The weeks following her clandestine meeting with Sir Daniel passed in a dizzying blur of activity for Katarina, as every waking hour outside of her ceremonial court duties was ruthlessly claimed by preparations for the upcoming Anatomist’s Examinations.

The sheer volume of knowledge required was staggering; to discover the Princess in those days, one had to seek out the deepest alcoves of the Lexicon vaults. There she would remain from dawn until the candles burned down to pooling grease, her head bowed low over massive, leather-bound folios, her fingers permanently stained with the ink of her hurried transcriptions.

Yet, even beneath the crushing weight of her scholarship, her mind remained a traitorous thing. Whenever she crossed the castle courtyards or overlooked the dusty expanse of the sparring grounds, her eyes would invariably seek out a single, familiar figure.

Concealed behind the high stone balustrades of the upper terrace, she would steal a few quiet moments to observe Sir Daniel training on the field below. She watched the sun catch the lean muscles of his forearms as he swung his practice blade, noting the effortless way he laughed with his fellow knights as he wiped sweat from his brow.

In those quiet moments of observation, the memory of how he had held her in the dark of the South Stables—his touch so fierce, his gaze so intense—would surge through her veins like a heady, intoxicating wine.

The first time he kissed her, he had looked at her as if he disapproved of the way she hid herself away, a silent accusation that she was deceiving not just him, but her own heart. How had he discerned the strange, unsettling way he afflicted her? She had been so careful. Yet the second time, when she had kissed him of her own accord in the grove, he had met her gaze as if determined to show her the true depth of how he, too, had longed for her.

It was precisely because of those memories that she now did everything in her power to avoid his arresting presence as she moved through the castle.

In her core, a quiet spark of terror flared alongside her longing. She was Princess Katarina, the firstborn of the realm, sitting a single step below her father at the high dais of court. Were such feelings even permissible for one who belonged completely to the Crown?

The tension reached a precipice on an afternoon when the high court had just adjourned. Katarina stood near the towering arched entrance of the Great Hall, caught in a tedious, polite exchange with several highborn ladies of the court. A short distance away, a raucous group of knights had gathered, their deep voices echoing off the timbered ceiling. Among them stood Sir Daniel.

Overhearing a mention of the western provinces, Katarina found her attention drifting from the ladies’ gossip. She subtly shifted her stance, inching a fraction closer to the threshold of the knights’ circle to catch their words.

“The High-Vail Timber is practically overrun with red deer at present; we should be doing the local tenantry a grand mercy by thinning the herds,” one broad-shouldered knight laughed, thumping Sir Daniel across the leather of his doublet. “Come now, Norwood, why do you hesitate to ride home for the autumn sport?”

Katarina’s gaze flicked toward the group for a brief, incautious second—and instantly regretted it. Sir Daniel was already looking directly at her. Their eyes locked across the crowded hall, and blood rushed to Kat’s cheeks at the sudden memory of their stolen kisses.

She averted her eyes immediately, her heart hammering against her ribs as she feigned a sudden interest in her kirtle’s embroidery. But Daniel had already caught her swift retreat. By the time Kat dared a second, hooded glance through her lashes, the ghost of a slow smile was already playing on his lips.

“Perhaps I shall ride with you after all,” Daniel told his companion, his voice carrying clearly over the din. “After I have resolved my business in the capital.”

Katarina forced herself to anchor her attention back to the court ladies, nodding mechanically to whatever pleasantry was being uttered. But as she did, her eyes collided with Celesta’s. Her younger sister was standing a few paces back, studying her with a surprised, calculating frown.

Later, when the sisters had finally broken away from the retinue and were navigating the quieter, vaulted corridors leading to the South Wing, Celesta suddenly reached out, pulling firmly on Katarina’s sleeve to draw her into a recessed window alcove.

“What, pray tell, were you doing back there?” Celesta whispered urgently, her green eyes narrowing.

“Where?” Katarina asked, smoothing her skirts and doing her utmost to project a mask of regal ignorance.

“Do not play the fool with me, Kat. Right after the dismissal, by the doors of the Great Hall,” Celesta hissed, leaning closer.

“I am unsure as to what you mean, sister. What should I have been doing?”

“You were eavesdropping upon those knights,” Celesta said, her voice dropping to a sharp, accusing murmur. “And there was one particular knight you glanced toward repeatedly—and he was watching you in return. The handsome one from the Westlands. The one the court ladies spend so much time whispering about.”

A cold prickle of panic brushed Kat’s spine, but she managed a flawless, dismissive roll of her eyes.

“Do you mean Sir Daniel? Scriptor’s mercy, Celesta, half the maiden retinue comments upon him. He is a perfectly well-favored knight; am I suddenly forbidden from looking upon the inhabitants of our own castle?”

Celesta looked aghast. She shook her head slowly, her eyes tracking the defensive edge in her sister’s posture.