This is Lady Aubrey Gallant. She’s currently being courted by the Prince, so mind yourself.”

  I inwardly cringe. The Prince surely wants nothing to do with me now. But maybe this Lord could be an option to solve my current predicament. He’s unmarried, and though frequently absent, but if his character is at all like his mother’s, I can’t imagine a more agreeable prospect. And he’s as much of a Lord as Maurus is.

  “The Lady Aubrey Gallant, in my mother’s home? Well, I’ll be. Even more Gold than they all said, isn’t she? No wonder Emory has eyes for her.” Lord Privett grins and extends his hand. “Lady Aubrey, delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “The delight is all mine, your lordship.” I set my hand in his and, Skies, I already rather like this man in his snugly fit, ornately embroidered tailcoat. A dozen pocket watch chains dangle from his waistcoat’s many pockets.

  “Bah! None of that lordship nonsense. I’m merely Taron. Lord Privett was my father and that’s the way he’ll stay.” He kisses the back of my hand, then follows my gaze to his waistcoat. His smile only broadens and he wags his brows. “Multiple watches are all the rage in Pachuate.”

  A smile tugs at my mouth. “They’re lovely.”

  Taron winks and throws himself onto the sofa, arms spread out on the back of it with an enviable ease. “So, what have I missed?”

  Lilianna moves into the armchair next to Taron’s position on the sofa and gazes at him. I’ve never seen her interact with men before and it’s a strange sight. Almost unnatural and forced, but perhaps I’ve looked that way around the Prince too.

  Her interest isn’t misplaced. Not only is he a Founder Lord, but he has the long dark lashes of any girl’s dream. Paired with his smooth, dark skin and mop of effortlessly tousled, tight black curls, he’s downright gorgeous. He clearly knows it, too. Pity the Foundress was so certain when she said he’s no interest in marriage—or perhaps one of us can change his mind.

  The Foundress tuts. “You’ve already read all the latest Kheovarian news in my letters, while you have been shamefully vague. Tell us about your journey home! And what of Pachuate? Have they calmed with the removal of gold from circulation or grown more restless?”

  Taron sighs. “The latter I’m afraid. Removing all gold currency has helped reduce wyvern attacks, but they’re still tremendously jealous of our relative sanctuary. I doubt this year, but maybe next. But, alas, I’m quite parched. Bens! Bens, my good man, bring us some champagne for the ladies, will you? And fetch us men some whiskey. You have one too, old man—no one shall be sober tonight!”

  Mr. Bens chuckles and begins pouring liquor into glasses.

  My stomach roils. Does Taron mean war?

  Taron studies me as he waits for his whiskey. “My word, you have more gold than I’ve ever seen. You’ve certainly nothing to worry about with markings like that. They’ll never let someone like you out of the lines. Can you imagine? Risk the wyverns getting their claws on Gold like that?” He lets out a booming laugh and glances around the room. “No, no, impossible. If the Prince is too stupid to scoop you up, I assure you one of the other Founder families will.”

  “Oh, come now,” the Foundress says. “No need to scare her. She’ll never go outside again if you start up that ‘wyvern’ talk. One flew over the palace only a week ago.”

  Taron’s brows rise. “Did it now? Mother, I say it to offer her comfort. Gold markings like hers are too valuable to risk a wyvern abduction—we learned that with… what was her name? May… Mare…. Medina…”

  “Mesonie,” the Foundress says with a huff. “Lady Mesonie Vale.”

  Taron snaps his fingers. “That’s right, Lord Vale’s sister, if I remember correctly. Wanted to marry a lower noble, right scandalous affair. But before her family could convince her otherwise, she went running off into the city on her own without a guard or covering. Ah, thank you good sir.” He accepts a glass from Mr. Bens and takes a long swallow.

  I touch the gold at my neck. That wyvern had every opportunity to take me and… didn’t.

