Princess Rosalind had two months before the curse took her, the same age it had taken her mother. She stood in the dim hall outside the palace archive and pressed her palm to its iron door. Locked. Every princess in her bloodline died young, and the truth of why lay behind this door. Her father had sealed it. He said the past was buried for good reason. Rosalind meant to dig it up before the curse buried her too. Her silver fox sat at her heel, ears sharp, watching the corridor for guards. For weeks Rosalind had chased whispers instead. A washerwoman swore the curse began with a jilted witch. A stable hand blamed a stolen crown. Each rumor sent her running, and each one led nowhere. She was done trusting stories. The records inside the archive could name the true origin. She needed the records, and the door stood between her and every answer. "You'll ruin the lock and learn nothing," said a voice behind her. Rosalind turned. The old court historian shuffled toward her, leaning on nothing but his own stubbornness. Aldric Penworth had served the palace longer than anyone alive. His beard reached his belt, and his round glasses caught the torchlight. He had tutored her as a child, then vanished into his dusty rooms for years. She had not spoken to him since her mother's funeral. "You know what's inside," Rosalind said. It was not a question. "I know what your father wants forgotten." Aldric studied her face. "You have her eyes. She stood at this door once, asking the same thing." Rosalind's throat tightened. "Then help me. The rumors are lies. I've wasted weeks on them." He was quiet a long moment. Then he drew a small brass key from a cord around his neck. "I kept a copy. Against the king's order." His hand shook as he held it out. "Some debts outlive the people we owe them to." The key turned. The door groaned open on a room thick with dust. Shelves climbed to the ceiling, packed with rotting ledgers. Rosalind rushed to the oldest shelf and pulled down a cracked leather book. The fox slipped in behind her, nose twitching. She read fast, page after page, until her finger stopped. The curse had a name written plainly. It was no witch and no stolen crown. The curse was a bargain. A king of her own line had traded his daughters' lives for a throne. Her ancestor had done this on purpose. Aldric read over her shoulder and went pale. "This changes what you must do," he whispered. "A curse cast can be broken. A bargain must be paid, or repaid." Rosalind closed the book. She finally knew the truth. But the truth demanded a price, and she did not yet know who would pay it.