Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
ADELE
Iwoke with a headache that suggested I’d fallen asleep in the archives. Except I was lying in bed now. Our bed. Raoul’s and mine.
Which meant he’d carried me here. So sweet of him.
Fletcher’s wet nose pressed against my hand. Good morning. You work too hard, and I need breakfast.
“Give me a moment,” I mumbled, reaching for him. My fingers brushed paper instead of fur.
I blinked my eyes open fully. A note sat on my nightstand, in Raoul’s handwriting.
You said this in your sleep: Ice. Sublimation. The peaks… Ice sublimation… I wrote it down in case you forgot. —R
My heart lurched. Ice sublimation?
The memory rushed through me, a fragment from the archives, a passage I’d skimmed earlier while researching atmospheric phenomena for Brightmore.
I threw off the blankets, Fletcher yelping as I nearly stepped on him in my scramble for clothes.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, yanking on a tunic and pants. “But this is it. This is the answer.”
He cocked his head, unconvinced.
I didn’t blame him. I’d thought I was close a dozen times already. But this felt different. This felt right.
The pieces were already assembling in my mind as I raced through the corridors, Fletcher’s claws clicking on stone behind me. Morning sunlight poured through the windows, painting everything in light, but I barely noticed. My entire focus had narrowed to finding that text.
The archives were exactly as I’d left them, a disaster of open books and scattered notes. I went straight to the section on geological phenomena, running my fingers along spines until I found it.
Atmospheric Effects of Ancient Ice Formations in High-Altitude Environments.
Not exactly light reading. I’d started it because the title mentioned atmospheric effects, then abandoned it when the content veered into geology. But there had been something there…
I flipped through the pages, scanning for keywords. Ice. Sublimation. Particulates.
There.
I read it aloud. “…unique properties of millennia-old ice exposed by seismic activity. Unlike surface ice, ancient formations contain concentrated mineral deposits accumulated over centuries. When exposed to temperature fluctuations, these formations undergo sublimation—transitioning directly from solid to gas, releasing particulate matter into surrounding air currents…”
My hands started shaking.
“Particles remain airborne during specific atmospheric conditions, typically settling during pressure inversions at dawn and dusk. Due to their microscopic size and mineral composition, these particulates can cause respiratory irritation in vulnerable populations, particularly those with developing airways.”
Oh, fates.
I flipped to the next page, where a diagram showed sublimation cycles and particle dispersion patterns. The timing matched perfectly. Dawn and dusk, when temperature differentials were greatest. When the babies’ symptoms were the worst.
I continued reading. “Geographic proximity to exposed formations determines severity and duration of effects. Prevailing wind patterns carry particles to populated areas, with concentration varying by elevation and orientation.”
That explained why Goldwing’s babies were coughing more. Their dwellings faced the peaks differently, which meant they caught other wind currents and received higher particle concentrations.
I grabbed my notebooks, cross-referencing with my own data. The dates when symptoms started. Two months ago, almost exactly. What had happened two months ago?
I skimmed my notes from Silvervale. King Trevare had mentioned a minor earthquake, barely noticed by most, but strong enough to crack stone in a few locations.
Had it been strong enough to expose ice that had been buried for who knows how long?
Everything clicked into place. The shared mountain range explained why only these two courts were affected.
Elevation differences explained the varying severity, and the daily timing aligned with sublimation cycles.
Babies, with their tiny, developing airways, would be the most vulnerable to microscopic irritants.
Not poison or intentional harm from either court. Just ancient ice, newly exposed, sublimating in the mountain air and releasing particles that no one had thought to look for because who would suspect ice that old could cause problems?
I needed to tell Raoul. Needed to verify the solution. Needed to—
Fletcher barked. I’m starving here. Feed me!
Right. Breakfast first, or he’d never forgive me.
I scooped him up, tucking him under one arm while I gathered my notes with the other. “We’ll eat, and then we’re going to find our favorite dragon king and solve this mystery.”
I half-ran up the stairs and through the corridors toward the kitchens, Fletcher grumbling under my arm about the indignity of being carried like luggage.
“You have four legs,” I pointed out. “I could put you down.”
You’re sprinting.
“Because I have a mystery to solve and a kingdom to save.”
After breakfast.
The kitchen smelled like fresh bread, spices, and something sweet and buttery that made my stomach growl.
