The late afternoon light stretched long and golden across the royal gardens, painting the autumn leaves in fire. Prince Tavian had been pacing the palace corridors for what felt like hours, his attendants trailing after him with talk of fittings and etiquette he couldn’t be bothered to hear. By the time he slipped away into the gardens, his head was buzzing with irritation and restlessness.

And then he saw her. Crouched among the herb beds, gathering sprigs of rosemary with careful fingers, completely absorbed in her work. Relief washed over him so strongly he nearly laughed aloud.

“Thank the gods,” Tavian groaned, striding toward her with the air of a man rescued from certain death. “If I had to listen to one more word about embroidery on ball gowns, I’d have thrown myself into the moat. What are you doing out here, hiding? Please tell me you’ll let me hide with you.”