Adaline’s hand shook as she lifted a teacup to her lips. Training with Evzan was a piece of cake compared to required social gatherings. Her stomach churned with anxiety, and the lukewarm tea did nothing to settle her. She tightened her grip on the curved handle, and little warm droplets splattered onto her hand and then dripped onto her silk dress. At least the awful gown was black and wouldn’t show the evidence of her nerves. Very carefully, she set her cup down, the two pieces of china clattering against each other. She glanced up from her disastrous tea, only to find every occupant of the room watching her.

Lovely.

“Uh . . . the weather is too hot lately, don’t you think?” Adaline asked the plump duchess across from her, hoping the question was sufficient enough of a contribution so Adaline could let her mind wander back to fighting Beloch or her lessons. The inane conversation was not the sole fault for her wandering thoughts. This morning, she’d had another—impossible—magic lesson with Dimira, but Adaline needed her magic to work, so impossible wasn’t going to cut it.

The soldiers who’d broke through over a week ago were slowly advancing toward Rizy, but their limited number meant their attacks had to be strategic. Until a larger number of men were able to get through, Cervene would not be able to go after Tsar Baine or his nephew.

“Oh, the weather is far too hot, Your Highness, far too hot,” Duchess Vanda rushed to agree as she reached forward to pluck another lemon tart from the tiered server set. She bit into the confection, and Adaline felt a small measure of relief to see crumbs fall into Her Grace’s lap. Granted, her napkin caught them all, but the fact that the duchess wasn’t perfect gave Adaline a smidgen of hope.

Sitting at the table beside Chantal Vanda, Duchess of Vallée de la Rivière, her three daughters perked up, attention fixed on Adaline. Their names utterly eluded her at the moment. Were they virtues or, maybe, fruit? Adaline racked her brain, but the only information she could remember, regarding the three girls, was their names all started with the same letter. On the opposite side of the table, Francine, lady of Vallée de l'or, sat, and her five daughters were scattered at the remaining tables. Lady Francine’s girls were named after flowers, the oldest was Petunia, or was it Peony?

Adaline glanced back at the women and frowned as she looked at their apparel. When had the fashion changed? “You ladies must be roasting alive in those dresses,” Adaline said. “It’s still summer.”

Her hand went unconsciously to her own low v-line, and she grimaced. The new style was familiar as was the fashion of stiff lace covering their neck and chest instead of the previously fashionable scoop or v-line. Stars above, Adaline looked positively indecent with this primly dressed crowd.

Lady Vanda tittered an uncomfortable-sounding laugh, and Lady Francine’s daughters all nodded, bobbing their heads in unison, but their eyes were wide with surprise. Adaline must’ve said something rude . . . again.

But then, mercifully, one of the plant-named girls, Lily or Lilac or Lavender, grinned prettily and said, “Oh, yes, far too hot, Your Majesty. Mama fainted yesterday right in the center of town square.”

Lady Francine covered her heaving bosom with a thick hand and huffed. “Laurel, darling, half the ladies of court fainted at that. It took three strokes of the ax for the executioner to cut through that man’s neck.”

Adaline’s stomach flipped, and her afternoon tea threatened to come back up. “What?”

“Do you plan to attend the next one, Your Majesty?” one of the other plant-girls asked, her thin pink lips spreading into a smile over her teacup.

Adaline blinked at the women, trying to digest Lady Francine’s words. Certainly they couldn’t mean . . . “Plan to attend what . . . exactly?”

The women glanced at one another, and Duchess Vanda patted Adaline’s arm. “The next execution at Burdad’s square. I do hope your health will allow you to attend soon.”

“It’s very entertaining,” one of the other girls said before stuffing an éclair in her mouth. “We’d love an invite to the royal box when you do attend.”

“Hush, Pansy. We cannot ask Her Royal Highness for an invite; she must ask us on her own,” said the duchess, giving Adaline a meaningful look.

Words dried to dust in Adaline’s mouth as the vision of the boy in the dungeon played over in her head. Her gaze fixated on the empty space before her, but in her mind she saw the executioner’s ax slice through the young man’s neck and dark blood spilling out, saturating the filthy straw. She choked back vomit and stood, upending her cup and plate, splattering tea and crumbs all over the polished wood floor.

In unison, the women gasped.

“Are you unwell, Your Highness?” the Duchess asked, her eyes as wide as the rim of her teacup.

Adaline shook her head. “Who—who is being executed?”

