She shrugs. “I was halfway around the world for most of your life,” she says. “Court was never my place. I’m sure we would have met eventually, if the siege hadn’t happened.” She pauses and presses her lips together, her eyes softening as they take in my face. “I can’t express how glad I am to have you here. It feels like getting a piece of her back.”
She says the words, but I can tell she doesn’t mean them. They’re for the audience, not for me, and I know I should say something similar. I clear my throat.
“Looking at you, I can’t help but feel the same,” I tell her, even as I remind myself that she is not my mother. I don’t know this woman, and I certainly don’t know if I can believe anything she says.
I draw myself up to my full height. “I’m sure we have many things to discuss, Aunt,” I tell her, pasting on the fake smile I always wore at court. The one I hoped I would never have to wear again.
“We do,” she says, matching my smile. “I hear you’ve brought me a present.”
I think of S?ren, asleep with his limbs bound.
“Prinz S?ren is not for you. He is a political prisoner,” I say. “He’ll be treated as civilly as possible while he’s with us.”
Her nostrils narrow. “You expect us to keep a Kalovaxian fed while the rest of us eat half rations?” she asks. “What justice is that?”
“The time for justice isn’t here yet,” I say levelly, raising my voice so the crowd can hear me as well. “We’re still playing a game we have little chance of winning, and the Prinz is the only card we have. We need to keep him healthy and whole or else he’ll be useless.”
Dragonsbane’s eyes flick over her shoulder to the crowd before she turns back to me, smile broader and more false than before.
“Of course, Your Highness. I’ll see to it.”
She shouts to two men on the fringe of the crowd. “Bring the prisoner to the brig.”
“I’ll be checking in on him to make sure he’s being taken care of,” I tell her.
When she turns back to me, her smile has gone feral. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she says. “Or wise, for that matter. There are already those who say you’re too fond of him.”
The words are a well-aimed jab, and I struggle to keep my face neutral. Next to me, Heron tenses like a bow ready to snap.
“You’ll be wary of how you speak to your queen,” he says, and though his voice is soft, there is a level of danger there.
Dragonsbane’s eyebrows dart up in amusement. “I was merely sharing some advice with my niece. People say things, and we must be aware of them before they hurt us.”
“Then let them say as much to my face,” I tell her, keeping my voice cold. “In the meantime, you’ll give him half of my rations.”
“And mine,” Heron says a second later.
For a second, I think Artemisia might repeat the sentiment, but in the presence of her mother, she’s shrunken in on herself, quiet and unsure for the first time since I’ve met her. I understand. After all, I don’t have many memories of my mother angry, but I’m sure she looked the same way Dragonsbane looks at me now—jaw tight, eyes hard, mouth pursed. I can’t help but feel like a child again, about to be sent to my room. But I am not a child. I am a queen, and I have faced far worse than her. So I stand straight and meet her gaze until she finally drops hers and speaks:
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
THE LAST PERSON WHO CALLED me Ash Princess was the heart’s sister I orphaned.
We played together as children, learning to dance and pretending to be fantastical creatures, but when we meet again it will be as enemies. I saw the hatred in her eyes, felt her wrath like a hurricane ripping at my skin. She won’t stop until she has my head, and I did that to her. This I do regret.
But she was right, in a way. I was a princess made of ashes; there is nothing left of me to burn.
Now it’s time for a queen to rise.
“A book is a gift” was something Mrs. Lloyd, my first-grade teacher, was fond of saying. I remember that lens shifting into place and seeing books the way she did as something precious and priceless. I didn’t realize at the time just how many people would go into dreaming up, creating, and wrapping it into the gift it is now.
Thank you to all of my stellar agents. Laura Biagi, who found Ash Princess in her slush pile and saw the potential in it, and in me. To Jennifer Weltz and Ariana Philips at JVNLA for extending the reach of my book to an audience I never could have imagined. And to John Cusick, for always being there to talk me through my anxiety attacks and writer’s blocks.
Thank you to Krista Marino, the best editor I could ask for. Thank you for your guidance and your vision. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for seeing the story I was trying to tell and helping to shape it into the best book it could be. Thank you to Jillian Vandall, my incredible publicist, for her tireless energy and contagious enthusisam. Thank you to Monica Jean for all your insight and dedication. Thank you to Elizabeth Ward and the rest of the Underlined team for being so friendly and letting me hang out with them at conventions. And a huge thank you to Beverly Horowitz, Barbara Marcus, and everyone at Delacorte and Penguin Random House. This section alone could have taken up ten pages if I let it, but I am so excited to see Theo’s journey through with all of you by my side.
Thank you to Billelis and Alison Impey for giving me the most beautiful cover I ever could have imagined. It’s in large part thanks to you that many people will pick this book up in the first place.
Thank you to Macmillan UK and my editor there, Venetia Gosling, for connecting with Theo’s story and bringing it across the pond. And to Greene & Heaton and my UK agents, Eleanor Teasdale and Nicola Barr, for finding Ash Princess the perfect home in Britain. I am eternally grateful.
Thank you to my parents for always being in my corner. You raised me to persevere, and I would not have lasted through the setbacks and rejections without that. And to my little brother, Jerry, whose fearlessness and dedication has always been an inspiration. I know that we will always have each other’s backs, even when we’re terrorizing one another.
Thank you to Deborah Brown and Jefrey Pollock for being my NYC family and trusting me to take care of your brilliant kids. Your support over the years has meant the world to me. And thank you to Jesse and Eden Pollock, for the constant inspiration and for reminding me who, exactly, my audience is. Eden often read scenes as I wrote them, and her feedback was incredibly astute. Jesse was too young, but I hope he’ll enjoy it one day—sorry in advance for all the kissing scenes.
Thank you to my friends. Madison and Jake Levine, for almost twenty-five years of friendship. Cara Shaeffer, forever my inspiration in all things adulting and immature. Emily Hecht, for helping me embrace the weirdest parts of me. Lexi Wangler, for keeping me sane while in the publishing trenches. Patrice Caldwell, Lauryn Chamberlain, Cristina Arreola, Jeremy West, and Jeffrey West, for all the coffee and writing dates and snark.
Thank you to my fellow Electric Eighteens for all the support and commiseration and friendship. A special shout-out to my fellow NYCers, who have become incredible friends over the last year—Arvin Ahmadi, Sara Holland, Sarah Smetana, Kamilla Benko, Kit Frick, Emily X.R. Pan, Kheryn Callender, Melissa Albert, and Lauren Spieller.
Thank you to the many authors who provided so much guidance and support through the publishing process. Adam Silvera, Julie Dao, Gayle Forman, Melissa Walker, Libba Bray, Holly Black, Zoraida Cordova, Dhonielle Clayton, Karen McManus, S. K. Ali—I’ve been a fan of all of yours for some time, and I feel so lucky to now be able to call you friends as well.
Thank you to Maya Davis, whose insight was instrumental in fleshing out the cultures and characters.
Thank you to Molly Cusick for her support when I was going on submission and for answering questions I was afraid to ask my agent (and for helping me realize that was ridiculous).
Thank you to Birch Coffee on the Upper West Side and the incredible baristas there who kept me caffeinated and focused.
And last, but certainly not least, thank you to Mrs. Lloyd for planting the seeds for my lifelong love of reading and writing. They grew.