the inn. The knight drops my hand and wraps his arm around my back, tucking me to his side.
We’ve been on the water for two, maybe three minutes, when I hear a voice.
It’s a quiet call, soft and forlorn, though I can’t make out the words. They’re too quiet to hear—and it’s maddening.
I turn my head, straining to pick it up.
“Ignore it,” Rhys whispers against the shell of my ear.
Again, I shiver, but for a very different reason. “You hear it too?”
He murmurs a noise of agreement.
I try to block out the sound by thinking of anything and everything—home, Braeton, Ember.
Rhys.
Our first meeting in the orchard.
The kiss on the bay.
Our hasty, business-like wedding and the way he told me we must keep our relationship a secret—as if he’s ashamed of me.
In the dark, on this too-quiet sea, my mind is free to wander, and my sadness and irritation wells in my chest, nearly suffocating me.
Rhys doesn’t love me, won’t love me. As it’s always been, he sees me as nothing but a chore—he’s just doing his duty, keeping me safe because I happen to be a princess of the kingdom he swore allegiance to.
Suddenly, I want to shrug off his arm, want to pull away.
What am I doing here? What’s the point? Rhys could have saved Braeton. I’m a nuisance—a burden.
“You’ll slow them down,” a voice whispers in my head. “They’ll die because of you.”
My mouth goes dry, and each breath becomes an impossible chore.
“No one needs you,” it goes on. “What good is a second born princess? No one wants you here. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
I know something is wrong, but I can’t seem to fight it. Something unnatural and cold claws at my chest, dredging up all my fears.
“Rhys doesn’t love you,” it whispers. “He doesn’t love you.”
“Rhys doesn’t love me,” I murmur.
“What?” Rhys demands, but I barely hear him.
“Your brother will be king, but only if the knights can rescue him. You’re in the way.”
I choke back a sob. “I’m in the way.”
“Amalia?”
“Rhys will die because of you.”
“No,” I whisper, my voice growing louder.
“If you loved him, you would save him. You’d save everyone.”
Tears brim over my eyes and run down my cheeks.
“Sacrifice yourself.”
“Amalia,” Rhys says from somewhere distant, too loud. “Amalia!”
He can’t yell—something will find us. No, it will find them, and they’ll die. And then Braeton will die.
“Jump,” the voice whispers. “Come into the water.”
“I can’t swim,” I tell it.
Rhys shakes me, but I’m somewhere caught between consciousness, aside from myself.
I feel myself struggling against him, trying to stand. Pleading for him to understand, I say, “I can’t let you die.”
“Aeron, no,” Rhys suddenly snarls, confusing me just long enough I quit fighting.
“She’s going to draw something worse,” the knight answers, equally as agitated.
And then there’s a cloth pressed over my face. The odor is foul and sharp, and I try to yank away, realizing what he’s doing.
“No!”
Then the voice in the back of my head fades. The silence is bliss, a relief so sharp, I could cry.
I fall against the arms that hold me. Just before I drift, Rhys murmurs, “I do love you, Amalia.”
I wake to the smell of lamp oil, the sway of a ship gently rocking in the water, and a splitting headache. I groan, pressing my hand to my forehead.
“You’re awake,” Rhys says from beside me.
I pry my eyes open, and my stomach heaves. I press my lips together, fighting the sensation.
“The nausea will wear off in a few minutes,” the knight tells me.
“What happened?” I croak, placing my hand on my upset stomach. I’m on a bed in a tiny, windowless room. Rhys sits in a chair beside me.
“The sea spirits got in your head,” he answers. “I thought you’d be safe with the blindfold, but I was wrong. As always, they were tenacious when it came to reaching you. Aeron…let you sleep.”
“He drugged me,” I growl.
Rhys clears his throat, sounding close to laughing. “That’s another way to put it.”
“We’re on the ship now?” I turn to face Rhys, fearing I must look like death.
“That’s right.”
I remember now, and the memory of the unnatural melancholy forms like heavy lead in my already upset stomach. The spirit didn’t create fears—it cultivated them, helped them take root and grow.
Brought them to the surface.
“I’m slowing you down, aren’t I?” I say. “You’re in more danger because I’m here.”
Rhys clasps his hands in his lap, looking like a man who’s being too careful.
“No, it’s true. I risked Braeton’s life just because