The head chef stood at the main counter, his mustache twitching as he barked orders at his assistants. “Flora, those eggs are overcooked. Peter, if you burn one more batch of pastries, I’m reassigning you to potato duty for a week.”
Flora, a young woman with flour dusted across her nose, caught sight of me and Fletcher. “Queen Adele! And the little lord!”
Fletcher perked up immediately. Little lord. I like her.
Chef Breard turned, his stern expression melting into something almost paternal. “Your Majesty. You look like you haven’t eaten properly in days.”
“I’ve been investigating—”
“Sit.” He pointed at a stool by the counter with the authority of someone who’d fed generations of dragon shifters and wouldn’t tolerate arguments in his kitchen. “Peter, get Her Majesty a plate. Fill it with the good pastries, not the ones you almost turned into char-babies.”
I slid onto the stool, setting Fletcher down beside me. He put on his most pathetic expression, the one that suggested he’d never been fed in his entire life and might expire from starvation at any moment.
“Oh, you poor darling,” Flora cooed, abandoning her eggs to come over and scratch behind his ears. “Would you like something to eat too?”
I like her very much, he said. You should take notes of this and utilize them in the future.
“He’s not that hungry,” I said. “Don’t let him fool you.”
Fletcher gave me a look of betrayal before turning soulful eyes back to Flora.
Chef Breard set a plate in front of me, holding three different pastries, each more beautiful than the last. Flaky, golden, and still warm from the oven. “Eat. You’re too thin.”
“I’m not—”
“Eat.”
As he set a mug of steaming tea beside my plate, I took a bite of tart with a spiced cream filling. Sweet fates, it was good. So good I made an embarrassing sound.
Chef Breard’s lips twitched. “Better than whatever they served at those other courts, yes?”
“So much better.” I took another bite, then another, suddenly ravenous.
Peter strode over with a bowl of meat stew, setting it on the floor in front of Fletcher. “Leftover from last night. You’re going to love it.”
Fletcher’s tail started wagging so hard his entire back end wiggled. This is why the kitchen is my favorite place in the entire palace.
He dove into the bowl, making happy sounds as he slurped it up.
“He’s such a good boy,” Flora said, watching him with open adoration. “Aren’t you? Yes, you are. The best boy.”
She understands my worth, Fletcher informed me between bites.
“He does love food,” I said.
“It’s clear your companion is a distinguished gentleman with refined taste. Unlike certain people who skip meals while running around solving mysteries,” the chef said.
I paused mid-bite. “Did Raoul tell you to lecture me about eating?”
“His Majesty may have mentioned you have a tendency to forget food exists when you’re working.” Chef Breard’s expression softened. “He worries.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest. Of course he worried. Of course he’d asked the kitchen staff to make sure I ate.
“Well, this is delicious.” I reached for the second pastry. “What is it?”
“Honey almond cream in puff pastry. An old family recipe.” Chef Breard watched me eat with the satisfaction of someone who took feeding people as a calling. “The king requests them specifically when he needs comfort food.”
I filed that information away, along with everything else I was learning about my husband.
Fletcher finished his stew and burped.
“Manners,” I said.
What? I’m a hound. We don’t have manners.
You absolutely do. You just choose to ignore them when it’s convenient.
Peter brought Fletcher a bowl full of water. “Wash it down, lovely pup.”
I like Peter too.
I finished the second pastry and reached for the third.
“So,” Flora said, leaning on the counter. “Did you figure out what’s making the babies sick?”
Word traveled fast in the palace.
“I think so. I think it’s ancient ice formations releasing mineral particles. If so, we’re going to fix it.”
“Ancient ice?” Chef Breard frowned. “In the mountains?”
“Buried for a very long time, exposed by that earthquake a few months ago. When it sublimates, which means it transitions from solid to gas, it releases irritants into the air.”
“And you can stop it?” Peter asked.
“I’m going to try. We’ll probably need to fly to Silvervale soon.”
Chef Breard immediately started pulling out traveling supplies. “You’ll need provisions. Peter, pack the sturdy pastries, the ones that travel well. Flora, cheese and dried meat. And fruit. She needs fruit.”
“I’m only going to be gone a few days—”
“You’re going to be doing weather magic on a scale that’ll exhaust you.” Chef Breard fixed me with a look that probably made dragons confess their deepest secrets. “You’ll eat properly, or you’ll answer to me.”
Fletcher looked up from his now-empty bowl. Chef Breard has his priorities straight.