Dagger wounds. Small dagger wounds. That's why the man had died, according to the knights. That ruled out the murderer being a Reaper. The Reaper would have just sucked out the man's soul. And she would have sensed a Reaper anyway.

But now she'd best leave this up to Elon and the knights. It was their mystery to solve, not hers. She had to focus on her training before the darkness hit.

One of the ladies, Sybil, plopped a sugar cube into her cider. "I think he was stabbed before he drowned."

Dara waved her fan faster, cooling her plump flushed cheeks. "I say he was drowned before he was stabbed. After all, there was no blood on the cobblestone."

It seemed the story of the gardener's death was already well-circulated among the gossip mongers.

Wylma cleared her throat. "Queen Carissa, it's said you were there soon after it happened. You saw."

All eyes turned towards her, and heat surged beneath her skin. Carissa shrugged. "Honestly, I was too dazed to really observe much. But it doesn't matter. I'm sure the King has everything under control."

Sybil spluttered, her red cider dripping down her porcelain chin. "But–But surely you must be able to tease some details from the King."

Carissa stirred more spice into her drink. "The King said it's best for me not to be involved."

Wylma crinkled her nose, making her freckles cluster together. "Men. They think we women aren't good for anything but—"

Dara cleared her throat and jutted her double chin towards the youngest members of their group—the blond Lady Cylia and the brunette Lady Fern, the two who'd first seen Carissa in trousers.

Wylma continued, "—for anything but cooking."

Cylia plucked one of her curls until it bounced, a slight smile on her face. "Ladies don't cook, Wylma. I don't think that's what you were going to say."

Wylma rolled her eyes. "Well, my point still stands. They think we're all hollow-headed princesses who are too afraid of getting their slippers wet to go outside.

The girls stared at each other, and Lady Fern said, "We aren't?"

Wylma launched to her feet, nearly upsetting the little table with the cakes and cider. "No! We most certainly are not." Her auburn hair fluttered with the movement, as if it'd been set aflame. "And we're going to prove it."

Sybil snorted. "How, exactly, do you propose that?"

Wylma's blue eyes flared with excitement. "Tonight, we're going to sneak into the gardens and find the murderer ourselves."

The ladies erupted into excited chatter.

"I'm going to have to steal my brother's trousers."

"...wonder if the murderer is still hiding there."

"I'll bring my meal dagger."

Carissa cleared her throat, and silence settled over them. "I'm not certain that's a good idea." After all, if she shouldn't discover the identity of the murderer, these ladies likely weren't supposed to either.

Wylma plunked her hands on her hips. "Why ever not?"

Dara clucked. "Show some respect, Wylma."

Carissa set her cider onto the table and clasped her hands in her lap. "It's not safe, and I think the knights and King have this handled."

Sybil somehow managed a graceful eye roll. "They're men. Of course they think they have it handled."

Wylma bobbed her head. "Exactly. We'll likely catch something they haven't. Everyone knows women are the superior thinkers."

Fern's eyes were wide. "I want to go find the murderer!"

Cylia bounced on the cushions. "Me too!"

"It's decided, then." Wylma grinned. "Everyone will meet at the entryway to the garden at midnight. Bring candles, trousers, rope, and a knife—just in case."

Dara huffed. "Well, if I'm going to go, I'll bring enough snacks for everyone. We wouldn't want you girls to get too thin while you're running through the gardens."

Carissa picked up her glass and stared at the red depths of the cider. It seemed they were going, and they're was nothing she could do about it, unless... Carissa set the cider down and rose. "If you'll excuse me, I have other important matters to attend to."

Dara's cheeks rounded in a smile. "If you'd like to join us, you're welcome to."

Oh, she'd join them. Just not in the way they were expecting. Carissa smiled. "No, that's alright. I have much to do today."

***

Fairywing Melon Pudding

Bones

Rocks

Red Candles

Blankets

String

Dagger

Book in a Foreign Language

Carissa glanced down at her list. She'd taken the rocks from the training yard, the red candles and book from the library, blankets from the stables, string from the seamstress, and a dagger from the armory. Now all she needed was some pudding and bones, and her plan for tonight would be complete.

She slowed as the air grew thick and hot near the kitchens. Her steps slowed, and for a moment, she was back. Huddled with Viltus in the closet. Bent over the table as she was whipped. Smiling politely at her soon-to-be husband as she swiped his tip from the table.

The sudden onslaught of the memories were enough to make her dizzy, and she slapped a hand against the wall. The pub had burned down soon after she'd begun working there. That was the first time Aleck had begun trusting her.

