“I forget nothing. And you assume that I don’t know why you voted with Viktor.”

Lord Akadra blanched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She turned on him. “I’m delighted to hear it. And shall feel comfortable giving the matter free rein the next time I’m present at the Grand Council.”

Marek was no stranger to watching Lady Ebigail dismantle resistance. But even by her standards, she’d performed a masterpiece on Lord Akadra, whose face fell. Marek didn’t know the secret to which she alluded, nor did he know if Lady Ebigail even knew the truth of the matter. But it was clear that Lord Akadra, who had spent more recent nights in her bed than his own, now understood how little influence those intimacies granted in other endeavours.

Makrov looked on with sly interest. Curiosity vied with grim delight for command of his expression.

“Ebigail . . .” Lord Akadra swallowed. “What of Viktor? If he . . .”

“Viktor will fall into line, as my own dear Sevaka is falling into line. We’ve been too lax with our children, Hadon. We’ve given them freedom without wisdom. Clipping their wings will serve them every bit as well as it serves the Republic.”

Lord Akadra nodded and hung his head. “And Malachi? Abitha?”

“Will make the usual fuss and display. But the vote is the vote. Dear Arzro will have the 12th, the hangman will have Josiri Trelan. The Republic will have the unity of a single voice once more.”

Eyes shining with delight, Makrov pushed off from his chair and offered her a deep bow. “Lumestra thanks you, my lady.”

“I need no thanks,” said Lady Ebigail serenely. “I do merely what this great Republic of ours demands.”

Rosa jolted bolt-upright, heart pounding and fingers grasping at a sword that wasn’t there. A dozen hurried breaths rasped through her lungs before she realised that the gloom was not so unrecognisable as she’d feared. It was merely unfamiliar. The Abbeyfields guest chamber. Lit in soft, dappled greys by strands of moonlight that cheated the drapes.

Then she heard it. The soft, whispering creak of a floorboard yielding beneath carpet. A noise that was barely a noise at all. Once heard, it was unmistakeable. Too heavy for a sneaking child. Too furtive to be anyone with honest business in mind. Expression hardening to match a suddenly flint-edged heart, Rosa bunched her borrowed cotton nightgown about her knees, and ghosted from the room.

Barefoot, she crossed the landing and descended to the first floor. She heard no more footfalls, but a gentle draught brought further warning that something was amiss. The front door hung ajar.