This question caused all the women to peer among themselves yet again. “The Belochian spies.” A sculpted, painted-on brow rose high on Lady Francine’s handsome face. “Queen Dimira is having them publicly beheaded for treason. They’ve been happening almost daily for the last fortnight and sporadically before that. It’s quite the spectacle.”

Peony-Flower-girl leaned forward, her painted face twisting grotesquely with excitement, and whispered to her mother, “I have to say I thought I wouldn’t have a taste for watching, but I quite enjoy—”

“That’s revolting,” Adaline spat, interrupting the young woman.

Even with the thick makeup, the girl’s complexion blanched. “Um, Your Highness—I, uh, I apologize . . .”

The rest of the room’s occupants, including the servants, all wore identical expressions of shock, but Adaline was only further sickened by their surprise. She stepped over the fallen dishes, her skirt dragging them on the floor as she strode from the room.

“Your Highness?” one of the women called, but Adaline ignored them all as she rushed into the wide marble hallway stretching the length of the east-wing of the palace.

Only a few feet into the hall, Evzan caught up to her. “Adaline?”

She reached for the pommel of her weapon, only to recall she wasn’t wearing it. Shooting a glare at her taciturn guard, she demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me about the executions?”

Neither her tone nor words affected his impassive expression. “Did you think the war would come without loss of life? What do you think your hundreds of thousands of soldiers are going to do when you destroy the wall? We’re fighting this war because the tsar murdered your family. Do you not have the stomach to see this through?”

Instead of responding, Adaline focused on the sound of her heels clicking on the stone as she rushed through the network of high arched hallways. The silken gown she wore was almost as bad as the corset underneath. The cumbersome skirts slowed her pace and inhibited her movement enough that she considered ripping a split up the middle. Passing between wings into the palace proper, she crossed an open colonnade and glanced across the courtyard toward the border. She could see a few of Burdad’s spires and rooftops over the bailey. She’d not ventured into the city in months. But how had no one thought to tell her what was happening?

Adaline found her aunt in council in the king’s cabinet; guards had moved to restrict the princess’s passage, but a thinly veiled threat from Evzan gained them both entrance. The thick wooden doors parted to reveal a room full of older men lining a long table with Dimira seated at the head in King Jarian’s high-backed throne.

Every person at the table glanced up. Lord Billiere, a middle-aged duke with more bristly white whiskers than meat on his face, paused mid-sentence. His jaw sagged open while one of his skeletal fingers pointed into a thick tome open on the table.

“Princess Adaline.” Dimira stood, and the rest of the members of her father’s cabinet scraped their chairs across the stone floor to follow the queen regent’s example.

All the men bowed to Adaline, and she bowed shallowly in response.

“I didn’t expect you for another hour, but I have been hoping that you would join us at the council.” Dimira smiled, gesturing to a chair.

Lord Chaucer, the portly minister of finance, hurried out of the seat to take one farther down the table.

Adaline approached the party, and the afternoon light shot through the west-facing windows, dust motes dancing in the beams.

“Aunt Dimira. I just learned we’re holding public executions,” Adaline said as she held a hand to block the light. The hem of her gown caught under her boot, and Adaline lost purchase on the stone floor. Her stomach flipped as she flew forward, her hands going out to break her fall.

Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and hoisted her back up, still holding firm when she was upright. Adaline looked back to find Evzan glowering.

“Thank you; I’m fine now,” she told him. “This is why I hate skirts and dresses.”

He lifted his hands, holding them up in an obvious sign for peace.

“This has to stop. My father would’ve never ordered or allowed such barbarism,” Adaline said as she turned back to the council at the table. “I will not—”

Evzan cleared his throat, and Adaline spun around once more to glare at him. He raised his eyebrows in response, and she understood his silent warning. Perhaps in her frazzled state, she was not as polite as she should be. She spun forward to face her aunt and amended, “Excuse me, please. Aunt Dimira, I really must speak to you about the executions.”

“Of course.” Dimira turned to the crowd of men. “Gentlemen, I wish to speak to our heir alone. We will continue this discussion tomorrow at . . . seven in the morning. Thank you, each of you, for joining me.”

They took their turns bowing to the regent and then again to the princess. Evzan stayed at Adaline’s side, but once the room was clear, just as she did every day before magic lessons, Dimira said, “You may leave her with me, guard; I’ll look after her.”

And, as he did every day, Evzan hesitated a moment before bowing to the Queen Regent and then retreated out the door.

Dimira crossed the room, hands outstretched, and Adaline stared with dawning realization. The fashion mimicked by the attendants of the tea party, from the high neckline and sculpted updo to the stark makeup and even occasional wimple, was all together right here. Adaline blurted, “The ladies of court all dress like you now.”

