“That might be best,” Elisa says. “Most of the Royal Guard will be escorting us. And I’m sure once we tell Queen Alodia about our situation, she’ll be glad to assign extra protection from her own guard, which is formidable.”

Conde Tristán is tapping the table with his forefinger. “I wonder,” he says. “Perhaps your schedule was a factor here, with your state trip coming so soon after the adoption ceremony. Whoever engineered this vote knew you would not be around to deal with the repercussions.”

Elisa’s brow furrows. Mena squirms out of her lap—the empress’s absent stroking had become a little too fierce—and plops down beside Hector instead. “That could mean,” Elisa says, her hand drifting to her belly of its own accord, “that news of my pregnancy has leaked. They know the real reason for this trip.”

Tristán nods. “And that you would never cancel it, no matter what happened. You absolutely must be in Orovalle to give birth.”

In a more forgiving climate, he means. Surrounded by midwives familiar with the difficult births experienced by the women of Elisa’s family.

Hector reaches across his daughter for Elisa’s hand and holds tight. The gesture happens mostly under the table, but we all see it. A muscle in Hector’s jaw twitches.

They lost their first child in a difficult birth. A son. He suffocated, the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, before Doctor Enzo could extract him from Elisa’s womb. Three years later, the empress almost bled to death giving birth to Princess Ximena. I was surprised—we all were—when Elisa and Hector decided to try one last time.

A knock sounds. Hector leaps to his feet. He and Tristán close ranks before the table to protect everyone else, their hands shifting to their scabbards. Lord-Commander Dante moves to answer. With a nod to Hector and Tristán, he rotates the bolt and swings it aside.

A man strides in, small in stature and nondescript. I don’t recognize him, but no one shows alarm as he makes his way over to Mara and bends to whisper something in her ear. She asks him a question—so quietly I can’t hear. He nods, whispers back at length, and then he leaves as silently as he came, without so much as a word or gesture to anyone else.

After the bolt is fastened once again, Conde Juan-Carlos says, “The spymaster’s messenger?”

Mara nods. “Our spy web was only able to make quick surface inquiries,” she explains. “But from what we know so far, a rumor has been spreading the past week about our girl.” Mara gives me a smile that is equal measures fondness and sadness.

“Well?” Elisa prompts.

“Apparently Red was overheard saying that religion is a comforting myth. Something about a soothing balm to the hurting masses.”

Oh, god.

“And that God belongs in children’s stories, not policy.”

All eyes are on me again. The skin of my face suddenly burns hot. Were I fully Invierno, my cheeks would be flaming red.