“Well,” Belrose said, pulling the Council back on topic, “do you have the proof?”

Stepping forward, Shan pulled the linen bag from her side and placed it on the table. She had treated it with the antidote and tested it herself—it would show nothing but the death of her father. But she still held her breath as Belrose opened it carefully, letting the bloodstained handkerchief spill out, and the whole Council leaned in as one. Picking it up with the tip of her claws, Belrose spread it out in front of her before lifting the entire thing to her lips. Her tongue flashed out—quick and pale—and pressed against the cloth.

For a moment the whole Council watched her, eyes closed as she did her work, until she breathed out, “Lord Antonin LeClaire is dead.” Clenching her fist around the handkerchief, she lowered her gaze upon Shan. “Long live Lady LeClaire.”

Muttering broke out amongst the Council, but Shan ignored it, focusing on the weight that lifted from her shoulders. It truly was done.

Stepping forward, Shan held out her hand and Belrose reluctantly dropped the handkerchief onto it. “Take care, Lady LeClaire.” Shan tilted her head to the side, and Belrose sighed. “You are young to take your father’s place.”

“I am three and twenty,” Shan replied, with more bite than she intended, but Belrose only smiled.

“As I said.” She stood. “Though there are records to update now, you are officially recognized as the new head of the LeClaire line, with all the privileges and responsibilities that come with it.”

“I trust we will see you at the opening of this year’s session of the House of Lords,” Dunn added. “How fortuitous for you that this happened while we were in recess.”

“Hush,” Lady Holland, the Councillor of Industry, reproached. She had been the quietest of all this night. She was the youngest of the Council, hardly into her third decade, with mousy brown hair and plain features. Shan only knew her by reputation—that she was more interested in numbers and policy that in playing politics, unusual for a Councillor. Typically, such a position required a fair amount of political acumen, but in the case of Lady Holland one could easily believe she had risen on merit alone.

“It is auspicious timing for the new Lady,” Dunn continued, only for Lady Morse, the Councillor of the Military, to take him by the arm. She was a stern woman of advanced years, but she did not let age soften her. Lady Morse was all lean muscle, her grey hair cropped short in military style.

“Many people’s Ascensions seem fortuitous, Kevan,” Morse said, “including yours.”

“She has you there,” added Lord Rayne, the Councillor of the Treasury. He was the eldest of the Council by far, a stooped old man with white hair and prominent veins in his hands. “Let the girl be, she’s had a long day.”