Apparently, when Justine said “we should go and find some food,” she meant she would lead me to the kitchens and abandon me there. One minute the chef is stuffing two plates of food in my hands, the next I turn to find Justine gone. I hurry to the door, but she’s already out of sight.

Damn her. How did she escape so fast? I know she probably has plenty to do right now between the palace and the city, but I could have helped, if she’d let me.

With a sigh, I take the plates to a quiet, out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen. No need to let this food go to waste—besides, this hunger is starting to make me cranky. I find a stool and plop myself onto it, shoveling roasted vegetables into my mouth as I watch the bustle of activity around me. The cooks run about between their various stations, and though they’re obviously hustling, there’s an organized pattern to their energy. They have their work down to a rhythm, even when the rest of the palace is chaos around them.

My life used to have the same sort of rhythm. Now? I’m just the outsider who gets underfoot and throws everyone else out of sync.

Quickly, I shovel down the sliced beef and gravy and fingerling potatoes on my plate. Once they’re gone, I move to the next plate, eating that one, too. All that work running down horses definitely gave me an appetite.

As I eat, a handful of people filter in and out of the kitchen—mostly attendants and valets. Some grab food for themselves, while others leave pushing rolling carts stacked with shining silver trays of food. As I’m eating the last of the vegetables from the second plate, a young man—he can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen—in a Royal Guard uniform comes in.

“I was sent to check on our lunches,” he says. “Are they ready yet?” He glances around the kitchen with curiosity—as if he’s never seen it before. A new recruit, maybe? He certainly can’t have been among the Guards’ ranks for long, not at his age. He takes a couple of steps forward, leaning over to peer down into a pot, and nearly trips one of the cooks scurrying by with a tray fresh from the over. The woman curses at him, and he leaps back—right into a cart stacked high with trays of hot food.

The next few seconds happen as if in slow motion—the young man stumbles slightly when his hip hits the cart, but he manages to catch himself before he falls. The cart of food, however, isn’t as lucky—it hits the corner of one of the stoves and starts to topple. The young man, to his credit, notices right away and reaches desperately for the cart, but it’s too heavy and he’s too slow. The cart falls forward, and the trays of food tumble right off. Most of the steaming food lands on the floor, but a good bit of it lands on the poor Guard.

He looks down at his uniform—no longer as crisp and clean as it was a moment ago—and looks like the world is ending.

The chef comes hurrying over, her face red and her eyes sharp.

“Watch where you’re going!” she says. “Do you realize how much food you just wasted?”

“I…I’m sorry,” the man stammers, looking utterly bereft. “I was just sent to get the Guards’ lunches—”

“And you did, only they’re inedible now,” the cook says. She snaps her fingers, and two of her staff run over with towels, ready to clean up the mess.

“Patrick, Louisa,” the chef calls to a couple of her cooks, “get another pot of beef stew going. And another hundred rolls in the oven.”

“How—how long will that take?” the young man asks. “The captain said I was to bring the lunches back immediately—”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you dumped them on the floor,” the chef says sternly. “Come back in an hour.”

His eyes go wide. “An hour! What am I supposed to tell him?”

“I’m sure your uniform will do most of the talking,” the chef says. “Now get out of my kitchen. Every minute you’re in our way is another minute it’ll take to make more.”

The young man takes a few steps back, clearly unsure of what to do. I take my empty plates over to the sink—careful not to get in anyone’s way as I do—then go around to where the young Guard is still standing frozen. This might be exactly the opportunity I need.

“Come on,” I tell him. “I think I might be able to help you.”

He jumps at the sound of my voice. Apparently he didn’t realize I was in the room.

“Your Highness,” he says, bowing quickly. “Forgive me, I… I wasn’t trying to…”

“Don’t worry,” I say lightly. “Mistakes happen. Sometimes life gets a little messy.” I look down at his uniform, which is definitely going to need a professional cleaning to get all those stains out. “Do you have another uniform?”

“Just one,” he says. “But it’s back at home. It’ll take me an hour to get there and back.”

“Then we’ll just have to go speak to your captain, won’t we?” I say, taking him by the shoulder and leading him out of the kitchen. “Fortunately, you have me here to talk to him for you.”

