Seventeen-year-old Violet is amazed when a storm brings the dashing Prince Richard to her impoverished family’s farm. The two fall in love at first sight, but although Richard has given his heart to Violet, his parents will only let him marry a princess of their choosing, a lady of the highest nobility and sensitivity. Now on a quest to be reunited with her true love, Violet must rely on her wits—and a little help from an unexpected source—to compete with princesses, pass the king and queen’s tests, and prove herself worthy of being Richard’s bride. Debbie Viguié ’s Simon Pulse books include the New York Times bestselling Wicked series and the Once upon a Time novels Violet Eyes , Scarlet Moon , and Midnight Pearls . She lives in Florida with her husband, Scott. Visit her at DebbieViguie.com. CHAPTER ONE A storm was coming. The air seemed heavy and charged, and the wind had begun blowing from the east with a singular intensity of purpose. It brought with it the smell of distant rain. Violet stood in the middle of her father’s wheat field, closed her eyes, and threw out her arms as if to embrace the storm. Every great or terrible moment of her life had been presaged by a storm, and Violet had learned to accept and embrace change as part of life. To meet it, not fear it. It had stormed the night before her brother was born, and four years later it stormed the night before he died. It had stormed the day before her cousin Tara’s wedding, where Violet had kissed a boy for the first time. It had stormed just before the beginning of the two-year drought that had nearly destroyed her family’s farm. And when a storm had come to save them from starvation, she had danced in it. She took a deep breath, feeling the storm as it moved in. It was as though the tempest called to something deep and wild within her. She opened her eyes, and she could see the rain approaching. Violet watched as it hit the tops of the trees in the forest and came on with a steady sweep. “Child, come inside before the storm arrives,” her father, William, said, approaching from the barn, where he had just put away Bessie and the wagon. It was the first Monday of the month, and he had just returned from his monthly trip into the village. Violet was bursting to ask him what news he had heard, but she knew better. Her father always saved news for telling at the supper table. She gave him a little wave, wanting to linger a few more moments and knowing that she would hear the news soon enough. She turned aside reluctantly as her father came to stand beside her. He looked out at the rain sweeping in, and a worried look crossed his weather-beaten face. “I hope that storm doesn’t damage the crops,” he said. Violet smiled. He was always so practical. “But isn’t there something beautiful about it, Father?” “Yes, so long as it doesn’t destroy anything.” He turned and headed for the house, clearly expecting her to follow. Violet lingered another moment and cast one last look at the storm front. “But it always does,” she muttered under her breath before turning and heading after her father. Just outside of the barn they were met by Thomas, the butcher’s son. Thomas was thirteen and fast growing into a man. He was the youngest of six children, all boys. For the last four years Thomas had worked for Violet’s father. As the farm prospered and William grew older, he had needed more help. With no son and only one daughter William had had to look elsewhere. Thomas was a good lad and worked hard for the few coins William could pay him and the chance to learn a trade other than his father’s. The village was small and would never have need of so many butchers. William tousled the boy’s hair fondly. “You did well today, lad. You staying for supper?” Thomas shook his head. “I’d like to get home before the storm hits.” “There’s a wise lad. Off with you, then, and we’ll see you in the morning less’n the storm hasn’t let up. If it’s still raining, don’t bother coming until the day after.” Thomas nodded his understanding before taking off toward home at a long, loping run. “He should just make it before the rain starts,” her father said, as much to himself as to Violet. Inside the house the smell of stew filled the air. Violet’s mother, Sarah, was already ladling the broth and bits of vegetables out into bowls on the table. Finished, she put down the pot and coughed hard into her apron. “Storm’s coming,” her father said. “If there’s anything you need from outside, Mother, one of us’ll fetch it. We wouldn’t want you to catch cold. You’ll want to bundle up warm tonight.” “I’m fine, really,” her mother answered with a weak smile. Violet wasn’t so sure that was true. For the last three months her mother had been coughing, not hard, but persistently. She knew Father was worried, even though he didn’t say much. No one wanted to talk about the fact that Mother was getting weaker. Father was usually cheerful and talked a lot during su