The sun had barely crested the ridge when Fran stepped into the corridor and realized something was wrong.

  The guest chamber door stood open. Not wide — just enough to reveal rumpled sheets and an untouched breakfast tray resting on the side table. A half-empty wine glass teetered near the edge, casting long shadows in the morning light.

  No sign of Nyvara.

  Fran frowned, stepped closer. “Your Highness?” she called, knocking once — a courtesy, not a request.

  No answer. She glanced inside. The princess’ trunks were still there, her traveling shoes discarded by the hearth, one glove slung over the edge of the chair like a silk carcass. But the room felt hollow. Wrong.

  A rustle behind her — Nyvara’s maid stood in the hallway, pale and bleary-eyed, wringing her hands.

  “She’s not here, Your Grace,” the girl said softly. “I brought up her tea as usual, but…” She glanced over Fran’s shoulder. “She wasn’t in her bed this morning. Nor in the library. I checked.”

  Fran took a breath, slow and cold. “And the footman?”

  “Still asleep downstairs. He hasn’t seen her since last night.”

  Of course not. Nyvara could slip past a guard post in full daylight if it pleased her — court etiquette had trained her for grander disappearances.

  Fran turned on her heel. “Wake him. Tell him to search the grounds. And stay near the carriage. If she left, it wasn’t by horse.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply. She was already striding down the stairs, her slippers silent on stone.

  The kitchen — empty.

  Library — abandoned, except for a single open book and the scent of old lavender.

  Parlor — still scattered with last night’s wine cups and cushion covers. Fran brushed her hand across the table once, then moved on.

  She found Gale in the orchard, halfway through tying up a broken branch. He looked up as she approached, saw her expression, and dropped the twine.

  “She’s gone,” Fran said. “Since dawn or earlier. Maid hasn’t seen her. The footman’s still in bed.”

  Gale exhaled through his nose. “What, she climbed the ivy and escaped like a bored princess in a play?”

  “She could be in the woods. Or by the river.” Fran hesitated. “Or she left.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Then I’ll check the village.”

  Fran nodded. “Start at Emaen’s. If anyone’s seen a noblewoman in violet slippers wandering around looking smug, it’ll be her.”

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  He didn’t smile. Just dusted off his sleeves and turned for the path.

  Gale stormed down the path from Veltryn House like a man possessed, boots crunching against gravel and dried needles. The air smelled of pine, but it did nothing to calm him. Not today. Not after that.

  He passed the gates without seeing them. The villagers he did see offered cautious nods — some perhaps recognizing him from the bathhouse visit — but he didn’t return them. His jaw was locked. His eyes burned. His fingers were clenched in his coat like he might cast a fireball at the first person who mentioned the word sorbet.

  The apothecary sat just beyond the market square, half-hidden behind a curtain of flowering vines and an old painted sign. Gale didn’t knock. He never did.

  The door slammed open.

  “I hate her!”

  Inside, glass rattled. Emaen turned from the shelf with a small jar in hand, eyebrow already raised. “Good morning, Gale. Something happened?”

  “That woman—” Gale paced toward the counter, arms flailing. “She’s insufferable! An entitled, parasitic, diabolical—thing! She stormed into the house like she owns it, and—gods above—I was two breaths away, Emaen. Two!”

  Emaen blinked. “So... you really do have a guest.”

  “Yes. And if I don’t kill her, Fran might. She treats us like staff. Complains about the furniture, the stonework, the weather—”

  “And this guest is…?”

  Gale threw his hands up. “Princess Nyvara.”

  “Oh,” Emaen said, with the slow delight of a woman whose suspicions had just been confirmed.

  “She called me ornamental. She said I wore a collar! And then—” He pointed to his chest, scandalized, his voice rising to an indignant pitch. “She called me the duchess’ sorbet!”

  Emaen clapped a hand over her mouth, barely stifling a laugh.

  The back door creaked open, and Namos appeared, hauling a sack of herbs over one shoulder. “Morning. Why are we talking about dessert?”

  “It seems the gossip was true,” Emaen explained, fighting back a grin. “Frances and Gale have a guest. None other than princess Nyvara.”

  Namos gave a low whistle. “A proposal and a royal guest? You’re really doing great, my friend.”

  Emaen nodded, mock-somber. “Alas, the guest was uninvited. And the proposal… foiled by said guest.”

  “And she insulted you?” Namos asked, wiping his hands.

  Gale looked like he’d just eaten soap. “She called me ornamental. The duchess’ sorbet.”

  Namos paused. “Really?”

  Gale and Emaen, in weary chorus: “Yes.”

  Namos set the sack down with a soft thud. “And you’re offended because of this?”

  “Of course I am! How should I feel?”

  The couple exchanged a look. Then looked at Gale. Then back at each other. The laughter burst out of them at once.

  Gale narrowed his eyes. “What—what are you doing?”

  “How old are you, Gale?” Emaen asked between snorts. “Because my children call each other worse names before breakfast, and the oldest still has all his baby teeth!”

  “Our son called his sister goblin sausage this morning,” Namos added with a chuckle. “I didn’t know whether to scold him or laugh.”

  Emaen gave him a sideways glance, to which he answered: “I did scold him, honey. Naturally.”

  “Of course you did.”

  Gale stared at them for a long moment. Then he leaned against the counter, finally chuckling. “So I’m not better than a six-year-old.”

  Emaen smiled. “Don’t get me wrong — everyone knows the princess has a… reputation. But it sounds like she picked you as her favorite target.”

  “And she was almost gentle,” Namos added. “She called you a dessert. I’ve been called worse. And that was before I had this scar and a limp. Honestly, if someone called me the potion-maker’s tart, I might take it as a compliment.”

  They all burst out laughing again — the kind of laughter that cracked through walls of frustration like sunlight through stormclouds.

  When it finally faded, Gale exhaled, lighter.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Both of you.”

  “Anytime, Master Sorbet,” Emaen grinned.

  He groaned. “I should never have told you.”

  “Too late,” Namos said. “It’s canon now.”