Everything. He’s going to tell them everything, and everything is ruined.

And it’s going to kill Daddy.

“That’s not true,” I answered, too late.

“No?”

“No,” I said, but the word was brittle in my mouth. “I’m focused on the appointment at hand. The Council’s goals are my goals.”

He paused, gaze growing distant. I clenched my fists, felt my nails bite my palms. “Seneschal-elect, do you know where I came from?”

I’ve known Sir Perrault for a very long time.

“You’re from New York.” An accusation, not an answer.

I’d been stupid to forget how deep Alessandra’s claws could sink, to think Perrault was too busy fawning over the king to notice me.

He knew what my stepmother did to people who failed her. I was a walking reminder.

Perrault began to pace.

“Potomac’s seneschal is a gentle man, and life at Arbor Hall is accordingly kind. But let me tell you about the court where I grew up.

“Power in New York is a fluid thing, and the court is a structure in motion. Families rise and fall without warning. Artists, scholars, and innumerable other varieties of sycophant spend their existence clawing their way to its apex, regardless of what—or who—stands in their way.”

My stomach muscles clenched. “What are you saying?”

Perrault stepped toward me. “I’m saying, Selah, that I am skilled both at lying and at identifying liars when they cross my path.” Another step in my direction, and I was flattened against the wall while his eyes dissected me like scalpels. “So don’t lie to me.”

The protocol officer no longer looked like a portrait. He looked like a fox deciding how to tear a chicken to pieces.

My heart was going to punch its way out of my chest.

I took a shuddering breath. “Fine.” I glared up at Perrault. “Fine. So our relationship is—warm. So what? Nothing’s going to happen.”

The words resisted being spoken aloud, clinging to my mouth as if leaving my lips lent them truth.

But it was true. It had to be. Cornwall flirting would have been socially risky, a surefire way to fall out of favor. A mere guard doing so would be outright treason.

“Do you not remember what I told you weeks ago?” Perrault demanded. “I told you that to choose before completing your appointments was to slight the families who have extended your invitations. Above all, your goal is not to give offense to your host. Word travels, even of a backwater princess at the court of a minor king, even if only in whispers.” He leaned closer. “And of this you can be certain: the tsarytsya has excellent hearing.”

My pulse accelerated, feverish in my wrists and my neck and in the soft hollows beneath my ankles, telling me to run. But I couldn’t move.

Cobie’s door creaked open, and Perrault jerked back, startled.