Morning brings a visitor to my cottage door—a woman draped in silks so exquisite they shine like butterfly wings. Her honey-gold hair is fashioned in elegant, courtly coils, and gems wink from her throat and ears.
"The new gardener," she adds, her voice melodic as she glances me over. "How adorable. I am Lady Revira."
The prince's cousin. Even without Thorne's cautions, I would know to be wary—her smile doesn't reach her calculating eyes.
"My lady," I curtsy, embarrassed of my dirt-stained apron and unkempt braid. "I was just heading to the gardens."
"Of course you were," she laughs softly. "So committed! May I accompany you? I've always had an affection for the royal gardens in their... better days."
I can scarcely deny a noblewoman, especially the prince's cousin. "I would be honored."
As we go, Lady Revira asks questions about my town, my family, and my magical skills. Her curiosity appears genuine, but something in her demeanor reminds me of a cat toying with a mouse.
"I understand you've had success with the thornwall roses," she adds as we reach the southern garden where I've been laboring to revive the golden sunburst lilies. "Cousin Thorne is quite impressed, though he'd never admit it openly."
"The prince has been... fair," I reply carefully.
She chuckles again, the sound like tinkling bells. "Fair! What a diplomatic answer. My relative has many characteristics, but fairness is arguable. Still, he's placed immense hope in you. Some could say, too much hope."
I stoop to examine the lilies, seeming to be engrossed in their care while evaluating my reaction. "The gardens can be restored. It will just take time."
"Time," she sighs, "is something Thornwall may not have. The miraculous blight spreads constantly. Some in court believe more... drastic steps are needed."
"What measures?" I ask, unable to help myself.
Lady Revira's smile turns covert. "Nothing you need bother yourself with, dear gardener. Simply focus on your flowers. If you succeed, amazing! If not..." She shrugs softly. "Other solutions will be found."
She slips away to view a nearby fountain, allowing me space to work. I whisper softly to the golden blooms, feeling their reluctant response. Unlike the thornwall roses, these plants are suspicious, resistant to my magic.
"Such a lovely voice," Lady Revira observes, returning to my side. "A village talent, I suppose."
"My grandmother taught me," I respond, standing to face her. "Lady Revira, may I ask—have you observed anything peculiar about the gardens lately? Besides the evident decline?"
Something flashes in her eyes—surprise, possibly displeasure at my directness. "Unusual? No. Simply the same tragic withering that occurred when my cousin gained power." She draws closer, her voice lowering. "Between us, my love, many feel the prince himself is related to the blight. His winter magic has always been... overdone."
Before I can react, a messenger appears, calling Lady Revira away to some court affair. She takes my hand in farewell, her grip unexpectedly strong.
"I do hope we'll be friends," she replies, her eyes probing mine. "These are difficult times. One needs loyal allies."
I curtsy again, whispering appropriate appreciation for her arrival. As she goes away, I observe frost gathering on the path behind her—not from her footfall, but from somewhere close. Looking up, I find Prince Thorne watching us from the colonnade, his countenance furious.
When I return to the sunburst lilies following Lady Revira's departure, I find them dramatically wilted—far worse than just hours before. Examining them closely, I find a faint oily residue on their stems that wasn't there earlier.
Someone has poisoned them. And I have little doubt who that someone is.
The game in court, it turns out, is significantly more perilous than I expected.
By evening, I've managed to salvage most of the lilies, though a third of the bed is beyond recovery. I settle back on my heels, tiredness sinking into my bones. The gardens whisper warnings I can scarcely understand—danger, betrayal, shadows growing.
"You shouldn't have let her near the plants."
I jump at the voice. Prince Thorne stands behind me, his silver eyes reflecting the dying light.
"I didn't exactly invite her, Your Highness," I remark, too exhausted for pleasantries. "And she's your cousin. Should I have refused her?"
"Yes," he responds plainly. "Lady Revira has been opposing this idea from the outset. She believes the old systems are dying and should be allowed to die."
"While you and your father die with them?" I ask, astonished by my audacity.
His jaw tightens. "She has... other ideas about succession."
The inference hovers between us. I brush soil from my hands, straightening to face him properly. "The lilies were poisoned following her visit. I found this: " I hold out a little vial I discovered concealed amid the leaves.
Thorne takes it, inspecting the drips of transparent liquid within. "Moonshade extract. Deadly to magical plants but leaves no trace after a day." His eyes contact mine, something like respect flaring in them. "You recognized it?"
"The residue," I explain. "My grandmother taught me to identify poisons that might accidentally kill garden plants."
"A useful education," he says, pocketing the vial. "Did she threaten you?"
"Not directly. She offered friendship."
"More dangerous than threats." He steps closer, his voice lowering. "My cousin plays the long game. She's been grooming herself as my replacement since my father went ill. The court is divided between those loyal to my father's tradition and those who believe a new approach is needed."
"And she suggested you were causing the blight," I add.
Frost crystallizes on the prince's collar. "Did she? How predictable." He glances aside, toward the darkening sky. "The council meets tomorrow. Lady Revira will definitely portray your failure with the lilies as further evidence of the garden's—and by extension, my—corruption."
"But I saved most of them," I protest.
"Facts matter less than perception in court politics," he says bitterly. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be... difficult."
He turns to leave but pauses. "You did good today. Most would have lost the entire bed to moonshade."
It's not quite praise, but coming from Prince Thorne, it might as well be a compliment. I watch him depart into the twilight, his shoulders tight with strain.
Back in my cottage, I bar the door and inspect every window. Court serpents, it appears, strike from any direction. As I prepare for bed, I see a small packet on my pillow—protective herbs wrapped in white cotton, with Elm's distinctive knotwork.
At least I have one ally here besides the prince. Perhaps two, if I count Thorne himself.
Sleep comes fitfully, plagued with nightmares of silver eyes and golden lilies crying in quiet anguish.