He looked around again, saw two beacons shining above him. His markers. His anchors. Two reasons to go back.

But not yet. Here there was terrible clarity. Here there was quiet—except for the sound of a baby crying.

Saetan read the two messages again, not sure what he was searching for but certain he hadn’t found it.

The message from Hekatah’s father was a scrawled assurance that she’d arrived in Draega, distressed but unharmed, and would remain there until everything was settled with Zuulaman’s Queens.

A similar message from Hekatah, with additional reminders that he was responsible for her safety, that her continued safety, and the safety of their two sons, depended on his fulfilling the agreements he’d made with Zuulaman.

As he read her message one last time, he knew what was missing. There was nothing about the baby. If she knew what had been done, there was no sign of grief. If she didn’t know, there was no concern that she’d been allowed to leave without the child. Not one word about the loss of their newborn son. Not. One. Word.

He dropped the messages back on the silver tray his butler had placed on his desk. Called in a long, soft black jacket, slipped it on, adjusted his shirt cuffs and collar. Then he picked up the agreements and left the Hall.

While the Ambassador carefully looked over the agreements, no doubt to confirm that nothing had been altered after they’d been signed, Saetan looked around the room the man had called home for the past few weeks.

Two pieces of Zuulaman pottery were arranged on a table, along with a wooden flute and a book of the island’s folk tales. He knew that’s what the book contained because the Ambassador had given him a copy the first time the man had called to discuss the trade agreements. And on the wall was a framed, primitive sketch of a seashore.

“This takes care of it,” the Ambassador said. “I believe this takes care of everything.”

Not quite. The thought bloomed. Found the storm hidden in the mist. Echoed through that terrible clarity.

“If there’s anything I can do to assist you in collecting the first shipment of goods . . .” The Ambassador frowned. “Prince SaDiablo?”

No word of regret. No mention of the child whose blood had bought those sacks of grain, those casks of wine, whose death had sentenced the Dhemlan people to buying pottery and sketches they didn’t want.

Rage flowed through him, a cold, sweet poison.

Saetan looked at the Ambassador and smiled. “There is one thing you can do.”

“I’m not available to anyone,” Saetan said as he brushed past his butler.

“What if the Dhemlan Queens—”

“Not to anyone.”