Kham’s head jerked on a sudden, wincing pain, and she scowled at the Wintercraig maid dressing her hair. “Good, then perhaps you can finish my hair. While I still have some of it left.”

“Of course, my lady.” Bella dismissed the remaining Winterfolk and set to work finishing Khamsin’s hair.

When they were gone, some of the tension drained from Kham’s shoulders. She closed her eyes and let the silence wash over her. It was quiet here. Elsewhere in the palace, stone walls and marble floors let sound echo, but here the hardwood floors and the profusion of rugs and hangings helped muffle unwanted noise. And for once, Bella wasn’t chattering like a magpie.

Khamsin frowned. Chatter. Magpie.

Birds.

Her eyes opened. She sat up straight. “Bella, where are my birds? The tanagers Spring gave me.” In the mirror, Kham saw a strange stillness come over her maid’s face. “Bella?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the girl said. “They didn’t survive the journey.”

“What? But when did they die? How?”

“I think the cold killed them. It happened the day you were so ill, and the Winter King sent me away. I buried them by the side of the road, back in Summerlea.”

Khamsin’s shoulders slumped. Poor little things. She’d tried to keep them warm, but apparently it hadn’t been enough. The thought of the tiny songbirds with their greenish yellow winter coats lying dead in the snow, their cheerful song forever silenced, made her want to cry.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Bella murmured.

“No, it’s not your fault. Some things just weren’t meant for this place.” Kham closed her eyes and fought back the burning press of tears. It was so foolish to cry, but they’d been such sweet, darling little things. And they’d sung so cheerfully together as the coach had carried Khamsin farther and farther from the only home she’d ever known.

By the time Bella finished fixing the last curl in place, Khamsin had her emotions in check. Her eyes were dry, her face composed. Tildy would have been proud.

Kham stood and regarded her reflection with a critical eye. Her gown was silvery white satin, with a heavily beaded bodice, long, unadorned skirts gracefully behind her. Ice blue satin slippers, embroidered with silver thread and crystal beads, peeped out beneath the gown’s hem. The ice blue velvet overdress nipped in at the waist and fastened with a row of three diamond and aquamarine buttons. The collar of thick, soft ermine covered her shoulders and framed her bronze face and dark, upswept hair. Wynter’s ring, the Wintercraig Star, was her only jewelry.

A knock sounded on the doors in the outer chamber. Bella hurried to answer it. As Khamsin picked up her skirts to follow, a flash of white in the mirror made her spin around in alarm.

Wynter stood inside her bedroom, near her dressing room door. He was clad in white from head to toe. His inscrutable gaze swept over her.

She pressed a hand to her rapidly beating heart. “How did you get in here?”

He waved a careless hand behind him. “There is a connecting door from your dressing room to mine.” One would think white would make him seem softer, kinder, less threatening even, but it only made him look taller, broader, and more dangerous. A wolf in lamb’s clothing. The hair at his temples had been drawn back again and braided in three thin, silver-ringed plaits that framed his face.

“Wintercraig colors suit you,” he said. Before she could do more than blink in surprise at the compliment, he held out a small box. “Here. I meant to return these to you.”

Curious, Kham opened the box and looked inside. “My mother’s things!” Kham set the box on her bed and pulled them out—her mother’s gardening journal, her jeweled brush, comb, and mirror. Kham ran her fingers over the familiar, beloved objects. Emotion welled up so suddenly, she nearly humiliated herself by bursting into tears.

“Thank you.” Kham busied herself setting her mother’s thing out on her dresser. “These are very dear to me. They’re all I have left of my mother.” She turned back to find Wynter regarding her with an inscrutable gaze.

“You must have loved her very much.”

She’d revealed too much. Not wanting him to use her vulnerability against her, she said, “I’m told I did. She died when I was three.” She lifted her chin and added bluntly, “I summoned the storm that killed her.”

She’d meant to shock him. And to warn him not to underestimate her or her magic. But instead of responding with wariness or concern or even surprise, his gaze softened, and his voice, when he spoke, brushed across the broken parts of her soul like warm velvet. “I’m so sorry, min ros. I can only image the pain you’ve carried all these years.” He stepped closer and slid a hand through her hair, cupping her head in his palm, stroking her temple with his thumb. “But you were a child, Khamsin. A baby. Even if you summoned the storm, no one in their right mind could ever blame you for what happened.”

She ached to lean into him, to let the guilt fall away, but she moved away instead, rejecting his comfort and offer of absolution. “You weren’t there. You don’t know anything about it.”

“No, but I was there when you awakened in my tent and realized you’d called a fierce storm in your delirium. I saw how alarmed you were by the mere thought that you might have injured someone with your magic. And those were my men you worried about. Soldiers who’d been your enemies only days before.” He shook his head. “You aren’t a killer, Khamsin. You aren’t a monster or a curse on anyone’s House. And you didn’t kill your mother.”