The next morning, the devil came to knock.

She was upstairs, hovering at the top of the landing. She had sent the maids to the kitchen. The house was quiet enough that voices carried from the study below.

Sterling had arrived at ten o'clock sharp.

She pressed her ear against the banister.

"Mr. Lloyd," Sterling's voice was smooth, professional. "The King has been reviewing the staffing for the Cabinet."

"Yes?" Kenney's voice cracked. She could imagine him leaning forward, greedy and desperate.

"He is impressed with your... dedication. The position of Undersecretary is yours. Pending a probationary period, of course."

"Oh, thank God," Kenney breathed. "Thank you. Please convey my eternal gratitude to His Majesty."

"There is one small matter," Sterling continued. "His Majesty is hosting a literary retreat at the Royal Lodge. A small, private affair. He was quite taken with the... aesthetic of the masquerade. He wishes to invite Mrs. Lloyd to attend."

Silence.

The silence stretched so long she thought the floorboards might snap. Kenney wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what "literary retreat" meant. He knew what the Royal Lodge was. It was where the King kept his mistresses.

"Imogene?" Kenney said, his voice wavering. "She... she is of delicate health. And propriety..."

"The Undersecretary position requires a man who puts the Crown above all else," Sterling said. His tone dropped the temperature in the room by ten degrees. "It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Mr. Lloyd. For both of you."

She heard the scrape of a chair. Kenney was pacing.

"She will be honored," Kenney said finally. The words came out fast, like he wanted to get them over with. "It is an honor for the family."

She closed her eyes. Even knowing it was coming, hearing him sell her for a desk and a title felt like a physical blow to the stomach.

She stood up and walked back to her room. She sat on the sofa and picked up her embroidery hoop. Her hands were steady. Cold, but steady.

Ten minutes later, Kenney came in.

He looked flushed. Excited. But as soon as he saw her, his face crumpled into a mask of tragic despair. He deserved an award for this performance.

"Imogene," he sighed, collapsing onto the ottoman at her feet. "We are undone."

She didn't look up from her needlework. "What is it, Kenney?"

"I have made a terrible mistake at the office. A clerical error. The King... he is furious. He threatens to ruin us. To throw us into the street."

He grabbed her hands. His palms were sweaty.

"There is only one way to save us," he said, tears welling in his eyes. "He has summoned you. To the Lodge. To plead our case."

"Me?" She widened her eyes, feigning shock. "But why me?"

"Because you are charming. You are innocent. If you go, if you read to him, if you entertain him... he might forgive me. For Emily's sake, Imogene. I cannot let our daughter starve."

He was using Emily. Again.

She pulled her hands away, covering her face to hide her expression. He thought she was sobbing. She was trying not to vomit.

"Must I?" she whispered.

"Please," he begged. "I promise, if you do this, I will buy you the real sapphires. I will give you anything."

She lowered her hands. She let him see her red-rimmed eyes.

"Fine," she said. "I will go. For Emily."

Kenney exhaled, a massive rush of relief. He hugged her. She sat rigid in his arms, staring over his shoulder at the wall.

"You are a good wife," he murmured. "The best."

That night, she packed.

Sophie fluttered around the room, nervous. "Madam, the Lodge... people say things. About the King."

"Let them talk, Sophie," she said.

She wasn't packing her modest woolens. She was packing silk. She was packing the dresses that showed skin.

She reached into the false bottom of her sewing box and pulled out a book. It was a biography of Adella Lynn, unauthorized and scandalous. She had sent Sophie to a back-alley bookshop for it just last week, a piece of armor she knew she would need.

She opened it to the illustrations. Adella had a way of tilting her head. A way of holding her hands.

She stood in front of the mirror. She tilted her head. She lowered her eyelids.

She looked like a tragic heroine. She looked like a woman who needed saving.

"From today on," she whispered to the glass, "Imogene Lloyd is dead. Long live the King's nightmare."

