"Lady Revira," Thorne says coolly as she walks toward us. "I think you have met my royal gardener already."
She stretches a bejeweled hand toward me, but her grin does not reach her eyes. "Not formally. Surely not in such unusual clothing either.
I resist the need to touch the borrowed gown—midnight blue silk the palace seamstress quickly changed for me this afternoon. Having spent weeks in dirt-stained gardening clothing, I feel like a fake among the sparkling nobles.
"Your Ladyship," I curtsy uneasily as hundreds of inquisitive eyes fix us. The winter festival ball is the social pinnacle of the season, and Prince Thorne asking me to dance has already started tongues wagging.
"How amazing it is that our prince has become so involved in... gardening." Lady Revira's voice oozes with suggestion. "One wonders what blooms under your special care."
Thorne's hand tightens almost imperceptibly around my waist. "Lady Revira was just leaving to attend to her guests," he replies, steel beneath his pleasant tone.
"Actually," she purrs, "court protocol dictates I'm entitled to cut in." She extends her hand hopefully to Thorne. "Especially since there are matters of state requiring immediate discussion."
Thorne's jaw tightens, but we both know he can't reject without generating a scene. He releases me with a barely detectable nod—half apology, part warning.
"Don't wander far," he breathes before holding Revira's hand.
I escape to the perimeter of the ballroom, where attendants offer crystal goblets of winter berry wine. Taking one, I watch Thorne and Revira glide across the floor, heads bent close in what appears to be deep conversation. Though his expression remains emotionless, I see strain in every line of his body.
"First time at court?"
I turn to discover Court Mage Balthren beside me, his ceremonial robes switched for formal clothes, though his ever-present crystal staff remains.
"Is it that obvious?" I take a cautious sip of wine.
"You look at everything with clear eyes," he says, following my gaze to where Thorne and Revira continue their dance. "Most here have long since learned to see only what benefits them."
"And what benefits you, Lord Mage?"
His eyes crinkle. "Balance. Always balance." He nods toward the prince. "He's different since you arrived."
"He still seems rather... frosty to me."
"For Thorne, that's practically summer warmth," Balthren jokes. "His magic makes him naturally cold—physically and emotionally. Winter wizards struggle with manifestations of feeling. It burns them from within."
I think of the frost that spreads when Thorne is angry or stressed. "But surely that's not—"
"Normal?" Balthren interrupts. "No. The imbalance grows worse. Notice how strangely cold it's been? The kingdom reflects its lord."
Before I can interrogate him further, a ruckus develops near the grand entrance. King Aldric's empty throne, placed in the ballroom so subjects can pay tribute to their absent ruler, has mysteriously gathered a layer of frost, creeping up the beautiful carvings like skeletal fingers.
Whispers vibrate across the audience. Many eyes turn accusingly at Thorne.
"Proof!" someone murmurs too loudly. "The prince's magic corrupts everything it touches."
Lady Revira detaches herself from Thorne, countenance completely controlled despite the staged-looking surprise in her voice. "Cousin, your control slips again?"
Thorne's face is stone, but I see his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.
I move without thinking, pushing past the crowd. "Allow me," I say boldly, approaching the throne. Removing a little package of seeds from my secret pocket—I never go anywhere without them—I sprinkle them at the throne's base, then press my palm to the frosty wood.
The court stares, breathe held, as green vines spiral up the throne legs, tiny white flowers blooming where they touch the frost. The ice recedes, leaving behind a lovely pattern of interlaced frost and flowers.
"Beautiful," someone whispers.
"A most appropriate decoration for the Winter Festival," I assert, meeting Lady Revira's focused stare. "The frost merely needed balance."
Murmurs of approval replace the prior distrust. Thorne approaches, real amazement in his eyes as he observes my handiwork.
"Well done," he replies gently. "Though I suspect we've only delayed whatever Lady Revira planned."
"Which was?"
"To demonstrate the court I cannot control my magic. That I am the source of the blight." His glittering eyes flit to Revira, who now holds court amid a circle of nobles, occasionally gazing our way. "She's grown bolder."
The music resumes, and Thorne surprisingly takes my hand again. "We should continue our dance. Appearances matter tonight."
As we rejoin the dancers, his touch seems cooler than before on my waist, but not unpleasantly so. "You didn't have to intervene," he says stiffly.
"The gardens taught me something about balance," I reply. "Winter isn't inherently destructive. It preserves, protects, and makes way for future growth."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps even hope. For a minute, I glimpse the guy under the crown, burdened and alone.
"Most see only the cold," he murmurs.
"I'm not most people." The words slip out before I can reconsider them.
His lips quirk into what might almost be a smile. "No, you certainly are not."
We conclude our dance in quiet, but something has shifted between us. When the song ends, he bows politely, then escorts me from the floor.
"I must attend to my duties," he replies reluctantly. "Will you be alright?"
"I'm just going to get some air in the garden terrace," I promise him. "Court festivities are rather overwhelming."
He nods. "Be careful. Revira isn't done tonight."
The outdoor patio offers a blessed escape from the stuffy ballroom. Frost covered every surface, making the skeleton winter flora shimmer under moonlight. I breathe deeply, placing my palms to a frozen fountain, feeling the sleeping life beneath.
"Quite the performance in there."
I swivel to find Lady Revira gazing from the shadows, flanked by two noblemen I recognize from her retinue.
"I was simply helping with decorations," I answer cautiously.
"Is that what you name it? I call it interference." She steps closer. "What exactly are you? Not just some village gardener, clearly."
"That's precisely what I am."
"No ordinary gardener reverses winter magic with a handful of seeds." Her eyes narrow. "The prince has always been dangerous—unstable, like all winter mages without proper guidance. But you... you're something else entirely."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" She circles me slowly. "Spring magic hasn't been witnessed in Thornwall for generations. We made sure of that."
My heart pounds. What does she know about me that I don't?
"Stay away from the prince," she adds softly. "You're disturbing the natural order. Making him believe there's hope when there is none."
"The gardens are improving," I counter. "The wards strengthen daily."
"Temporary." She waves dismissively. "The blight always returns stronger. Unless we remove its source."
The menace hangs between us. Before I can react, voices approach from the ballroom. Lady Revira steps back, her charming court mask sliding back into place.
"Enjoy the holidays, gardener. While they last."
She and her companions melt back into the ball, leaving me shaken. I wait on the terrace till my racing heart steadies, then make my reasons to return to my cottage early, pleading garden obligations at sunrise.
The path to my hut is gloomy, lit only by occasional enchanted lamps. The frost-covered ground crunches beneath my slippered feet as I hurry, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.
My fears seem validated when I reach my door and discover it slightly ajar.
Heart in my throat, I push it open. Inside, mayhem greets me. My meager items are scattered, dresser drawers dumped onto the floor. But it's my worktable that makes my blood run cold—my carefully kept gardening journal is missing, along with my experimental seed packets.
I collapse to my knees amid the destruction, knowing Lady Revira's warning was just the beginning.