Dimira waved away the comment. “Darling, mimicry is normal; the ladies of the court did the same to your mother and then Mari when she came of age.”

“I just . . . it’s a little disconcerting.” The women had so quickly moved on.

“Sheep of fashion want a shepherd, and ladies of the court aren’t going to start donning britches and a tunic.” Dimira took Adaline’s hands, squeezing them gently. “Also, I do wish you would call me Your Highness in front of company, darling. It’s challenging enough already getting the men to respect my commands.”

“Oh, yes,” Adaline said, wincing with shame. “I’m sorry about that. I just . . . I’m just . . . I need to speak with you about these executions.”

“Certainly,” Dimira said, nodding. “Do you mind if we go to my boudoir? Old men do love to hear themselves, and the chairs in here are dreadfully uncomfortable. Every single decision must be discussed for hours; it’s exhausting.” She gave Adaline a small, conspiratorial smile.

Adaline nodded, her gaze flitting over the chairs. Had her father felt the same? She had no memory of him saying such, but she hadn’t paid much attention to his rule either. Gratitude for her aunt swelled in Adaline’s chest. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you.” Dimira took Adaline by the elbow and, graceful as an egret, led her through the inner stone archway and down a long hall to the royal chambers. Though the queen regent’s grip was firm, her shoulders sagged and eyes fell to half-lidded as if she’d been holding back a tide of exhaustion and no longer had the ability.

“Would you like to take your usual seat by the hearth?” Dimira gestured to the unlit stone fireplace at one end of the sitting room. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Adaline sunk into the oversized chair and waited while the sitting ruler of Cervene poured them tumblers of mead and then settled across from her niece on the settee.

Adaline accepted the honey-liquor but merely held the crystal tumbler. Though much of her anger had ebbed, Adaline refused to let this drop. “Aunt Dimira, Papa outlawed public executions. He said they led to barbarism and brutality. I’ll not give my consent to continue.”

Dimira sipped at her glass while the princess spoke—and for several moments after. Finally, her aunt sighed. “I understand, Adaline. I loathe it, but these Belochian spies are the ones who betrayed your parents to their tsar. We must make an example of them. It is not enough to wear a crown, Adaline. To rule you must show, despite your age, you’re to be taken seriously and that Cervene is not weak.”

Adaline nodded, but her attention had zeroed in on Dimira’s declaration that these were the traitors who’d been responsible for her family’s capture. Staring unseeingly at the clean hearth, she asked, “How do we know it was them? Was there proof of their treachery?”

“Of course. Ample proof. If you wish, I’ll send for the evidence after our lesson.” The queen lifted her glass and frowned at her mead. “In the future, how would you have traitors punished?”

“Execution for treason, but privately,” Adaline said and then mumbled, “Like my father did.”

“Perhaps if a more public approach had been taken, no one would’ve dared attack,” Dimira responded, frowning. Before Adaline could respond, the older woman continued, “I do wish you would’ve advised me of your feelings sooner, darling. If you do not attend council, I’m left to guess at how or what you would like done.”

“You’re right,” Adaline said, straightening. “It’s hardly fair to criticize your swift action when I’ve been hiding in my garden or room. I’m sorry. I—I understand why you made the choice you did, and I’ll do better at attending council . . . I promise.”

Dimira pursed her lips before taking another sip of her drink. “Excellent. Now, if we’re finished discussing the executions, let’s move on to your magic lesson. Have you been practicing?”

A fluttering nervousness rose in Adaline’s belly, and she set the tumbler on a side table.

“Yes,” she said, but her mind was still stuck. She leaned toward her aunt and pressed on, “But, moving forward, you’ll make the executions private. I want to make sure we’re on the same page. Once prisoners have been tried, the guilty will be sentenced and killed without glorifying the brutality?”

Dimira smiled, but the skin around her eyes tightened. “Of course. I’ll announce your decision tomorrow and honor it.”

Adaline might not be as pretty as her mother, as kind as her sister, as smart as her father, or as talented as her aunt, but she would be fair. “And I’ll need to see the evidence. Not that I don’t trust you. It’s that—”

“You need to see for yourself. I understand; I’m not offended in the slightest.” Dimira leaned forward and patted Adaline’s hand. “It’s good to see you growing up, darling.”

Twirling the tumbler of mead, Adaline whispered, “Thank you.”

She took a sip of the sweet beverage. The honey taste tickled across her tongue, and a moment after the liquor went down, her nerves settled. Judging by the ladies’ enthusiasm for the public executions, the announcement would not be a popular one, but it was right. It was the decision her father would have made, the one he had made years ago. “Thank you for respecting my wishes.”

