In a small number of people, beauty is the very jewel of God’s grace. In most, it is a common asset, leveraged like any other resource. But to Cylene of Mandrogal, beauty was neither grace nor good.

It was punishment.

And such beauty. Where could King Olanda hide her?

The maiden curtsied prettily, averting her oceanic eyes to the walnut floor.

“Your name, child?”

She raised her chin. “Cylene, Your Majesty.”

That chin! “Where do you come from Cylene?” King Olanda asked, unable to look away.

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She flushed, pink as a pomegranate. “I think Your Majesty suspects the truth. Or why else would I be standing here today?”

The King covered a gasp. Then his suspicions were verified. And no wonder. Her age matched exactly the years since his now dead wife’s banishment.

Hers was the ultimate revenge. In her exile, the disgraced queen had produced a bastard of such rare beauty. The likeness between them smote him, but the likeness was nothing to her child’s beauty.

Though her very existence made a mockery of his authority, the king couldn’t kill this lovely innocent. So much less could he let her go. Some member of his own guard would want her and attempt to repeat her on the next generation.

But alive—alive, she would haunt him to his grave.

* * *

The King settled on the royal nursery as a suitable location for his late wife’s bastard. No place more sheltered. No dwelling better guarded. And in a few years, her looks would go. They must go, so that this wretched resemblance would fade and he could discard her like he did most things—without thought, much less remorse.