  “Snatched her straight from the market,” Taron goes on. “Wyverns like their gold. It gives them power, you see. Wyverns get their ability to blow fire from consuming gold, that’s why they covet the gold-marked girls and why the King and Lords will never let someone with gold like yours—and, by the Skies, it is something—settle for anything less than a Founder family. They’re the only ones with the means, the Wyvernmail to be specific, to ensure your protection. So, you see, it’s simply a matter of timing and choosing. If not the Prince, then one of the Lords or Heirs. King Giraldus won’t allow it any other way.”

  My throat parches.

  Clara shoots me a pointed look, as if to say, see, this is what I’ve prepared you for.

  Except she’s not told me a drop of this. I knew she wouldn’t settle for any less than Founder bloodlines, but I never realized it’s a matter of public safety—something the King would have a say in. I’ve never realized it isn’t just because they’re the most profitable choice, but those with Wyvernmail are the only choice.

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  I suddenly feel extremely lucky to have made it out of the palace’s courtyard in one piece. “Do they… eat them? The Gold girls?”

  Taron laughs. “Heavens no. I don’t think so. An endless, albeit slow, production of gold?” He gestures to my person. “That is far too valuable to eat, even for Wyverns.”

  “So there’s a chance Lady Mesonie is still alive?”

  He hesitates. “Possibly, though it was a long time ago. And they are wyverns, after all. Supposedly they can drain a Gold to death, but… not the wisest move on their part.”

  Mr. Bens passes around the rest of the drinks. I take several sips of my champagne and welcome the popping buzz that joins the churning in the pit of my stomach.

  “Now, where should I begin?” Taron asks, crossing one leg over the other as he swirls his whiskey glass.

  “From the beginning, of course,” the Foundress says. “But be mindful, we have guests, they need not hear every little detail. Skip to the good parts, will you?”

  Taron laughs, his smile wide and quick to rise on his face. “Of course, mama. So, we packed all sorts of things, namely bottles of this whiskey and coats for—I’m joking!” He laughs at his mother’s scowl, though she clearly fights a smile. “I shall begin with the story of the pass! This is good, I assure you.”

  Normally, these kinds of stories delight me, but my head swirls with everything I’ve just learned. My pitifully short list of potential marriage prospects. Lord Maurus, who’s already made an offer; Lord Rael, who doesn’t want a wife and I’ve never even seen; Heir Arthur Vale, who’s ‘practically engaged already’; Hoad’s eleven-year-old son is far too young; Helberg only has daughters; and Lord Privett right here, whose mother has already warned isn’t seeking a wife. My heart sinks. I thought I only had to convince Clara to accept an offer from a wealthy high nobleman over Maurus—now it seems I’ll have to convince the King, too.

  Skies, my thoughtless rebuttal of the Prince has forced me into the far-worse hands of Maurus Venon. Unless I can break up an engagement, actually meet Lord Rael, or convince this Lord Privett to take on a wife. That’s it. Those are my options.

  “The Pachuate, you see,” Taron says, leaning conspiratorially towards us, “don’t have our King’s Wyvernblade, nor our Wyvernmail. They’re far easier marks for the wyverns. Thus, they’re at constant war. The wyverns seek their gold. The Pachuate seek wyvern hide for armor—though hide is only nearly impenetrable, unlike our wyvernmail. It makes for a brutal nation with a mandatory draft. But they do have some advantages. Their capitol city has many joys and pleasures. Artists. Musicians. There’s even a university there.”

  A knock sounds on the door.

  The Foundress glances at the clock, which marks us already well into the evening. “Are you expecting a welcoming party, Taron?”

  Mr. Bens sweeps from the room, depositing his drink on the side table as he goes.

  Taron shrugs and sips from his own glass. “Not until tomorrow night, far as I’m aware.”

  Mr Bens returns, his face serious and professional. “Sir Rahiid Venon, High Guard, here to speak privately with you, Lord Privett.”

