Trailed by two very young maids, Blanche and Nell proceeded to pass through the rooms of the upper citadel like an avenging army. Blanche simply reeled off the rooms to the men on Toby’s list. She did them in the order he’d written them.

Then she paused and, propped on a doorframe, wrote all the Queen’s ladies and servants, as best she knew them.

“Nell, get me Becca Almspend,” she said.

Nell ran.

There were voices—laughter. The beautiful young man—perhaps the handsomest she’d ever seen—was Galahad D’Acon. She knew him from the old court, one of the Queen’s squires. The heartthrob of every laundry maid.

“North tower, blue room, first floor,” she said. “You share with Diccon Twig and any other messengers. Tell the maids what to fetch—they’re overwhelmed. Be nice, Messer D’Acon.”

She realized in the middle of speaking that he could treat her as a laundress and it would all unravel. But he grinned.

“Yes, Lady Blanche,” he said. He bowed. “Diccon!” he roared down the stairs. “We have a room!”

As the rest of the nobles came down, she took them aside and gave them room assignments—explaining to each the difficulties.

By the time she reached Prior Wishart, Cook had numbers for dinner, Lord Gregario Wayland had volunteered a town house that would sleep a dozen other gentlemen in comfort, and had even offered to send linens and feather beds to the citadel. Blanche accepted them all. The Grand Squire—Shawn LeFleur, a man of impeccable courtesy—was instantly understanding when she tried him in private and discreet as a mouse when the Queen asked him what the trouble was. The pages had already found him an empty house and had his own retinue scrubbing and stripping it. People were backing her. It felt heavenly.

The Grand Squire began to be flirtatious. Blanche smiled and moved firmly on to her next task.

“Blanche,” Lady Almspend said. “You called?”

Blanche was aware that she’d just summoned the Queen’s best friend but, on the other hand, Lady Almspend was the very perfection of practicality in all things.

“My lady,” she began.

“Becca,” the lady in question insisted. “We may all be eaten by boglins. We can use each other’s first names.”

“Becca, I’m sorting rooms and I don’t know the new ladies.” Blanche pointed at her list.

Becca put a hand to her mouth. A spurt of laughter escaped.

“Which I had to call them something,” Blanche said weakly.

Becca took the list and gravely pressed the wax flat. “Lady Fashion is Natalia de Wayland—Lord Gregario’s wife. She can sew, Blanche—she’s not a useless pretty face. The ‘talkative’ one is Lady Emma. The ‘Bean Pole’ is Lady Briar, and she would not thank you for that description. ‘White Wimple’ must be her daughter—pretty?”

“Yes,” said Blanche.