Large floor-to-ceiling windows kept out the driving rain. Beyond lay a balcony where visitors could stand on pleasant days and be suitably awed as they looked out across the treetops, all the way to Barkingham Palace, the residence of King Quercus ten or so miles away. Why did the people of Arborium still love their ruler? Giving out coins to the poor on Diana’s Day was hardly going to change the whole wide-wood. Petronio’s father was right about how out of touch the King was.

But Petronio wasn’t interested in the views, political or otherwise. He moved soundlessly toward the desk, knelt, and slid open the bottom drawer. He lifted out a carved wooden box. Surely his father wouldn’t miss just one?

As he stood up, he caught his reflection in the mirror. A well-built young man stared back at him. Others might have snickered fatso behind his back, but he carried the weight with ease. His curly black hair was oiled and perfumed, his hazel eyes filled with false friendliness. A decent chunk of shiny hematite mined by the Rootshooters from the depths of the trees dangled from his left ear. White was the latest rage in court, but this meant his shift had to be repeatedly dipped in urine and left to bleach in the sun. The price was a slight whiff, but the dazzling result was worth it, topped off by a decent sun yellow silk doublet, puffed-up red britches held down by cross-garters wrapped around his knees, the whole lot finished off with an oversize codpiece. The mirror approved him. It was a good look.

A few seconds later, he was out of the study and slipping down the servants’ corridor toward the utility room. Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. The cleaners had been and gone. He was safe.

The cramped, enclosed room was a jumble of gas pipes, waste chutes, and laundry tubs. It was nearly dark, apart from the flare of the single gas lamp. He carefully sidestepped a collection of dustpans and mops and made his way to the central flue, lighting the cigar with a match as he went. He swung open a small vent door and dragged deep, savoring the smooth taste, before leaning forward to blow the smoke right into the flue cylinder, letting the smoke wind its way up and out of the chimney system high above.

There was a sudden sound of footsteps. Fast and purposeful, they stopped abruptly on the other side of the door.

“Woodrot!” Petronio stubbed out the cigar and threw it down the flue. What a waste! As the door to the utility room swung inward and light spilled in, he stepped quickly into the far corner behind a pile of boxes and drew back.