I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Wells standing in that corridor with the same calm expression, speaking as though he were discussing weather rather than threatening to ruin all our lives. 

The fire beside me had long since burned low. Thin orange light flickered across the room while the castle settled into silence around me, yet my mind refused to quiet. I kept turning over every possible choice, only for each one to collapse into disaster.

Contacting Collins was a dead end. Wells had been watching, probably since the moment I got there. He’d intercepted every letter, and if I attempted to send anything — speak to a servant in a whisper, disappear for too long, he’d notice. The only way to talk to Collins, warn him, would be during his next visit, and who knows how long that’d be. 

The king was impossible too.

A bitter laugh nearly escaped me at the idea. How exactly was I meant to explain any of this without confessing everything else first? Wells clearly possessed enough proof to threaten me with confidence. If I brought this before Wulfric now and Wells decided to reveal whatever records he had — the whole point of me being here was to keep up the charade to him. 

Which left Penelope and Buckley. Penelope already knew the truth, but Buckley knew less. And if Wells suspected either of them were helping me, he’d ruin them easily. 

That was the worst part of it, I knew he would. If even for a second I stepped out of line, he had more than threats of my real identity, he could hurt them and nobody but me would care. 

I leaned forward, pressing my hands against my face. “Think,” I muttered. 

Wells hadn’t exposed me yet. If he truly wished to ruin Princess Vivian publicly, he had more than enough opportunity already. No, this information was too valuable to simply throw away. He wanted leverage, and obedience for whatever scheme he had. Which means, there’s still time.

If I could find that document, that record of everything he had on me and Vivian, and burn it, then his threats would be only crazy theories to everyone else. 

The thought cemented in my mind: I need that paper.

***

Penelope was furious.

“What do you mean he threatened you?” she hissed.

“Quiet.”

“He threatened you,” she repeated, softer now though no less angry. “Winslet—”

“He knows enough to ruin Lionel’s whole plan—to ruin us.”

Penelope stared at me for a moment before beginning to pace the room. “Then we tell King Lionel.”

“We can’t.”

“Yes, we can.”

“Penelope, he’s been watching our every move, reading every letter. If he catches wind that we tried to contact him, then he’d do who knows what to you and Buckley.” 

“So what? We simply do whatever he says now?”

“No.” Though the answer came quickly, my stomach still twisted around it. “I think he needs this secret hidden as much as I do.”

Penelope frowned.

“He gains nothing by exposing me immediately. Not unless he’s forced to. If he truly intended to reveal everything, he would have already done it.”

Penelope muttered something sharp beneath her breath.

“We need the record he has,” I continued, “If we can destroy it, then we can end it before it has a chance to get worse.”

“And if we can’t?”

I swallowed.

“Then he can do whatever he likes with us.” My voice lowered further. “Including sending you to the knights’ barracks.”

Penelope blinked. “Excuse me?”

“He doesn’t want you near me. Probably has something more in plan.” 

Her expression turned horrified. “I would rather die.”

Under any other circumstance, I might have smiled. Instead, exhaustion settled heavier into my chest.

A knock interrupted us, and Buckley slipped inside, shutting the door carefully behind her. 

“Do you need anything, My Lady?”

“Yes. I…need a favor.”

Buckley waited patiently.

“It concerns Feverent Wells.”

Something cautious flickered across her face.

“I need to know his routine, if there’s any time when he isn’t at his office.” 

Buckley frowned slightly. “May I ask why?”

“No.”

The answer came more sharply than intended.

“I’m sorry, but I need you to do this, quietly.”

Buckley studied me carefully for a moment. Then, to my relief, she nodded.

“I’ll help however I can.”

“Thank you.”

***

Three days later, Buckley had the information.

“He lunches with his daughter every afternoon, usually in Fabienne’s garden.”

“For how long?” I asked.

“About an hour.”

An hour. Not much, but enough.

“The rest of his schedule changes constantly,” Buckley continued. “Meetings move, visitors change, but the lunch appears consistent.”

Penelope looked toward me immediately. “That’s our chance.”

I nodded.

By the following afternoon, the plan was set in motion. I’d sneak into his office and find the document, while Penelope and Buckley kept watch. If anything happens, we run. 

The office halls were quieter during lunch hours. Most officials disappeared toward dining halls while servants rushed elsewhere carrying trays and correspondence. Still, every passing footstep made my pulse jump.

Penelope remained near the stairwell while Buckley positioned herself farther down the corridor to watch for anyone approaching. Then with a tight breath, I slipped into Wells’ office alone. 

It smelled faintly of parchment and wood polish. Sunlight spilled across the floor through tall narrow windows, illuminating shelves lined with ledgers and documents so neatly arranged it made me uneasy. 

I hurried to the desk, checking the drawers first then the stacks of papers. Nothing. The cabinets were next, then the shelves, and the stacks of correspondence tied neatly with string. Everything was trade reports, council notes, financial records. Endless meaningless papers that blurred together faster and faster as panic slowly crept into my chest.

Where would he keep them?

A bead of sweat slid down my face. 

I searched the desk once more, more frantically this time, barely resisting the urge to simply throw everything onto the floor. Again, nothing. 

He must’ve hidden them somewhere. 

My breath was short as I eyed the room. It was organized, empty, not even an ornament for decoration. But then my eyes fell on the painting hanging beside the shelves. In it, Wells stood beside a young girl with dark curls and bright eyes, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His daughter.

The painting sat slightly crooked.

Hope sparked through me as I pushed it to the side, finding a small recessed compartment in the wall. Where a small wooden box rested. My hands shook as I grabbed it, I loosened the lid just enough to glimpse folded parchment inside. The paper looked familiar – the record. 

My chest tightened with relief, I found it.

“Winslet.”

Penelope’s whisper snapped through the doorway like a knife.

“He’s coming back.”

Every drop of warmth vanished from my body. I shoved the box beneath my cloak and hurried toward the door. I ran into the hallway, and met with them in the middle of it. 

Buckley looked pale, “He shouldn’t be here yet,” she whispered.

“We need to move,” Penelope said sharply.

We hurried through the halls as fast as possible without outright running. Twice I nearly stumbled over my skirts trying to keep pace. My heartbeat thundered and distant footsteps made my body quake, but no one stopped us. 

By the time we reached an empty corridor near the eastern tower, my lungs burned.

“We made it,” Penelope breathed.

Barely.

Hands trembling, I pulled the box free and opened it fully. Several folded papers rested inside. I grabbed the first one then stopped. Something felt wrong. The writing was different. The ink seemed fresher and the handwriting was neater, less hurried.  

Cold spread through me as the document burned in my mind. 

I unfolded another page, hoping I was wrong, but entire lines repeated themselves, while others meant nothing at all.

“Is it the wrong document, My Lady?”

“They’re fake.”

Silence.

Penelope stepped closer. “Fake?”

My grip tightened painfully around the parchment. It wasn’t hidden, it was placed. Wells knew I’d be desperate to get the document, that’s why he made it so easy. A window of time, an unlocked door, and a crooked painting. It was too easy. 

My eyes burned with tears. If the box was missing, Wells would know someone had searched his office, and taking the papers confirmed exactly what he wanted to know — that I was terrified of whatever records he truly possessed. 

And it was far too late to put the box back now.