I stood and puzzled over it and why she had sent it to me. I contemplated going to her; she and I still needed to talk. But I knew it was too dangerous for me to be in any way associated with her, especially since I had cast my lot with the countess. And I winced whenever I imagined asking Imonie why she’d lied to me all those years. I honestly knew what her answer would be: to protect my father and the life he had built in Bardyllis.

To protect me, until the right time came to tell me the truth.

I burned her message, as I had with the one the day before. I couldn’t risk having them lying around my room, and as I watched the parchment curl into ash, I realized what she was trying to tell me.

She wanted me to take the throne. And she must be doubting the duke’s—the master of coin’s—agreement with my father to support my claim.

I threw on my charm of stealth and walked the corridors, my eyes keen to find the duke. I eventually located him in the fortress’s garden, meandering among tangles of shrubs. I stood behind the courtyard doors and watched him through the glass windowpanes. He paused to gaze at the astounding view that rolled beyond the garden walls—an overlook of the mountain city of Ulla, built in tiers with houses of stone. Abandoned and empty now, with nature overtaking it.

I needed to speak with him, but I couldn’t do it in the open, where the countess might see.

I hastened to the duke’s chambers. His door was locked, but I picked it easily enough with a charm. I settled in a chair where I had clear vantage of the door, my stealth still cloaking me, and waited.

A quarter of an hour later, the door opened.

The duke entered the chamber, wholly unaware of my presence. If he had been more attentive, he might have noticed the odd wrinkle against the wall panel. A break in the pattern. But as my luck had it, he was too preoccupied.

I gave him a moment to cross the floor. He came to a stop before the mirror, and he gazed at himself. From where I was positioned, I could only catch half of his true face in the reflection. He was old. Much older than his disguise. His hair was long and silver, his face pale and crinkled as parchment. There was a scar on his brow, and a beard covered his face, gleaming like frost.

He sighed.

I understood a fraction of that feeling, and I watched as he turned to his refreshment table, as he poured a glass of water.

The cup was halfway to his lips when my voice broke the silence.

“The water is poisoned, Your Grace.”

The duke startled.