  Sweat breaks out across my brow. The walls loom higher, closer, enclosing. Surely the High Guard is here to tell Taron what I’ve done. I’ll be turned out. Disgraced.

  If Clara doesn’t strangle me first.

  “Goodness, Bens, you needn’t start that ‘Lord’ nonsense on Rahiid’s behalf. Show him into my study, won’t you?” Taron rises and stretches his long limbs, glass still in hand. “Excuse me a moment, ladies, best not to keep messengers of the royal family waiting.”

  Taron disappears down the hall. The Foundress picks up the conversation, something about the last time she’s been to Pachuate. I can’t listen. Can’t concentrate. Should I leave? Flee now while I have a chance? I can go back to Black’s Tavern again, find Abel or wait for him there. He’s agreed to help Farnell, he might help me too. I’ll first have to fetch the book from upstairs, from where I’ve hidden it under the floorboards beneath my bed…

  My fingers twist in my lap and I’ve just opened my mouth to excuse myself when Bens reappears in the doorway and clears his throat.

  “Lady Aubrey, his lordship requests your presence in his study,” Mr. Bens says, his face impassive and unreadable.

  All eyes turn on me—Clara’s the most piercing of all. As if she already knows of my disgrace.

  With little else to do, I rise and follow Mr. Bens from the sitting room. “Did they say what this is about?” I whisper as we walk down the hall.

  Mr. Bens’s mouth turns up in a subtle, gentle smile. “Your safety.” He pulls open the study door.

  Safety doesn’t mean disgracing me or locking me away in the Pits. Hopefully.

  Inside the study, Taron reclines behind an impressive desk in an oversized leather chair. The High Guard perches across from him, rigid and serious with his corded scars and furrowed brows.

  “Come, Aubrey, sit,” Taron gestures to the chair beside the High Guard’s. “I hadn’t realized what an ordeal you’ve been through just a few days ago. You should have said something.”

  I sit in the massive leather armchair beside the High Guard’s and startle at the way I sink into it. How has he stayed so rigid? I slide myself to the edge and attempt to hold myself with some decorum. I watch the High Guard from the corner of my eye, trying to discern if he knows how I’ve refused and infuriated the Prince in the palace’s conservatory. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

  “Last week, you left the palace unaccompanied and exposed in the presence of a wyvern,” Rahiid says, his voice sharp and accusatory. “Prior to this event, you were likely unknown or merely suspected to their kind. Now that you have been sighted, they will hunt you.”

  I flinch and glance between them. “Hunt me?”

  “That’s right, I’m afraid,” Taron says. “The wyverns have taken many gold-marked women in the past. Remember Mesonie? Unfortunately, now that they know about you, more will watch for you. You’re in danger whenever you’re outside now, and especially if any of the gold on your skin is exposed—which is… most of it.”

  Alarm spirals through me. “They’re that intelligent? They communicate with each other?” I thought their attacks were opportunistic or driven by hunger, not premeditated.

  “Ruthlessness is not devoid of intelligence.” The High Guard’s voice holds a derisive edge.

  “Gold is their source of power,” Taron says with starkly contrasting empathy. “You’re very valuable, Lady Aubrey.”

  The High Guard clears his throat. “Now that you’ve been exposed, you will need to remain under the protection of someone with Wyvernmail. Lord Privett has agreed to take that responsibility. We cannot risk the wyverns taking you and gaining more power.”

  Skies. The royal family sequestered away every bit of gold over a decade ago, but I’ve never considered myself as something to be locked up. Father told me many times that a wyvern would try to take me, but an organized hunt?

  The book. Perhaps it was a true story, after all. Then, too, girls had been taken for their gold markings. But in an organized fashion, through ritual and celebration—though far from celebration for those taken. Then again, in the end, Kheovaria hadn’t wanted rescue. Because the wyverns are intelligent and can… communicate in some way? Or maybe Kheovaria had grown to love them, the way I love Sebastian.

