“Prince Alejandro is the true heir to the imperial throne,” Astón says, his voice booming through the chamber.

Aldo. Alejandro. He’s the son of one of the king’s many mistresses. Rosario’s secret half-brother. I should have realized. Those same delicate features. Those same impossible eyelashes.

The bastard prince eyes me as I skirt the bodies of Father Nicandro and the animagus, to take my place before my prince.

“Red?” Rosario whispers. “What’s happening?”

Nothing good. It appears as though Aldo has saved us all, but I’m not so sure. The drama has yet to play out.

It occurs to me that in all the chaos, I have not heard the monastery bells ring out any kind of signal. It gives me hope.

Lord-Conde Tristán says, “His Imperial Highness Prince Rosario is the true heir, named so by Empress Elisa herself, ratified by the chamber of condes.”

“The empress is a traitor!” shouts a high female voice. A figure comes forward, the crowd parting for her in a way it never would for me. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, with golden skin and eyes like honey, only a shade or two darker than my own. I have seen her once before. Standing next to Lady Malka, on the day that my adoption was rejected. She wears a sleeveless gossamer gown the color of champagne. Her armbands and bracelets drip with jewels.

“Hello, Mamá,” says Aldo.

“Condesa Ariña!” says Conde Astón. “It’s a delight to see you here.”

She inclines her head slightly. “Thank you for commuting my exile,” she says. “I have yearned for my friends here in the capital.”

“You suffered long enough,” the conde says. “The chamber was only too happy to grant your request.”

I’m not sure what to do. This is some form of treachery; I’m certain of it. But I can’t just start attacking people. Or maybe I should.

Others push through the crowd. Relief fills me to see Iván’s face, then Pedrón’s. Valentino is inching forward as well. He still looks wan, but he no longer uses a cane. He has eyes for no one but his father.

The weeping and the cries for help subside. Smoke obscures the ceiling, but the flames have been suppressed.

“Many of you are already acquainted with Condesa Ariña,” Conde Astón says. “The longtime paramour of King Alejandro, and the choice for many of us to become our next queen.” To the beautiful woman, he says, “If we had known that you had borne his child, a prince, we never would have allowed the usurper to exile you. Please accept my apologies on behalf of the kingdom and all who are loyal to the memory of our true king.”

“This is an outrage,” yells Conde Tristán. “Rosario is the true heir, beloved by all. This boy is a stranger! He could be an urchin from the streets of the Wallows, for all we know.”

“Oh, I have proof of my son’s lineage,” says Condesa Ariña, and she holds aloft an item for all to see. It’s a baby rattle, golden just like the one Rosario gave me. Except the one she displays is engraved with the de Vega seal.