Duja scanned the room. Pineapple silk drapes did not cascade from the ceilings. Gilded ornaments did not adorn the paneled wood. The walls were plain even for the eastern wing, which stood barren most of the year. The air inside was stale. Light shone dully through the opaque panels of the window shades. All were sealed shut, and Duja wondered how long it had been since they were last opened. Before the eastern wing collapsed, the room had once served as a break area for the servants of their guests’ private households. Hara Duja had not dared house anyone there after the second accident. Part of her agreed with the rumors: the eastern wing was cursed.

When it came to the Orfelian, however, she didn’t have a choice. During the feast days, nobles with keen ears and prying eyes crawled like fire ants across the palace grounds. The Orfelian, with his peculiar features and foreign accent, was sure to provoke questions. If one of Duja’s subjects caught sight of him, vicious rumors would spread across the island like her brother’s wildfire. How long before they found out who he was and about his precioso? No, Duja needed to keep him out of sight until Mariit quieted. The eastern wing was her only option⁠—no one would search for trouble there.

Duja turned to the Orfelian. “I hope your new workshop is to your liking.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “I think this workshop will suit my needs perfectly.”

A long, narrow table of unfinished rosewood stood at the center of the room. Duja ran a finger over its rough, dusty surface. The table had been there for years. As for the cupboards at the back of the room opposite the paneled windows⁠—that morning, the Orfelian and Aki had hauled them down from the upper floors. Duja balked at the idea of her husband doing this sort of labor, but he had insisted. The fewer servants milling about the eastern wing, the better.

Through the cupboards’ glass doors, Duja spied several canisters of varying sizes, some as stout as teakettles and others as slender as bamboo flutes. Many were unlabeled, but the Orfelian had given her the names of the ingredients he needed. Duja didn’t recognize most of them⁠—chemicals with strange, multisyllabic names⁠—but she had passed this list on to General Ojas, who’d sent one of his most trusted guards to the city proper to acquire them.

“I see you’ve already received the materials,” Duja said with a small, approving grin. “Unfortunately, my people were not able to find the quantities you requested, but we’ve put in an order⁠—”

“Oh, no, these will be more than enough for a sample batch,” the Orfelian said, then turned pink in the cheeks when he realized he had interrupted her. He bowed his head and added a brief Your Majesty in one breath.