  “You are not,” the High Guard goes on, “under any circumstances, to go out alone. Lord Privett or another of the Lords imbued with Wyvernmail must always accompany you. Any marked skin must be covered completely. Failure to follow these instructions will put yourself and many others at dire risk. They won’t hesitate to kill to abduct you.”

  “I understand.” My scars ache in memory. I know what that wyvernfire feels like. It’s only by the miracle of my gold blood’s ability to heal that I survived the flames that mar my back.

  Yet… Skies above, I’d only just gotten some semblance of freedom. Only just escaped my prison at the manor. Only just begun my alliance with Abel—how will I ever see him again?

  The High Guard rises from his chair and nods to Taron. “She is your charge, Lord Privett.”

  Taron rises and shakes the High Guard’s hand. “I appreciate it. Do send my greetings to the King. I assume my appointment tomorrow to discuss Pachuate still stands?”

  The High Guard nods. “It does.”

  “Excellent.”

  The High Guard Rahiid Venon turns upon me and his heavy gaze descends upon mine.

  I brace, sure this is the moment I’ve been dreading.

  “Good evening, Lady Aubrey.” He bows, stiff and shallow.

  I let out a breath and curtsy in return, my entire body quaking. “Good evening, High Guard.”

  No mention of the Prince. No mention of my refusal. Impossible.

  Late that night, I slog upstairs. My body holds a loose heaviness—perhaps from all the champagne. I like Taron. He might be loud and colorful, like his mother, but he also seems genuinely kind, both to myself and to my family. And, perhaps most admirably, he’s kind to Mr. Bens. I could be ward to a far worse man.

  I reach for the latch to my door when a long-taloned hand latches onto my arm. I barely stifle a yelp.

  Clara’s face glows ominously from the candleholder in her opposite hand. She elbows my bedroom door open and drags me inside. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on, but I’m not liking the rumors I’m hearing about your time with the Prince.”

  Terror climbs up my spine. Mask. Push the emotion down and away. I force my brows to rise with, hopefully, genuine confusion. “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Do not lie to me.” Clara’s nails bite harder into the tender flesh of my wrist. “Might I remind you, we are only in this predicament because of your recklessness. My husband is dead because of you. We are without a Lord of House because of you. We are near destitute because of you.”

  No. Not because of me. Father was murdered. But… I supplied the opportunity, hadn’t I?

  Clara’s fury vanishes in a sweep of unnerving control. She raises her brows in mock innocence. “Unless, of course, you’d rather Maurus. I, myself, would prefer a palace to a struggling Founder manor. But, in the end, I suppose that choice is yours.”

  Revulsion claws at my insides and I clench my jaw against the agony of it. “Why did you never tell me the Founder Lords are my only choice?”

  Clara peels her nails from my arm and smooths her hand over the nail-marked gold. Her expression and voice softens. “Because such ultimatums breed desperation. Desperation is not an attractive quality. Aubrey, dear, you must understand I do all of this for you. If I’m not hard on you, how will you ever learn? I’m here to guide you, as my mother never did for me. If, by the end of the season, Prince Emory doesn’t pick you, then I’ll pick the very best alternative for you. That’s what mothers are for.”

  I don’t have a mother. “I understand.”

  Clara gives her nightgown a sharp tug and leaves, taking the candlelight with her.

  I stand in the newfound darkness and close my eyes. I want to peel out of my skin. Out of this life. If only I would have taken Farnell up on running into the forests all those weeks ago, he’d be safe. I’d be so very far away from here.

  Or maybe we’d both have gotten ourselves caught and killed by now and I’d have betrayed my father’s memory for nothing.

  I cross to the desk and light the lamp.

  Its flickering light illuminates a tiny corner of paper protruding from under the window shutter’s frame.

  I lurch for the note and pull it free. My fingers tremble as I unfold it.

  Tonight. Up. Bring proof.