“So,” my tutor continues, “how else might we strengthen our political alliances with them to assure they do not take it into their heads to invade us?”

I look down at the map and work through the possibilities with him: what we have to offer in trade, in support of them, and how we might also make ourselves look like too much trouble to bother with. Whatever was happening in the hallway appears to have died down, and I dismiss the incident as over until I hear the woman speak again.

“Bring them forward.” Her voice is loud and carrying and clear, and I finally place it as Lady Emmanika’s.

Oh no. My mind flashes to the memory of Valka facing Emmanika yesterday. I don’t want to know—and perhaps I’m wrong. What are the chances that this trouble with the servants has anything to do with Valka? But what if it does?

Valka does love her pranks, her malicious little methods to mete out vengeance. And she was very angry with Emmanika for correcting her.

I don’t want to know Valka’s secrets, I remind myself as my tutor goes on about the intricacies of our trade relations. I can just stay here, and—and I will still find out anyhow. And then, whatever injustice it is that has come to pass, it will be too late for me to do anything, just as it is with the hostlers, and Edlyna. And I will still have my family’s contempt, and regrets I don’t know what to do with.

I take a deep breath. I could just step outside. I don’t know what’s happening, but perhaps I can—I don’t know what I can do. But at least I should be there.

“Excuse me,” I say, sliding out of my seat and interrupting my tutor mid-sentence.

“Your Highness!”

I wince. “There is something wrong outside. I will just be a moment,” I say apologetically. I swing the door open to find the hallway crowded with nobles as well as nearly half my mother’s warriors.

I stand on my tiptoes and spy Maralinde’s father—a tall, thin man with a sparse beard and gaunt cheeks—standing halfway down the corridor. Most likely beside his wife. I thread my way through the onlookers, arriving at the center of the commotion just as the people at the other end of the hall press back, allowing through a contingent of guards and four very frightened-looking servants: three girls and a wide-eyed page. The girls wear aprons over their dull-colored dresses, the page a tunic and sagging leggings, probably handed down to him from a larger boy.

I cut sideways through the crowd and come up behind Maralinde, standing beside her mother and father.

“What’s happened?” I whisper.