“Your Majesty,” the same holy man said urgently. “Please come with me. There is much I need to tell you. Alone.”

“I hope one day you might forgive me for my part in this,” the holy man—Langston—said. “We all owe you the deepest of apologies.”

I picked up the paper again, looking it over in disbelief. In Jameson’s handwriting, the letter detailed when and where my wedding was to take place and spelled out the mission of the men he’d hired. I’d been wrong about the men killing my family possibly being in the Great Hall. He’d specifically gone for nobility who still had names but no fortunes, people who would be his allies based on status but in desperate need of money based on their circumstances. The sums he paid each of them—also detailed in the letter—would be enough to redeem an entire family.

“I never ought to have served these papers. But I felt duty bound to obey my king. I suspected what was in them, but I wasn’t sure. I saved this one, just in case. Once I heard what happened to your husband, I broke the seal and read it myself. Then I knew one day this letter would be imperative to making a case against the king. I hid it away, praying it was never found unless someone who could make the whole matter right came forward. So now, please let me be a part in finding justice, even if that costs me my own life.”

It took me a moment to realize he was waiting for me to speak. I cleared my throat, trying to think.

“Based on my sister Scarlet’s account, some of these men died and were burned in the fire. That is enough punishment on their families. We will need to collect the others for questioning. Except the last one, the one you kept this letter from.”

He nodded.

“As for you, I know firsthand how compelling Jameson could be. And you were, as you said, trying to do your duty. I want the men capable of murdering their countrymen brought to justice, but otherwise, I’d like to set the whole matter to rest.”

He bowed his head. “That is very generous, Your Majesty.”

I shook my head. “Must you call me that? I wasn’t born royal; this doesn’t feel right at all.”

He pulled out the law books and the tidy little contract my parents had signed one more time. “His Majesty was the last of his line. He has no relatives to speak of, no one who has a legitimate claim to the throne. Except for you.

“Perhaps not in practice or deed, but on paper, you were his wife. I cannot force you to take the crown—no one can—but I must beg you to consider the outcome if you do not. We could risk civil war as usurpers try to take the throne. And if there isn’t a clear, singular leader, neighboring countries might invade, attempt to take the land and claim it as their own. We could lose Coroa.”