Conde Astón’s lips are still curved into a slight smile as he takes a sip of wine.

Servants sweep in to clear dishes and replace them with custard bowls, garnished with mint and orange peel. One reaches as if to set a bowl before Rosario, but I move my body to intercept him. Glaring, I hold my hand out for the bowl. The servant relinquishes it to me, bows in apology, and flees back to the kitchen.

I give the custard a thorough sniff before setting it before my prince, who shoots me a quick look of gratitude.

Lady Jada says, “Lady Red, will you and your fellow recruits be attending the Deliverance Gala? With so much of the Royal Guard traveling in state, you would be welcome as added security.”

“We’ve not yet been given instructions about the gala, my lady,” I tell her, moving back into place behind Rosario.

“I’m sure the palace watch will be sufficient for the task,” Conde Astón says.

“I hear they aren’t nearly as well trained or well vetted as the Royal Guard,” Lady Carilla says. “I’d take a Royal Guard recruit over a palace watch officer, to be honest. It was much the same in Amalur.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that you fostered with Queen Alodia for many years,” Lady Jada says.

“It was a lovely and formative time,” Carilla says. “I learned so much. And the queen’s personal guard is formidable, just like our empress’s.”

“I disagree in part,” says the conde. “Guard recruits are indeed well trained and vetted, but they aren’t issued steel swords until their third year. They can’t be expected to protect the prince without real weapons.”

“I’ve heard,” Carilla says, drawing out her words with slow precision, “that occasionally a recruit comes along who doesn’t need a weapon.”

Jada gives her a startled glance.

The ambassador sips his wine.

The High Conde of Ciénega del Sur places his napkin across the bowl before him and rises from his chair. His face is as hard as a granite block and his voice is dangerously low when he says, “Forgive me; I’m afraid I must excuse myself early. My son, Valentino, was recently injured, you see, and I must tend to him.” He inclines his head toward the ambassador. “Thank you for including me and for this wonderful repast.” To Prince Rosario, he says, “Your Highness.”

He doesn’t bother to acknowledge the women as he steps away from the table and strides from the dining room.

I watch him as he walks away: his long legs just like Valentino’s, his huge feet, and—I gasp—his slight inward pronation.

Iván shoots me a look, and I indicate the conde’s feet with a nod of my head, but it’s too late. Astón is gone.

“Well,” Lady Jada says, “this custard is sublime.”

My mind is racing. Is it possible? Was Astón the man who ransacked Captain Bolivar’s bedroom while Iván and I hid under the bed? Why would the most powerful conde in the empire sneak into the Guard barracks? Surely he has lackeys willing to risk themselves on his behalf.