The morning of her departure was gray and bitter.

She sat on the floor of the nursery, combing Emily's hair. Emily had her dark curls, but Kenney's weak chin. She prayed Emily would grow out of it.

"Where are you going, Mama?" Emily asked, twisting around to look at her.

"I have to go on a trip for a while, sweetling," she said, smoothing a curl around her finger. "To ensure we can always buy you dolls. And the chocolate you like."

"Take me with you," Emily demanded.

Her heart cracked. "I can't. Not this time."

The door banged open. Lady Lloyd marched in. She began rifling through Imogene's open trunk.

"Is this all?" she scoffed, holding up a silk stocking. "You're going to the Royal Lodge, not a nunnery. You need to look expensive. Otherwise, they'll think we're paupers."

"I am going to beg for mercy," she said coolly. "Humility is the best costume for a beggar."

Lady Lloyd huffed, dropping the stocking. Her eyes landed on a bottle of French perfume on Imogene's vanity. Before Imogene could stop her, Lady Lloyd slipped it into her pocket.

"Payment for watching the brat," Lady Lloyd muttered, and waddled out.

She stared at the empty space on the vanity. Thief.

That evening, the tension in the house was suffocating. Kenney hovered outside her bedroom door. She could hear his breathing. He wanted to come in. He wanted to claim her one last time before he handed her over, a dog marking its territory.

She had anticipated this. She needed him to. A child conceived at the Lodge would always be questioned. But a child conceived on the eve of her departure... that could be his. It had to be his.

She unlocked her door and opened it a crack. Kenney was pacing in the hall, looking like a caged animal.

"Kenney?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

He stopped, startled. "Imogene. I thought you were asleep."

"I can't sleep," she said, pulling her robe tighter. She let a single tear trace a path down her cheek. "I'm so frightened. Of what the King might do... to me. To you."

The sight of her tears, the feigned vulnerability, worked like a key in a lock. His face softened with a mixture of pity and possessiveness.

"There, there, my dear," he said, stepping into the room. "It will be alright."

"Hold me," she pleaded, reaching for him. "Just for tonight. Before... before I go. I need to remember what it feels like to be your wife."

She pressed herself against him, her face buried in his chest. It took every ounce of her will not to recoil from his touch, from the scent of his ambition and his betrayal. She thought of the fire. She thought of Emily's cold skin. She turned the revulsion into fuel.

He led her to the bed. It was a calculated, cold performance on her part, a sacrifice on the altar of her revenge. He saw a frightened, dutiful wife seeking comfort. He had no idea he was nothing more than a pawn, providing the alibi she would need in nine months' time.

She let out a breath she had been holding for an hour. She walked to the bed and looked at Emily, who was sleeping soundly in her own room.

She went to the corner where Emily's toys were piled. She picked up Emily's favorite teddy bear. It had a seam that was coming loose in the back.

She pulled a folded letter from her pocket. It contained everything she knew about Kenney's minor embezzlements-the ones he had already committed, not the big ones yet to come. It wasn't enough to hang him, but it was enough to ruin him.

She stuffed the letter inside the bear and stitched it shut.

"Keep this safe," she whispered to the bear.

She didn't sleep. She stood by the window, watching the stars.

She thought about Alaric. In her past life, she had been terrified of him. She had been a weeping mess. This time, she knew him. She knew he wasn't a monster. He was a man haunted by a ghost.

He didn't want a whore. He wanted a connection. He wanted Adella back.

She would give him Adella. But she would give him an Adella with teeth.

Dawn broke like a bruise on the horizon.

A carriage pulled up to the back entrance. It was black, lacquered, and bore no crest. The carriage of a mistress.

Kenney was waiting by the door. He wouldn't look at the coachman. He wouldn't look at her.

"Hurry up," he muttered. "Don't keep them waiting."

She wore a dark gray cloak with the hood pulled up. She looked like a widow.