“You are to be my queen soon. It’s good practice for me. I need to get a few supplies for our lesson. If you will excuse me for a moment,” she said as she stood, setting her tumbler on the intricately carved end table.

Adaline stared at the piece of furniture. The Temavian style artistry had been her father’s favorite, and Adaline’s eyes filled with tears.

“Princess?” Dimira touched Adaline’s arm, and the princess startled. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—no.” Adaline shook her head, trying to clear it of the wave of emotion. “It’s so strange . . . I can spend all day perfectly able to keep it together, and then I’ll see an end table my father liked, and I’m fighting back tears.” She blinked, spilling the tears, and Adaline scrubbed them away with a mirthless laugh.

Dimira squeezed her niece’s arm and crouched low to look Adaline in the eyes. “You can let your tears fall, dear girl. You’re safe here, and it’s important to have someone you trust, someone you can be yourself with. Otherwise, you’d go mad without a release.”

Adaline swallowed, unable to respond because, for some reason, it wasn’t Dimira’s face Adaline’s mind conjured up when she thought of trust and being herself; it was Evzan. Ridiculous mind. Adaline could never confide in her guard. He was much more likely to lecture than console her as he’d proven more than once.

The queen regent set a jeweled box on the table. Instead of opening the box, she placed a hand on its cover and squeezed the edge of the metal lid. “I think, perhaps, we’ve had no success accessing your power because we’re not going about this the right way. We’ve been trying to push past the binding on your magic, but I think we might need to work around it instead.”

“Work . . . around the binding. As in, keep it in place?”

Dimira tilted her head to the side as she seemingly considered her niece’s words. “Sort of. I think we’d best go back to the very beginning of what we call magic. What do you know of the planes of existence?”

“You mean the heavens and the stars?” Adaline asked. When Dimira frowned, the princess rushed to amend. “Not much, I guess. Mother and Father weren’t particularly religious, but I know djinn are said to come from another plane of existence, and they rule the . . .” She thought for a moment. “Tele-a-world, or something. I think that’s what the Celestial Sisters say. So are there two planes of existence?”

A small smile played on the queen regent’s lips as Adaline ignorantly attempted to explain. When she’d finished, Dimira spoke. “There are three planes of existence—ours here is the mortal plane. Mankind will live their entire life on this earthly plane, and when they die, they are buried in it. The mortal plane is called the telestial plane, or mortal plane. Above that is the terrestrial plane, or Lumea. Djinn and other magical beings of mixed blood rule this plane, and what they do in the Lumea can affect the mortal plane. Above that is the celestial plane, which is infinite.”

Dimira waved her arm overhead as she spoke, extending her fingers to the ceiling. Then she took her seat on the settee again and continued, “The first two planes are like layers, coexisting in the same space. The celestial plane extends to other realms and other worlds. Beings from the other planes can travel between them, down but not typically up. Most will never come to our world, but some slip through the planes, and occasionally these terrestrial or celestial beings have children with mortals. Like their parents, these children are often able to access more than one plane of existence.” She tapped Adaline’s hand. “When one of these blended beings alters the reality in the mortal realm by accessing the terrestrial plane, or the Lumea as some call it, mortals call it witchcraft. But at its root, witchcraft is changing reality in the mortal realm.”

Adaline scrunched her face as she tried to wrap her mind around what her aunt was saying. “So, how do you know what you can do? Your power is so different than mine.”

“Which planes you have access to is dependent on which plane your ancestors originated from, their abilities, and their level of power.”

“You’re saying I’m related to a djinn?” Horror doused Adaline, and her chest felt hollow with the thought. “Are you saying my mother or father wasn’t really—”

Dimira shook her head. “Magic can skip generations before it manifests. And as for a djinni, I doubt your ancestor was terrestrial. Your power was very challenging to bind, and I was not completely successful. Even in the Lumea, your power is strong, and I believe it will extend beyond the terrestrial someday.”

“I’m powerful?” Adaline asked. She, the spare-heir of Cervene, actually had magic and it was strong?

“Not yet,” Dimira said with a laugh. “But I’ll admit I’m a little jealous of your potential. I have yet to meet a Celestial Sister with stronger magic.” The queen regent then opened the metal box, lifting the lid on its hinge, and a sickly, overripe, sweet odor wafted out.

Adaline leaned forward to see. There, in the box on a satin pillow, rested a rotten apple. Brown spots dotted the once-red skin, and on one side, the rot had eaten through to the core, exposing the now-brown flesh of the fruit. Adaline grimaced at the juxtaposition of the rotten fruit on the satin pillow, and while she resisted the urge to plug her nose, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning back.

