Ettie and I rise to go after them. Perhaps if we sneak out now, we can find the kitchens and leave this place before—

“Not you, my dear,” the queen says to Ettie, pinning her in place with her eyes.

“What is wrong, Father?” the prince asks the minute the door closes.

The queen opens her mouth to answer but is cut off by the man at the desk, who has risen and is coming to her side.

“What is wrong? You dare ask what is wrong? Did you think it a good story? Did you pity the mice? For they were indeed so small and so brave, at the mercy of a kingdom of cats!” He snorts.

The prince seems to shrink into himself at the bitterness of the words.

“Are you such a fool that you can’t hear? Commoners come into our palace and tell of sedition whispered in the streets. It is known. These are the stories our people tell their children?”

“Father, it was only a story. I doubt she even knows what it means …”

“Show him,” says the queen. And to my horror, the man starts to unbutton his waistcoat.

“I was a child of six when they took the palace. They came screaming for la Reine des Gâteaux—they made her eat until she was sick, and they took the heads of all her ladies-in-waiting. They forced her to march half naked in the streets, and they made me watch.” He loosens his cravat clumsily, as if he is not used to removing his garments himself.

“My mother married into this family at fifteen—younger even than you, Romain. She had no choice in the matter. They would have hated her no matter what she did. She tried to win the people’s affection. My father tried. He longed for his people to love him.”

He peels the cloth from his skin, and then we see them: deep, jagged scars that crisscross his chest, from neck to navel.

“They held me and my sister for fifteen days—fifteen days of relentless beatings. They forced me to tell lies at my mother’s trial, to accuse her of unspeakable acts.”

The queen sits straight and still, her eyes glittering dangerously.

“If our uncle had not invaded, they would have killed every last noble in the land. Every man, every woman, and every child.”

He is shaking, and the queen reaches out and grabs his wrist. I see her knuckles clench white.

“These are the gallant little mice of which this story speaks,” he continues. “Willing to torture children, to murder women. These are the helpless heroes of such stories. No matter how you pity them, no matter how you may think they suffer, you cannot lower yourself to their level, because they will always hate you for who you are.

“Instead, you must rule them, control them. You must do as we have always done, as we will continue to do. You must do whatever is necessary to protect the ones you love.” His voice breaks a little at that, and he turns away as if he cannot bear to look at his son anymore.