Whoever it was wore Guard-issue boots. How would the conde get access to those boots? Or a key to the bedroom? What was he doing there? Maybe he was looking for something on behalf of Valentino, who was also sickened by poison. Perhaps he was removing evidence.

Or maybe it wasn’t him at all. There are probably half a dozen men on the palace grounds right this moment who have huge feet and walk on their inner arches.

The conversation moves back to the Deliverance Gala as the others finish their custard. Rosario assures everyone that the gala will be well attended as always, even with the empress away. The ambassador indicates his pleasure that more Inviernos than ever have received invitations to this year’s event. Lady Carilla and Lady Jada agree on a time and place to meet for a shopping trip. No one mentions the recently departed conde.

Servants clear the empty custard bowls, and everyone chats a little longer over a final glass of blush-colored wine—a popular Ventierra vintage, Rosario proudly points out, from Hector’s home countship.

Finally the monastery bells ring the eleventh hour, and Rosario stands. Everyone else follows suit. “Some administrative tasks call for my attention,” he says. “The company tonight was so delightful that I’m afraid I put off doing them much longer than I meant to. Thank you so much, Ambassador Songbird, for a lovely evening.”

The prince kisses Carilla on the cheek, clasps Lady Jada’s hand warmly, then turns to the ambassador and grasps his shoulder. “I appreciated your support tonight,” Rosario says.

“Always.” Songbird gives him a slight bow. “Do you need an escort?”

“Not this time.” To us he says, “Red, Iván, with me, please.” With that, the prince skirts the table and exits the dining room, me and Iván at his heels.

He leads us quickly from the ambassador’s quarters, but instead of turning left to return to the barracks, we turn right, toward the monastery. I’m desperate to find out what went so wrong that two first-year recruits served as actual Guards tonight. “Rosario—” I begin, but he hushes me.

“Hold your thoughts,” he orders.

Suddenly, every shadow holds a dagger, and every whisper of sound is a footstep. I hate that we travel alone with our prince, weaponless, untrained. I peer in each doorway, and I note that Iván does the same. When we reach a branching corridor, I step in front of Rosario, forcing him to pause, while Iván checks it. “It’s clear,” he says, and we move on.

Finally we enter the sanctuary, with its beamed ceiling and long wooden benches and smoky air that smells of sacrament roses. People huddle on the benches despite the late hour, for the sanctuary is always open to those needing a quiet place to pray.

I study everyone with suspicion as Rosario leads us past the benches, beyond the altar, and into the archival wing, where the empire’s oldest manuscripts are carefully stored. The chamber is cool, dark, and dry. Shelves reach to the ceiling, crammed with scrolls and parchment sheaths and musty vellum, all looming over a long stone table for study. Light pools around a single oil lamp in the middle of the table.