“This is an exercise I do when I want to sharpen my focus.” Dimira pointed at the apple and asked, “What do you see?”

Adaline wondered if her aunt had lost her mind. Had the strain tipped her over the edge because . . . “It’s a rotten apple.”

The queen regent blew out a laugh. “Yes, of course. But do you see just the apple, or can you see a second layer? Think back to when you were little, how you would see magic before your power was bound. Try very hard. Concentrate.”

Adaline narrowed her eyes and leaned in toward the smelly fruit, staring at it. She thought of each of the different colors, thought of what the threads had looked like, but even after ten minutes of staring, she saw nothing but the single rotten apple.

“It’s all right. This will take time.” Dimira leaned forward and held a hand over the produce. “This apple is old, diseased, decaying, but the apple doesn’t know—it just is. Mankind only sees one possibility, the linear progression of existence, but a witch can see the energy and power of the Lumea. She can take that energy, bend it to her will, and change what happens here.”

Under Dimira’s outstretched hand, the rotted brown spots diminished and then disappeared as the flesh of the apple cleared and then brightened to pristine white. The insides of the fruit knitted together, and the withered skin smoothed and then darkened to vibrant red. The smell lessened until there was nothing but the faint tang of an apple orchard. From the now-pristine apple arose a faint white mist as if the fruit was steaming from the transformation.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dimira took the apple out of the box, holding the red fruit out to Adaline.

“Incredible,” Adaline whispered in awe. How had she never known such magic was possible? Had the Celestial Sisters always been able to wield such power? To change the very nature of life . . .

“Hold it,” Dimira said. “Take it, and feel that it’s real.”

Adaline reached for the proffered fruit, her fingers stroking the smooth skin. Determination surged from within because one day, hopefully soon, she’d use her power to tear down the barrier of the Phoenix Fire, and then she would manipulate the power of the Lumea to exact her revenge. Deadly thoughts filled Adaline, her rage with the tsar ballooning. Righteous indignation would be her reward when she tore the essence of his life from his body. She gritted her teeth with resolve.

“You could even eat it if you wish—” Dimira’s words cut off in a gasp.

Adaline stared, her eyes widening, at the apple in her hand. The fruit’s skin wrinkled and withered; brown spots appeared and then turned black as the apple rotted down to its core and then disintegrated into dust that sprinkled between Adaline’s fingers to the rug beneath.

Adaline jumped up, smacking her now-dirty hand on her billowing skirt. “W-what was that?”

“Oh dear! I-I’m so sorry. It was your power,” the queen regent said as she, too, got to her feet, her brow furrowing. She grabbed Adaline’s hand and traced through the residual dust. “Your power is strange. Very strange. Like nothing I’ve seen before.” Dimira met Adaline’s worried gaze and rushed to add, “But it’s good because that’s what will bring down the wall.”

Adaline’s heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to escape, and her legs twitched, urging her to heed the warning. She glanced at the door and then her hand where the apple had been seconds before.

Whatever this magic was made her stomach churn, and her thoughts swirled and spun as she tried to sort whether she disliked magic or if it was just unfamiliar? She shook her head and dusted her hands together. Her unease didn’t matter. There was no other option if she wanted to defeat Beloch. Swallowing her discomfiture, Adaline asked, “Can you show me again?”

Dimira went to the fruit bowl and plucked another apple from the arrangement. She first made the apple rotten and then reversed the process before handing the fruit to Adaline.

This time, nothing happened. Adaline held the apple, pushing on the skin, bruising the crisp, fresh fruit. She smelled it, picked at it, and then with a frown, handed it back to her aunt. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t it work?”

Dimira pursed her lips, and several moments passed. A knock at the door broke the silence, and Dimira called for her maid to enter and ordered dinner to be brought to her room. After the servant left, the queen regent sat next to Adaline and asked, “What were you thinking about? When you made the apple’s magic disappear, what were you thinking; what were you feeling?”

Adaline blushed, mortified to admit her ghastly fixation with destroying the tsar of Beloch.

Dimira studied the princess, and as Adaline contemplated her hatred, she could see no reason to deny it. Surely, Jarian would want the same, so Adaline told her aunt how she wanted to rip the threads of Tsar Baine’s soul from him to avenge the evil he’d inflicted. When she finished speaking, a slow smile spread across Dimira’s face, and Adaline asked, “Do you think you can help me?”

This time, the queen regent nodded, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Yes, my dear. I do believe I can.”