My answer rings in the high cavern and between the carved stone pillars ominously. The Minister of the Coin is the only one who dares to make noise—his snort soft.

“By all accounts, Your Majesty, she has been revealed of late to be less than a reliable source,” the Minister of the Coin says. “She consorts with commoners in her leisure time.”

“Walking around the common quarter does not inhibit one’s ability to tell the truth, Sarcomel,” the king responds dully. The Ministers of the Brick and Blood shift in their seats, and Sarcomel shrinks in his. I let out the tiniest of breaths. King Sref turns back to me, his long salt-and-pepper hair waterfalling over his shoulder.

“You will tell us what you did see, then,” he says. “As best you can.”

I nod, even though my insides are scrambling. He knows I’m Heartless, but I can’t make up any witch or magic things in front of the other three Ministers.

arrogant! the hunger squeals.

“I…I invited Lucien to walk with me in the forest.” I try to make my voice as steady as I can. “When the hunting party was bathing, I saw a beautiful yew tree and thought it would be nice to look at in the moonlight.”

Sarcomel scoffs, this time with a toxicity to his words. “Your Majesty, I have no idea why we’re entertaining an Y’shennria’s word. They are Old God traitors, and the temple says—”

“I will not be bothered by what the temple says in an independent investigation pursuing the truth of the murder of one of my ministers.” King Sref raises his voice a hair, and the ministers fall silent again.

The Minister of the Brick speaks up. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, Minister Sarcomel has a point. Lady Quinn Y’shennria has been missing from the capital for six days now. The timing of her absence is undeniably questionable. We should be focusing less on interrogating the hazy witnesses—both of whom are children incapable of much—and more on bringing her back to Vetris.”

I nearly take a step back. The gall of this moldy old skunk! The self-assured certainty with which he views Lucien and me as “incapable” has me reeling. It staggers me again and again with how little Vetrisian nobles care for their children.

“Are you insinuating my son the prince is not capable, Minister Polsk?” the king asks coolly, and I celebrate vicariously through his words for a moment.

“N-Not in the slightest, Your Majesty,” Minister Polsk’s ancient, liver-spotted face sours with a faint greenish hue. I can only watch as the power balances tip back and forth. As Minister Polsk stumbles over his next words, Minister Sarcomel stands from his chair and points at me furiously.