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stand against the crowd. Normally the cool kids are defined by their golden blond hair—their attempt to emulate the princess inall things. But Zain is so cool he doesn’t need to match. My hair is also so-dark-brown-it-might-almost-be-black, but no one thinks it’s cool. It’s an inherited Kemi trait: a clear marker of our eastern heritage that my mother’s blonde Novaen genes haven’t been able to impact at all. Sometimes I’d love to change it, but the cost of such a glamour is extortionate.
    In addition to his apprenticeship to ZoroAster Corp., Zain studies Synths & Potions at University of Kingstown. It’s not like I stalk him or anything. I only know that because that was the exact course that I would’ve wanted to take . . . if I wasn’t going straight into full-time apprentices­hip to my granddad after high school.
    Despite the supposed ingrained hatred of synths that’s swirling through my blood, I sometimes think it would be amazing to work in a swanky lab, with every ingredient at my fingertips, and never worry about money again. The Kemi gift is an incredible thing to have—or maybe was, a hundred years ago, when working with natural ingredients was the only option.
    Granddad calls synths a travesty, an abomination. I’m not so sure. All I know is that there’s no way any Kemi is going to work with synths, not while he is alive. I squash those dreams deep down into a locked box in my brain, disturbed that one look at Zain can make me want to change the course of my career and devastate my family.
    The rage pouring out of the Queen Mother is palpable—so thick I can feel it wrap itself around me, uncomfortable as a blanket on a hot summer night. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Zol and Zain, at whom the heat is directed as sharp and focused as a laser.
    â€œWe’ve already ruled out Zain as a suspect,” says the king. “He volunteered for a truth serum test.”
    â€œI still don’t trust him in our palace,” the Queen Mother says.
    â€œGo back to your chambers, Mother. This is not your business.”
    I can hardly believe the king is talking to his mother that way. The Queen Mother rarely makes public appearances—­and now I wonder if it’s her choice or a decision made for her. The Queen Mother scrunches her face into an even deeper frown, but she doesn’t protest except with a single “Pah!”
    I turn back to look at the princess. She’s been still for so long; she’s like a waxwork statue and just as flawless. What is wrong with you, Princess?
    A bony finger brushes my arm and I jump like I’ve been shocked with electricity. The Queen Mother is touching me. I fumble over my etiquette—I really never thought I would meet a member of the royal family, ever!—and end up in a half-curtsy, half-bow that I’m sure pays no one any respect. The Queen Mother doesn’t seem to mind, though, or she’s too polite to fuss. She says, “Ostanes, is this your granddaughter?”
    My granddad bows his head. “Yes, my lady.”
    â€œShe is beautiful. So tall! That doesn’t come from your side of the family, then.” Her mouth is buried so deep in wrinkles it takes a moment to see that she is smiling. She leans in to my granddad. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “The Kemis never fail us.”
    I stand stock-still, worried my granddad is going to explode. But instead he says simply, “Your Majesty,” and bows stiffly. The Queen Mother tilts her head toward me to say good-bye, and walks through the wall out of the room.
    My arm tingles from where she touched me.
    Movement from the princess draws my attention back again. I can’t seem to look away for too long—her presence is magnetic, compelling. Then, almost so subtly I miss it, her eyes flicker toward the mirror. She stares at herself for a moment before