She knelt down and hugged Emily. Emily smelled of milk and sleep. Emily started to cry, sensing the finality of the moment.

"Let go, Emily!" Kenney snapped. He grabbed Emily's arm and yanked her away.

"Don't touch her!" she hissed, turning on him.

Kenney recoiled, shocked by her tone.

She kissed Emily's forehead one last time, then stood up. She walked out the door and climbed into the black carriage.

The door slammed shut.

She watched through the window as the carriage pulled away. Kenney was already turning back into the house, dusting his hands as if he had just taken out the trash.

She didn't cry. The tears were gone.

She leaned back against the plush velvet seat.

"Goodbye, Imogene," she said to the empty air.

The woman who arrived at the Lodge would be someone else entirely.

The Royal Lodge was not a palace. It was a fortress of stone and timber, hidden deep within the ancient oak forests of Windsor.

The carriage ride had taken three hours. Her legs were stiff when the door finally opened.

Sterling stood there. The air here was cleaner, sharper, smelling of pine and damp earth.

"Mrs. Lloyd," Sterling said, extending a gloved hand.

She looked at his hand. Then she looked at the ground. She stepped down unassisted.

"Thank you, Mr. Sterling. I can walk."

Sterling raised an eyebrow. He looked impressed, or perhaps just amused. "This way."

He led her through the main hall. It was lined with trophies. Stags with glassy eyes, bear skins rug on the floor. It was a masculine space, aggressive and wild.

"Mrs. Gable will show you to your quarters," Sterling said, passing her off to a severe-looking older woman in a black dress.

Mrs. Gable didn't speak. She led her up a winding staircase to the second floor. She opened a set of double doors.

"The King will join you for dinner," she said. "Bathing water has been prepared. Do not leave the room."

Mrs. Gable closed the door. Imogene heard the click of a key. Her breath hitched-a performance for any listening ears. She stumbled back from the door, her hand flying to her throat as if in terror. Only when the footsteps faded completely did she let the mask drop. She was a prisoner, yes. But a cage could also be a fortress.

She turned to look at the room.

It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

The curtains were pale lilac. The bedspread was embroidered with irises. The books on the shelf were poetry.

It was a shrine.

Every detail screamed Adella Lynn. Lilac was her color. Irises were her flower.

Alaric hadn't just invited a mistress; he had prepared a stage.

She walked to the vanity. A crystal vial of perfume sat there. She uncorked it. Lavender and jasmine. Adella's scent.

"He's insane," she whispered.

Maids entered through a side door. They stripped her efficiently, scrubbed her with scented oils until her skin was pink, and dressed her.

The dress they brought was deep purple velvet.

She put it on. It fit perfectly. Not a seam was out of place.

A chill went down her spine. Either Alaric had the best tailors in the world, or Adella and she shared the exact same measurements.

She sat on the velvet sofa and waited. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the floor.

Outside, the sound of hooves thundered on the gravel.

She went to the window.

Below, Alaric was dismounting from a massive black stallion. He looked different here. In the ballroom, he was a statue. Here, he was alive. His cheeks were flushed with cold, his hair windblown. He tossed the reins to a groom.

He stopped. He looked up.

Straight at her window.

She didn't hide. She stood in the frame, a dark silhouette against the dying light.

He stared at her. Even from this distance, she felt the impact of his gaze. He stood there for a long moment, motionless. Then, he turned and strode into the house.

She heard the heavy front door slam.

She heard boots on the stairs. Heavy. Fast.

Her heart began to hammer. This was it. The rehearsal was over.

She sat back down on the sofa. She picked up a book of poetry. She forced her hands to stop shaking.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

The lock clicked. The handle turned.

The door swung open.

King Alaric stood there. He brought the cold in with him. He smelled of horse and leather and winter air. His eyes were dark, burning with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

"Imogene Lloyd," he said.

His voice was low, dangerous.

She didn't look up from the book. She turned a page.

"Your Majesty," she said softly.