Again the bell sounds, now joined by another, higher note, and another and another, until all twelve bells sing through Everless. I step into the hall, joining the stream of servants flowing toward the gate. Girls pick up their skirts and run, and even the older maids and sweepers hurry along with the tide. Their chatter echoes through the halls over the clanging of the bells. The clamor reaches me as though through a glass wall. My fear for my father buzzes in my ears, clouding my vision.

But I try my best to push the fear to the back of my mind. My father is strong to his core. He came all this way, didn’t he? And if the wind is at his back and luck is on his side, he’ll be home by nightfall.

As quickly as possible, I join a knot of servant girls in a corner in the main hall. Lora moves among them, rubbing away flour from faces and straightening dresses.

“Jules,” she says tightly, when she sees me. “We’ve been waiting.”

I duck my head. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Lora lifts a hand to my hair, where a few strands have escaped the knot at the back of my head to fly around my face. She tucks them behind my ears, clucking her tongue in disapproval when they just spring out again.

“No help for it,” she mutters, then raises her voice. “Outside, girls, and be quick.”

Out on the lawn, hundreds of servants are assembling to line the path that leads from Everless’s gates to the entrance hall, a small army dressed in Gerling green and gold. I catch sight of Alia amid a cluster of other servant children, standing on her tiptoes to see the path. Guards pace the path at intervals—Ivan at the front—hands resting on jeweled sword hilts. It’s the biggest gathering of people I’ve ever seen, and it makes me feel very small.

How much time, I think, must there be among us? Centuries and centuries. Ten thousand years or more. And yet every single Gerling has as much as ten of the rest of us.

They funnel out together, the Gerlings, flowing like a beautiful liquid wealth, like molten iron, out of the front doors of Everless. Lord Gerling is flanked by his wife and sons. Behind the four of them are arrayed a dozen relatives, resplendent in gowns of silk and velvet. I shiver as I recognize the woman standing behind Lady Verissa; the duchess, Lady Corinne, hardly looks older than her daughter, though she must be sixty at least. I watch her as she slips something from her own purse into her mouth.

Anger rises in me as I imagine an hour melt on her tongue. I glance up at the tower window where I know Lady Sida must be sitting, watching the proceedings with those strange pale eyes. But I find myself wishing I could see her expression, eavesdrop on her gossip when she sees the Queen.

Liam stands a little apart from his family, eyes half-closed as though the festivities bore him. A familiar mixture of fear and anger sweeps through me as I remember seeing him force his own brother into a roaring fire. How twisted he must be, this boy who has everything, to let two innocent lives be ruined just to disguise his own cruelty.

But Roan.

Roan.

The old folk in the village say the Gerlings have ancient blood in their veins—the blood of the mad lord who imprisoned the Sorceress and the Alchemist so many centuries ago, whose greed forced them to bind time to blood and doomed us all to our lives of toil. They certainly have enough blood-iron for it to be true. It’s easy to believe the Gerlings are evil to their core, that there’s something in their blood that makes them that way. But looking at Roan—his dusk-blue eyes, his time-stopping smile—I see nothing that approaches evil.

He’s offered his arm gallantly to his grandmother with the vacant gaze. He wears an immaculate deep-gold waistcoat, but his hair stands up in every direction as usual. I think of the argument he must have had with his mother over that hair—the same argument I overheard so many times as a child—and despite everything, I have to suppress a smile. I watch as he elbows Liam in some secret joke, and wonder how he can be so forgiving of the brother who once tried to push him into a roaring fire.

Foolish, I chide myself. Yes, Roan is beautiful and charming. He will be beautiful when I’m an old woman, if I live long enough to age. He’ll be charming long after I’m dead.

The gates creak into motion, and a reverential murmur goes up from the assembled servants. I tear my gaze from Roan to watch the Queen’s company arrive.

Gleaming carriages roll in one by one. There are five of them in all, pulled by proud white horses. A handful of guards walk alongside them, their swords glinting in the afternoon sun. My pulse speeds up as the leading carriage draws close enough for me to see the woman sitting inside.

At first, the Great Queen is just a pale spot on a field of scarlet. Then, she comes closer. Like those next to me, I cannot help but suck in a breath. She is tall, strong, her face unlined, though I know she’s looked like this since well before my father was born—before his father too, and his. A small smile lifts her mouth as she looks out over the crowd and waves, and I feel the completely inappropriate desire to laugh or clap or both.

Next to me, Ingrid leans over. “I heard she was beautiful, but this—” She pauses. “I never expected this.”

“My mother says a witch tends her,” Bea chimes in. She’s dressed for the occasion as much as we servants can, wearing a blue shawl over her kitchen dress that sets off her brown skin beautifully. The scent of lavender drifts from her clothes.

I wish Lora were here, to tell them all to hush. If Ivan hears us chatting, who knows what example he’ll make of us.

Another carriage rolls along behind hers, smaller but no less grand. When it passes, I look for the first time at Roan’s betrothed, Ina Gold. She wears her dark hair short; it skims her earlobes and frames her heart-shaped face. She’s so lovely she practically glows. Her perfect smile is aimed directly at Roan, and her face and hands are pressed eagerly against the carriage window as if she’s waiting for the glass to vanish so she can run to him. My heart contracts when I see that he’s smiling back. I avert my eyes, back to the Queen’s carriage, and notice the deep grooves in the wood—as if it had been assailed with arrows. Strange.

The carriages bearing the Queen and Lady Gold, and several more behind them, pull to a halt. As the Queen descends down a narrow set of pearled steps, scarlet robes cascading around her, the Gerlings kneel and bow. The servants follow, all of us sinking to the grass. The dew dampens my skirts.

After a long moment, Lord Gerling rises, signaling for the rest of us to stand. “Your Majesty,” he rumbles. “What an extraordinary honor to receive you at our home.”

The Queen nods curtly, scanning Lord Gerling before looking away. Even from a distance, I see him flinch under her gaze. “Thank you, Nicholas.”

Her voice sounds remote, like she’s speaking from down a long, dark tunnel. She’s beautiful, otherworldly, elegant and radiating power. The red waterfall of her cape is held up by a dark-haired lady-in-waiting. As the Queen surveys Everless, Papa’s strange words—Don’t let her see you—echo through my head.

What on earth could he have meant by it?

Where is he now?

Stepping forward, Roan takes Lady Gold’s hand and kisses it—she throws her head back and laughs. The noise fills the air, clear and crisp as the peal of a bell.