The Archbishop is all smiles and delight, so they obviously don’t consider attempted homicide a big deal. “Argan,” they say, “is that what you’re wearing to the audience tomorrow? I’m surprised it’s so modest.”

“Are you joking? As if I’d let myself be perceived like this. No, my do is in the closet. Can’t risk it getting dirty before the shindig.”

The princess says nothing. She sweeps past Misery, deliberately knocking into her hip. Not in a fun way, but an I-hope-this-hurts way. Misery doesn’t give her the pleasure of a response. She remains stock-still, expression deadmarble.

Lady Alodia Lightning crosses the space and sits down. Two chairs rest before the Archbishop’s desk: plush, velvet, highbacked, and detailed in gold. She sinks into one and, maintaining deliberate eye contact with Misery, props both feet on the other. Her core strength is admirable. The silver of her heeled boots form sharp contrast with the red of the velvet. Misery holds her face absolutely still. She’s not sure what she’s supposed to be feeling, as a normal person, so it’s best to pretend she feels nothing. Her heart is doing the most in her chest, but she refuses to let it show. Forces her hands to stay still, because they desperately itch to connect with flesh and bone.

“Lightning,” says the Archbishop, “what news do you bear from home?”

The princess keeps her gaze on Misery a second longer than necessary before addressing Pyrex Imogen. “What’s to expect? Grandmother is livid. Thinks we’re wasting her time. Has teams ripping through the stacks looking for technicalities she can use.” A fluid shrug. “But nothing. You picked an airtight protocol, it seems.”

“Of course.” The Archbishop leans over their desk. “An emperor should be accessible and accountable to all his subjects of good standing. Even if the subject is one of his dukes.”

“Hmph.” The princess turns her disdain toward Lord Argan. “You truly believe this guff, don’t you? If this goes south, and it will, your everything is on the line. You gonna risk it?”

“I have absolute faith in Misery,” says the Duke, all sincerity as he stands next to her.

Lady Alodia Lightning shrugs again. “It’s your exile.”

“What about your brother?” asks the Archbishop. “What’s your read on his likely response?”

Her attention never wavers from the Duke’s face. “It turns out he still remembers what happened at the Academy, and has never forgiven you for it.”

“Oh, come on,” breathes the Duke. “That was ten years ago, he needs to grow up.”

Misery turns her attention to the Duke. “You know him?”

“Mm. I do.”

Misery squints at his evasiveness. “You know him very well,” she says, guessing.