I remember once, when I was very young, my mother told me that my father had never wanted to be king. My brother Ambrose and I were at our lessons with her, for she would allow us to have no other tutor. I remember her trying to teach us Eucian, the language of our neighbours in Rettia. I – and Ambrose more vocally – did not want to learn. Realising that she would make no progress until she persuaded us, she sat down and told us the story. My father had been the younger of two sons and so it had been his elder brother, Bayard, who was to be king. My father had been free to do as he pleased and he was glad not have the responsibility of my uncle. But then Bayard and my grandfather went off to war, and a year later word reached home that they had both been slain. My father had lost two people very dear to him, along with his freedom.

“But,” my mother told us, a gentle smile on her face, “although he wanted nothing less than the crown, just as the two of you want nothing less than your lessons, he took his place. He did what was right, and because he did, the kingdom is strong. We have a king to be proud of – a king Bayard and your grandfather would have been proud to know.”

I must confess that I did not fully understand her then, but I quickly became fluent in Eucian. When she died, it was the memory of her lessons and stories that I treasured the most – that I still treasure.

There is a voice in my bedchamber. It is soft but insistent and for some time I cannot place it, except that it is female. “Avis, wake up, it's morning.”

It doesn't particularly look like morning. It's so dark I can barely see beyond the edge of my pillow, which I am in no hurry to raise my head from. I am certainly not rested enough for it to be morning. I half-open my eyes and scowl in the direction I think the voice is coming from. “Go away.”

“Avis, come on, it's time.”

I know the voice now. It's Margaret. I want to ignore her but its words have struck a chime somewhere in the back of my mind. Time for what? I should know this.

Another voice has joined the first now. “Come on, Princess Avvie, raise your royal rear from that bed.” A pause. “And the rest of you can come too, if you've nothing else planned for today.”

This is a voice I know instantly. I sit up so quickly that for a moment I see swirling shapes in the darkness. I half-open my eyes, peering into the darkness. What light there is comes from a torch held, some distance away from me, by a tall, pale-skinned man in a dark tunic.

“God's teeth, Thias, what are you doing in my chamber?”

“A better job of getting you out of bed and into action than my sister ever will. Given half a chance she'd probably let you sleep another hour to get your strength up.”

“That doesn't sound particularly unpleasant,” I mutter, but grudgingly I slip my legs out from under the sheets and brace myself for the cold shock the stone floor will give my feet. I miss my woven rug in the mornings as much as I miss edible food at mealtimes and having my father's armed guard at our disposal when I'm trying to plan a daring escape from the prison that was once our home.

To look where the sun is shining slightly brighter, however, I have now finally remembered the significance of today and why I have been roused before the sun has risen.

“Ah! The candle is lit!” exclaims Thias. Thias is actually Mathias Marcheforde, an earl's son. He came to the castle to chaperone his younger sister's meeting with Ambrose, my brother and her betrothed. His father's decision not to let him mix with the local boys because they were all sons of peasants has left him with an incredible ability to condense entire trains of thought into short, apparently irrelevant sentences so that no other man or woman may understand him.

I hear Margaret shift, probably turning to him. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Avvie. There's light in her eyes. She's with us once more.”

“It's reflecting from the torchlight, Thias, and I'm sorry that's not poetic enough for you.” Margaret is suddenly impatient. I think Thias' apparent good humour unnerves her. She has always been uncomfortable with the idea of what we must do this morning and I know in my heart that she would have refused if it wasn't our only option. “Avvie, are you ready?”

“Almost,” I reply, trying to sound as controlled as possible. Today is, after all, the day I have taken responsibility for. I scrabble under my bed for my boots and pull them on. The harsh fabric on my skin reminds me that I dressed last night to save time this morning. As I lace the boots I try to shake off the last of the sleep that is trying to reclaim me. Nothing is more important this morning than remembering the plan and making it run smoothly. “Right.” I stand up and take a deep breath. “I'm ready now.”

Thias, sobered by his sister's small but uncharacteristic outburst, gives a single nod and produces two more torches which he lights before handing them to us. He then turns for the door, but Margaret catches his arm.

“Wait,” she says.

I feel the weight of the torch in my hand. “What is it?”

Margaret holds out her hand. Her milky skin is bathed orange by the torchlight. “Let's do this for Ambrose.”

My stomach twists. Thias and I look at one another in shared horror and panic. We are both being strangled by the same thought. Neither of us has yet had the courage to tell Margaret what we saw from the tower window that night, when we watched the sun set on our hundredth day as prisoners in my family's home. My brother is not dead. Dead in spirit, perhaps, but in mind and body very much alive. He was not murdered the night of the siege by the invaders that killed my father. Thias and I saw him in the courtyard with my father's crown in his hands and a smile on his face.

I have pieced the story together, here and there, and it fills me with shame. The men found him in the banquet hall and dragged him into the courtyard, but rather than make good on their promise to bludgeon him to death with the hilt of a sword, they gave him a choice. They saw in him the ruthless, power-hungry streak that had always made him an outsider in our family and offered him the chance to join them. He took it. Ambrose, Crown Prince of Valeron might be alive and proudly preparing to take his place as a puppet king for murderous rebels, but my brother, Margaret's fiancé, is dead.

It was as Thias and I stood there, my hand gripping his tight enough to leave a mark, that I realised we had to escape.

Looking at Margaret's hand, I make another decision. I will do this for the man my brother could have been. I put my hand on hers. “For Ambrose.”

Thias looks at me but his expression is unquestioning as he adds his hand. “Very well. For Ambrose.”

I stand for a moment, feeling the warmth of their skin, then pull away. “Come.”

Thias stands up straight. “I'll take the servant's wing.”

Margaret swallows a sentiment and pushes back her shoulders. “I'll take the secret passage to the Dining Room and make my way from there.”

“And I,” I say, with more confidence than I really feel, “will meet both of you at the end of the waterway. Thias, I want that portcullis up and ready. Any last minute questions?” There's no response. “Good. May God go with both of you.”

“God be wi'ye,” they repeat and, with a last look, they're gone.

I take a last moment to look around the room. I have no affection for it. When I was younger, Ambrose and I used to hide under the bed here as part of our games. I suppose it was special then, but now all this room shows me is how horribly wrong everything went. I am determined. If we cannot put things to rights we can at least carve out some happiness for ourselves.

I roll up my sleeves and step into the corridor without looking back. From now on, the only way is forward.