Two months later my mother collapsed in the kitchens. She had been giving a menu to the cook while I was hiding in the corner with my marbles. When my mother mentioned raspberries, she had gasped, gone white, and fainted. I believe it was a coincidence, but, nevertheless, I have not trusted raspberries since. The cook looked down, concern on her face, but nowhere near the panic I was feeling. She turned to me. “Go fetch Zed,” she said. I ran. “And you, go get the duke!” she ordered a kitchen boy as I was leaving. I felt my heart pound in my chest, as though it was going to break free from my ribs. I rounded the corner to Zed’s rooms faster than I had ever run before, nearly slipping on the warm rugs that lined our hallway floor.
“Zed! Zed!” I shouted, pounding on the door. The urgency in
