This last bit he mostly spat out, which was an indication that he wasn’t kidding. The adage spitting mad was coined by those who witnessed Estermon the Second in a rage. The smart ones retreated when the ruler of the world began to froth. She knew he wouldn’t kill her in a rage; he was her grandfather, not a monster. But she might spend time under house arrest in a secluded villa as punishment. Farilane couldn’t afford to lose a day and didn’t feel like taking up watercolors. The sand in her personal hourglass was draining far too fast.

“Farilane,” the emperor called as she made her exit, “as I suspect my funeral will precede your convincing a man to tolerate you, let me give you some important advice. Stay on good terms with your father. He will be emperor soon.” As if to offer proof, he coughed a series of disturbing hacks that brought phlegm to his lips. When he spat, she saw blood.

Farilane was surprised, and not just by the blood. In spite of his anger, Estermon the Second was offering her genuinely beneficial advice. For a moment, he was a real grandfather. In return, she granted him an authentically sad smile, and the truth. “When she died, my father replaced my mother in less than a week. In my grief, he told me I ought to forget Lydia—pretend she had never existed, the same way he had. Easier that way, he said. I did him one better. I pretend my father doesn’t exist. Easier that way.”

Ignoring protocol, Farilane turned her back on the emperor, and left.

Descending the Illustrious Stair from the Grand Solarium—a farcically pretentious title for the room she’d just left—Farilane hit the main floor of the palace and found it awash with hundreds of the usual people. Ambassadors, clerks, military officers, petitioners, servants, and a dizzying number of bureaucrats turned the open-air gallery into a marketplace for influence peddling. Famously having no influence to peddle, Farilane was immune to the feeding frenzy. But this morning, a man chased her.

“Princess Farilane?”