The young man’s eyes go wide in apparent terror. “What are you going to tell him? I already have two demerits this week. If I get a third, I’ll be on probation. They haven’t had to put a trainee on probation in twenty years—”

“And if I have anything to say about it, you won’t be going on probation, either,” I say to him. “I’ll take care of everything, I promise.” I look down at him. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“I’m Julian Wagner, Your Highness.” He gives another quick bow.

Now that I’m up close to him, he looks even younger than I originally thought—but maybe the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks just makes him look especially boyish.

“How old are you, Julian?” I ask as we walk down the corridor.

“Sixteen, Your Highness.”

That startles me. “They recruit boys your age into the Royal Guard?” In Montovia, members of the Royal Guard are recruited directly from military training—so they’re often in their early twenties before they ever don one of our uniforms.

“I’m not a member of the Guard yet, just a trainee,” he says. “We have the option of joining the training program during the last year of secondary school. They let me join early because my marks in school were so high.” He straightens slightly, but then his chin droops again. “Of course, that doesn’t matter if I can’t complete basic tasks.”

“Accidents happen,” I remind him. “I’ll take care of it.”

Julian doesn’t look entirely sure, but he nods. I suspect he’s not exactly the sort to talk back to a prince.

I let him lead me through the corridors, and my selfish ambitions are rewarded when I realize we’re heading toward the eastern wing, exactly as I hoped.

To my disappointment, though, we don’t end up at the guarded door. But I should have known Julian wouldn’t lead me there—if they’re hiding something from me, they’re probably hiding it from their trainees, too.

Either way, Julian seems to have no qualms about leading me through the part of the palace where I’ve been told not to go. Maybe he doesn’t know any better—or maybe he’s too worried about facing his captain to care about some arbitrary rule placed on the Princess’s new royal husband. Either way, I intend to keep him out of us much trouble as possible—and learn as much as I can while I’m here.

Honestly, so far the eastern wing looks a lot like the western wing—just a lot of long hallways and closed doors. Ostentatious art on the walls, silk rugs on the ground, gilded sconces at regular intervals…nothing overly suspicious or strange. The windows on this side of the building seemed to have survived the storm fairly well. I only noticed one cracked pane as we walk along.

So what exactly is my new “family” trying to hide from me?

Eventually, we reach a door that’s been propped open. Julian glances down at his uniform again, worry wrinkling his brow, and I give him another pat on the shoulder.

“Just let me do all the talking,” I say.

Inside the room is a large desk, and behind it stands a tall, stern-looking man with a long gray mustache in a Royal Guard uniform. There are several other uniformed men in the room—two having a discussion in the corner, and another three standing at the desk, listening to the mustached man talk at them. I glance around, looking for any sign of what might be going on around here, but the room looks like any other office.

And then the mustached man’s eyes fall on me, and his eyebrows snap together. He immediately stops talking to the men at his desk and strides over to us at the door.

I don’t even have to look down at his uniform to know that this is the captain—the way he carries himself tells me as much. He’s frowning at me, and his frown only deepens when his gaze shifts to Julian and his stained uniform.

“What is the meaning of this?” the captain says. “What’s going on here?”

I step forward, extending my hand. “Good to meet you, sir. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being acquainted yet. I’m Prince William, Princess Justine’s new husband.”

The captain opens his mouth, and for a moment I honestly think he’s going to tell me off—but he seems to think better of it. Whatever his orders from the king about me, I still outrank this man, and he knows it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” he says, giving a cursory bow. “I’m Captain Wolfe, head of the Rosvalian Royal Guard.”

Wolfe. How fitting. I almost laugh out loud.

“What brings you to this part of the palace, Your Highness?” he says. His tone suggests that he knows—and he knows that I know—that I’m not allowed here. “How might I be of service?”

“I simply came to apologize,” I say, keeping my tone light. “You see, young Julian here was bringing your lunches to you when I ran right into him and knocked over the cart. You can see I’ve made quite the mess of his uniform—and I’m afraid the chef is having to remake all the food, which means it won’t be ready for another hour. I wanted to offer my sincerest apologies for the inconvenience.”