Aleck. An ache wormed its way deep into her chest. She swallowed past the tightness in his throat. Aleck was alright; he had to be. But what if he wasn't? What if Elon planned to test to her see if she'd continue to trust him, even in the direst circumstances? Even if Aleck were hurt—even dead?

She straightened and strode into the kitchen. Surely Elon's plan included keeping Aleck safe.

As the heat from the ovens grew smothering, she fought off more memories. Carissa strode to a wooden table and tapped a thickset man on the shoulder. "Excuse me?"

He turned, revealing a surprisingly young face peppered in sweat. "Your majesty."

He began to kneel, but she waved him off. "I was wondering if you have any leftover bones I could use."

His eyes practically bulged. "Bones?"

"Yes. I know you keep them to give to the dogs in the kennels. And I'd appreciate some fairywing cider pudding."

He mouthed 'bones' and 'pudding' before shaking his head slightly. "How many bones?"

"At least three dozen."

"And pudding?"

"A few gallons." She shrugged. "Whatever you have to spare."

He paused for a moment before bowing. "Of course, your majesty. If you'd like, I'll have them delivered to your rooms—"

"No!" She slapped on a smile. "No, that's alright. Thank you. I'll wait until you find those things." She'd best not give the gossipmongers anymore to talk about—and she certainly didn't want them to suspect her of anything.

He nodded slowly. "Of course. Let me know if I can do anything else to assist you."

***

She tipped the bucket, and fairywing melon pudding oozed onto the ground. She trailed it to the pile of bones she'd arranged deep within the garden. She'd encircled the bones with the red candles, and on top of it all was the book, written in a foreign language. The librarian has assured her it was an ancient language—no one would recognize it or even try to translate it.

Perfect.

Carissa tipped the bucket over, letting the red pudding wash over the bones. She shoved the bucket into a bush and swiped her slick hand on her cloak. The moon had nearly reached its zenith. It was almost time.

Carissa darted behind a flowering bush next to the gate and gripped the end of the string she'd laid there. She almost felt bad for what was about to happen next... But if these women continued to seek out the murderer, she feared they'd find him. And they didn't even have half of her fighting experience.

She had to stop them here and now.

Hushed whispers wafted through the gate.

"Dara, you brought a dagger?"

"Of course I didn't; I brought the apple tarts."

"But what if the murderer—"

"The murderer has long fled the scene of the crime."

"But what if—"

"Has anyone seen Cylia?"

"Here I am! Sorry I'm late." There was a long pause. "However are we going to get in?"

"I have the key." That was definitely Wylma's voice. The others began to ask questions, but they soon fell silent as Wylma spoke again, "One of the knights got it for me. I think he rather fancies me."

The ladies burst into titters before someone hushed them.

"Everyone, stay together. Have your candles lighted and daggers ready."

"I'm scared. I'm not sure this is such a good—"

"Shut up, Fern. The murderer might hear us."

Metal clinked against metal. The gate creaked open. Leaves crunched. Carissa peered through the leaves of the push, waiting until the last one had entered.

Fern laughed breathily. "It's so quiet—"

"Hush."

Fern, the last one, passed through, and Carissa yanked on the string, causing the gate to clang shut behind them.

A few unladylike curses echoed through the garden—and two of them yelped.

"Fern, you idiot!"

"I didn't touch the gate!" she squeaked.

"Ladies, ladies. As you can see, the latch hasn't fallen back down; the gate isn't locked. It was likely just the wind." But even Wylma's voice wavered with uncertainty.

A smile curved against Carissa's mouth. Though she felt terrible for thinking so, she knew the next few minutes would prove quite amusing.

"Oooooh!"

Wylma sighed. "Dara, keep your voice down."

"But I just stepped in a—oh."

"A what?"

"A puddle."

"That's nothing to yell about."

"But it's... sticky."

"What do you mean 'sticky?' Sybil, bring the candle over here—and stop shaking like that, you ninny. Like Dara said, the murderer isn't here anymore. Probably."

The candlelight shifted, and the women abruptly fell silent. Carissa dared to peep over the top of the bush.

The women all had their attention on the spill of fairywing melon pudding, their lips parted, their faces pale. Someone whispered, "Blood."

The candle dropped from Sybil's hand, and the garden was bathed in darkness.

Fern squeaked. "The murderer—he's still here. He's going to kill us."

"Oh, don't be silly," Wylma said, though her voice grew softer by the second. "Sybil, relit the candle please."

Sybil sucked in a breath and shook her head. "I'm leaving. This garden is cursed." She spun on her heel. A moment later, the gate clanged shut behind her as she marched back to the palace.

Carissa slumped against a tree. One down—four to go.

"The blood... it's a trail." Fern's breath caught. "As if someone's been dragged."

