I try calling back that evening. He doesn’t answer.
I try again the next morning. Straight to voicemail.
He’s busy,I tell myself.He’s investigating a murder. He’s dealing with territory business. He’s—
My stomach cramps.
It’s a familiar feeling. The same twist of dread I used to get when Heart’s office door would close and her voice would go quiet. The same sick certainty that something bad was coming and I couldn’t stop it.
No. Stop it, Bailey. He’s just busy. This isn’t like before.
But my stomach doesn’t believe me.
Day five.
I hear the commotion first—doors opening, footsteps, the low murmur of voices in the hall.
He’s home.
My heart leaps. I’m out of bed before I’ve fully processed what I’m doing, throwing on a robe, running my fingers through my hair. The cramp in my stomach loosens. See? Everything is fine. He’s home. I’ll tell him about the torte and the wink and he’ll do the almost-smile and—
Mrs. Lyme appears in my doorway.
Her face is wrong. Pinched. The pleasant mask she always wears has cracked, and underneath is something that looks like dread.
“Your Majesty.” She pauses. “The king has requested your presence in the library.”
The library. Where he holds formal meetings.
“Now?” I start toward the door. “I was just going to—”
“I’m afraid the king is explicit in his command.” Her voice is gentle. Too gentle. “The entire staff has also been summoned.”
The cramp comes back. Sharper.
“What’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with wet eyes.
I reach for her hand. Squeeze it. Try to smile.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
Her face crumples. Just for a moment. Then she straightens, nods, and gestures for me to follow.
No,I think.No no no.
The library is full.
Every member of the household staff stands in neat rows. Arlene with her strong hands folded. Thomas the gardener, dirt still under his fingernails. The two young maids that always work as a pair, shoulders touching, faces pale. The guards who’ve started nodding at me in the hallways.
All of them. Silent. Watching.
And at the front of the room, standing behind a massive oak desk like a judge about to deliver a verdict, is Devyn.
He looks wrong.
Same sharp jaw. Same golden eyes. Same perfectly tailored suit. But his face is stone. Cold in a way I haven’t seen since those first days—when I was a stranger in his chapel and he looked at me like I was a problem to be solved.
