Alina grinned and slipped back into the corridor, the echo of Marta’s affection warming her more than any hearth.
She took the stairs two at a time, feeling a giddy, reckless lightness in her chest. Above her, the palace ticked on, ever orderly and utterly unchanged—but for a moment, she felt as though she had bent the world to her own rules, even if only for a stolen pastry and a stolen smile.
2
I Want to See
The palace’s grand dining room was meant to impress foreign dignitaries and cow lesser nobles, but tonight it felt more like an amphitheater. Crystal chandeliers glowed above the immense oval table, their facets throwing whorled patterns across the inlaid marble floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the west wall, framing the bruised evening sky and the mist-shrouded city below, while velvet drapes pooled like blood at the base of the columns. Every gleaming, absurdly spotless surface multiplied the light and the voices of those inside, trapping sound in a glittering cage.
Princess Alina had been late by thirty seconds, and the knowledge sat like a stone in her stomach. She’d arrived breathless, cheeks a shade too pink, every eye at the table marking her tardiness before the clock struck. Queen Isabella had greeted her with a mild arch of her brow, the sort of gesture only visible to the trained—or the paranoid. The King’s gaze was cooler: not disappointed, exactly, but watchful, always weighing.
She slid into her seat at her mother’s right, arranging the folds of her dress precisely. To her left, Lord Rowan Ashford offered a polite nod, his slate-gray eyes betraying nothing. Across from them sat the rest of the council: Lady Celeste Marlowe, in dove-gray silks, with her hair coiled into a weaponized crown; Duke Roland Blackwood, thick-necked and bull-nosed, frowning even as he buttered his bread with surgical care; Chancellor Elena Fairchild, whose smile never reached her eyes; and, at the far end, Lord Gideon Windmere, hands steepled and face lost in shadow.
A small army of servants glided around the table, their movements as synchronized as a ballet. Silver platters flashed, lids lifted with the softest sighs, and the air filled with the competing scents of roast duck, orange glaze, and delicate spiced greens. Alina caught herself watching the footmen, envying the way they floated through the room as if untouched by anxiety.
The meal began in silence, broken only by the careful clink of utensils and the sound of wine poured into crystal. The King’s appetite was legendary, but tonight he merely toyed with his food, eyes flicking from plate to council and back. It was clear from the set of his jaw that something was expected—of them, or of the night itself.
It was Lady Marlowe who spoke first, her piercing voice slicing the silence as neatly as her knife did the duck breast. Duke Blackwood flinched, disliking her voice as much as the person as a whole. Alina was sympathetic; her voice did sound like an ill-tuned violin. Dying goats came to mind. “There’s news from the southern fiefdoms. Two spice caravans have gone missing—no ransom, no witnesses, just vanished.”
Duke Blackwood grunted, mouth already full. “Bandits. Or smugglers. The southern border’s always been a sieve.”
Lord Ashford dabbed at his mouth, then set his napkin with surgical precision. “If it were mere banditry, we’d have bodies. Or bribes. I suspect a coordinated effort. Perhaps someone testing our response time.”
Queen Isabella lifted her glass, voice sweet as honey. “What do you advise, Lord Rowan?”
Alina watched as Rowan weighed his words. He was careful, always, and never more so than in the King’s presence. “The council might consider dispatching a small, elite retinue. Publicly, to reassure the trade guilds, but with discreet orders to investigate beyond the border. The loss of spice is less important than the precedent of unsolved crime.”
Lord Windmere spoke for the first time, his voice rough as old parchment. “Agreed. But if the rumors are true and there are rebels involved, then a show of force may only provoke escalation.” He fingered his sparse hair as if to check that it was still there, an unconscious nervous gesture.
Rebels? What rebels? Alina had never heard of rebels in their Realm before.
King Edmund’s fingers drummed the table once, then lay flat. “Our coffers will not suffer the insult of desert lords lifting our goods without consequence. We’ll send both the envoy and the escort. Lady Marlowe, draft the orders. Rowan, select the retinue.”
Marlowe bowed her head, hair never shifting from its impossible perch. “At once, Your Majesty.”
As the council’s conversation moved to the next crisis—the tax dispute in the eastern valleys—Alina found her attention wandering. She knew she was meant to take notes, to learn from the sparring of these titans, but every word tasted the same: metallic, sharp-edged, and bitter. She found herself counting thepanes in the windows, the knots in the wainscoting, the number of times Chancellor Fairchild adjusted her cufflinks.
When the king addressed her directly, she nearly missed it. “Alina,” he said, voice deceptively warm, “what would you do about the grain shortage in the north?”
She blinked. Another test. Of course. All eyes turned, hungry for error. “I—I would request an audit of the grain reserves and send an impartial observer to oversee distribution. If the shortage is truly due to blight, we might divert supplies from the western surplus, but only after ensuring the reports are accurate.”
Fairchild smiled, sharklike. “You suspect the local barons are hoarding?” Her long nose twitched in anticipation.
Alina’s throat was suddenly dry. “I suspect…that people will do what they believe they must, when faced with scarcity. It is prudent to verify.”
There was a brief, electric silence. Then the king nodded, a ghost of approval in the gesture. “Well reasoned.”
Relief flooded her, but in the same instant a flicker of lightning illuminated the windows, painting the table in blue-white relief. A rumble followed, soft at first, then growing to a vibration felt in the feet. The glassware trembled.
A glance out the window showed a storm gathering. Black clouds were rolling in with enormous speed, dramatic creations of white, gray, and blue, with obsidian coating their undersides. Where had that come from so quickly?
The council looked at the king, but Edmund seemed unruffled. “The storm is early this year,” he said. He turned to the queen: “Maybe you could ask the Alchemist to see if there is unstable weather ahead of us, my dear. I would not want the Solstice Celebration to be drowned in rain.”
“Of course, my Lord. I will see to it tomorrow.”
Alina watched as a servant, his hands shaking, nearly dropped a decanter. He continued to cast nervous glances at the windows and then at the doors, as if calculating his emergency exit. Superstitions ran deep within the common people, and many thought winter storms to be a bad omen. She saw Lord Windmere’s gaze also linger on the window, eyes narrowed to pinpricks. Again, he touched his hair with flitting fingers. Was he superstitious, too?
Dinner continued, but the mood was fractured now. Conversation skittered, never settling. A second flash, brighter and closer, sent shadows leaping along the marble. The thunder that followed instantly made the dinner party jump in their seats. The wind, at least two stories up, made the casements moan.