"Perhaps we should see where it leads," Wylma said.

"But what if that's what the murderer wants us to do?"

"The murderer probably isn't here."

"What if he set a trap for us?"

"There's no possible way he could now we're coming. Now, come on. We're already closer to solving this than the men were."

Their footsteps whispered against the cobblestone. Carissa crouched and followed them. Within a few minutes, they'd find the pile of bones, the book, and the arrangement of candles. Then they'd likely try to scramble back to the gate, activating some of the trip wires she'd set up, causing the stable blankets hung above to fall on them. Carissa glanced down at the dagger she carried at her hip, its edge glazed in fairywing melon pudding. She hoped to cut one of the women's cloaks with it.

After tonight, they likely wouldn't go out hunting for the murderer again.

A series of gasps announced they'd found the bones and candles.

"Oh my lands."

"There's a book—what does it say?"

"I can't read it... What if it's a spell book? What if they've cursed the garden?"

"Oh! I knew we shouldn't have come here. I'm leaving." The fast patter of footsteps echoed through the garden. Then there was a scream.

"Fern!"

"The murderer must have caught her!"

Carissa inched closer, to get a better view of the women.

The last three were huddled together as Fern screamed, "Get it off! Get it off!"

Finally, Cylia broke away. "I'm coming, Fern!"

The other women scurried after Cylia as Dara shouted, "Oh, wait for us!"

Carissa followed them at a distance, keeping a thick layer of greenery between herself and them. If she were going to use the dagger, she'd best do so now, while they were distracted.

The women slowed as they approached Fern—who was struggling beneath a thick blanket. "He's caught me!"

Cylia began laughing. "I don't think a murderer would use a blanket, Fern." Fern's struggles slowed, and Cylia tugged the thick blanket off of her.

Carissa slunk between the gaps in trees and bushes, doing her best to blend the noise of her movements with that of the wind.

Fern pushed back a tangled piece of hair. "Oh. I'm sorry. It just fell on me, and I began to panic."

Carissa left the safety of the bushes and hesitated for a moment—but all eyes were on Fern, and Fern was staring sheepishly at the ground. Lady Dara and Wylma were closest, with their backs to her.

Carissa approached Wylma, gently grabbed the bottom of her cloak.

Lady Cylia sighed and turned towards Dara and Wylma. "I don't think the murderer—" Her gaze landed on Carissa, and she fell silent.

Cold flared across Carissa's arms, leaving goose bumps in the wake of its touch. Once her presence was revealed, the ladies would think she was crazy at best. At worst, it could very well make people suspect she was the murderer.

"The murderer what, Cylia?" Wylma's tone was high, her voice taut.

Cylia quickly glanced up. "It doesn't seem the murderer's here... Perhaps we should turn back."

Carissa tore through Wylma's cloak, the dagger eating cleanly through the fabric and leaving a red stain. Now it was time to disappear. She sank into the embrace of the tree and shrubs.

Wylma folded her arms. "But who set up the traps? And the blood? Something's afoot here, and—"

Dara gasped.

"Oh, what now, Dara?"

"Your cloak. Wylma, your cloak."

Wylma glanced down. "I don't see—" She lifted up the edge of her cloak, the tear clearly visible.

"What's–What's that staining it, Wylma? You don't think it's blood, do you? Because if it is—"

Wylma tore the cloak off herself and threw it to the ground before sprinting out the gardens. The other ladies soon followed, only Cylia maintaining her composure, her gaze searching the darkness as she left.

The gate clanged shut behind them, and Lady Dara shouted, "We ought to tell the knights."

Carissa bit down a curse. She'd been hoping the ladies would be too embarrassed to tell the knights, so she could spend the night cleaning the mess up. The next day, they'd tell everyone an enchantress was using her magic to kill people, but the gardens would hold no evidence of what had happened tonight. Everyone would think they were crazy, and the ladies would stop, convinced they'd found their answers.

But if the knight's came and discovered her...

If she followed through the gate, she'd likely be spotted. She didn't have the key to the lower gate, leading into the training yard. Perhaps she could hide. Carissa stepped back, and her heel struck a few pieces of gravel.

She turned to sprint deeper into the forest, but a subtle red glow against the trees stopped her. The beat of her heart grew thick and sluggish, as if her blood had turned to icy slush. The last time she'd seen a red glow like that was when Rinka had shown her the Soul Pieces.

Carissa glanced down. The gravel she'd stepped on—it wasn't gravel. She bent and scooped the Soul Pieces into her palm, her hands trembling so badly she feared she'd drop the Pieces.

A Reaper had been here. This meant the man hadn't been stabbed to death or drowned. He'd been reaped.