Captain Wolfe’s eyes have narrowed. He looks at Julian, then back at me. “You have nothing to apologize for, Your Highness. No doubt Trainee Wagner was being careless and not watching where he was going.”

“I assure you, Captain, that was not the case. Trainee Wagner was just doing his job, and I came barging around the corner—I’ve been helping out with the storm, you see. I’m not used to this sort of chaos, and I was distracted.” I put my hand on Julian’s shoulder.

The captain’s mustache twitches. “Still. Trainee Wagner knows better than to drag you back here to—”

“Oh, he does, certainly. It was I who insisted. In fact, I had to order him to bring me to you. I won’t have him punished for my mistake. Is that understood?”

Captain Wolfe’s eyes went hard the moment I interrupted him, but my little power play seems to have worked—he doesn’t argue again. Instead, he gives a slow nod and says, “Of course, Your Highness.”

I intend to hold him to that—if he punishes Julian after I’m gone, then I intend to find out about it. In the meantime, though, I plan to take full advantage of my presence in this part of the palace.

“I’m sure you’re quite busy with recovery efforts for the storm,” I say. “I’d like to help. I’m sure an extra pair of hands would be quite useful—just send me off with some of your men and I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s not necessary, Your Highness. I assure you, we have everything under control.”

“I never meant to imply you didn’t. But as I said—in situations like this, another person can be a great help. And I do hate to sit around doing nothing when there’s work to be done. I’m not one of those princes who likes to lounge about all day.” My voice is still light.

“I couldn’t,” Captain Wolfe says. “It wouldn’t be appropriate, Your Highness.”

“Oh, who cares about what’s appropriate? There’s work to be done.”

Anger flashes in Captain Wolfe’s eyes—he’s clearly frustrated, but he can’t deny me outright. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place—even though I’m sure his loyalties lie with his king, he wouldn’t dare treat me with open disrespect.

And it’s to his king that he eventually deflects.

“If King Maximilian discovers I’ve ordered his new son-in-law about like one of my men, he’ll have my head,” Captain Wolfe says. “But if His Majesty sends his approval of your request, I’d be happy to oblige.” He gives another little bow. “Your Highness.”

He knows he has me—if I press him again, I’ll be as good as admitting that I’m not just here to help, that I’m concerned with something deeper.

Captain Wolfe raises a hand and beckons to one of the other men in the room. “Officer Mayer, please escort His Highness back to his suite.”

As the other man rushes over, I keep my eyes locked on Wolfe’s.

This isn’t over, I think. Good God, this place has too many bloody secrets.

I smile broadly at both of the men and then turn to Julian.

“Thank you for being so patient with me, Trainee Wagner. I look forward to following your training progress.” That final part is for the benefit of Wolfe—and I look at him, just to make sure he knows I’ll be watching over Julian. “And thank you for the escort, but I don’t need one. I can find my way back to my suite all by myself.”

“I insist,” Captain Wolfe says, his voice hard.

“And I’ll be sure to tell His Majesty that you followed your orders.”

Wolfe’s mouth tightens. I give him another smile and turn to go.

I’m not three steps out of the room when I hear Captain Wolfe speak again, clearly knowing I’ll hear. “Officer Mayer, would you take this report to Officer Klein?”

I sigh. Within moments, Officer Mayer is following me down the corridor. Looks like I won’t be doing any more exploring today.

Still, I’ve made it farther today than I ever did before. Not that I learned much, if anything…but it’s a start. And I have a feeling I’ve made a friend of Julian. It can’t hurt, having a friend in the Royal Guard, even if he’s only a trainee.

Now I just have a few of my wife’s secrets to figure out. And if she’s gone off to help with the storm, then that gives me plenty of time to find one of her journals again.

If she’d just talk to me, I wouldn’t have to resort to such measures, I tell myself. It’s the only way I can justify looking through her private writings, but it’s enough. When I reach the main part of the palace—and notice Officer Mayer casually guarding the way back, I start toward the western wing. Rather that go to my suite, however, I head toward Justine’s office, the last place she had her journal.