Which was why I was here.

The clearing house was packed to the brim with those conducting business, but occupied as they were, more than a few commoners raised their eyebrows at the sight of me as I passed through the large hall, climbing the stairs to the offices of the trade magister, where I knew I’d find Marc in the thick of things.

The Comte de Courville was the King’s right-hand man, holding the key to the labyrinth and control over everything that entered and left Trollus. Marc was destined to inherit the role, but he’d taken on many of the duties early due to his father’s ailing health.

Two large guards stood outside Marc’s office, but neither made a move to stop me as I knocked on the heavy doors engraved with the Montigny crest.

“Yes?”

The sound of Marc’s voice, muffled or not, sent a thrill of anticipation racing through me, and I pushed inside. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

At the sight of me, he rose, banging into the desk with enough force that water sloshed out of the cup sitting on it. I caught the liquid with magic before it could damage any of the paperwork, returning it to its original receptacle as I nodded at the two humans standing across from him.

“Pénélope, I…” Marc trailed off, then coughed and straightened his shoulders. “Lady Pénélope, this is Monsieur Girard and his son Christophe. Their family has supplied grain and other foodstuffs to Trollus for several generations.” Then he gestured at me. “Her ladyship is the daughter of the Duke d’Angoulême.”

Both men bowed low, but I didn’t miss the slight stiffening in their shoulders at my name, suggesting they were not unaware of my father’s stance against their kind. “Do you wish for me to wait outside?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “We’re very nearly finished.”

I smiled and took a seat in the corner. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

They continued with a discussion of the price of some late season goods, the elder human doing the talking while his son listened on. Which was just as well, because the young man’s eyes kept drifting in my direction, then jerking away again as though he feared I’d burn them from their sockets if I caught him staring. He was blond and blue-eyed, skin ruddy from exposure to sun and elements, though I judged him to be of similar age to Marc and me. They both bore the faint scent of hay and horses, and I imagined him walking or riding through fields, the open sky over his head.

“I need you to retrieve something from Trianon,” Marc said. “You’d be compensated for the transport, and I’m able to provide the capital required up front.”

My ears perked up, but I hid my reaction, instead using threads of magic to pluck a blank piece of paper from a pile, as well as a pot of ink. It was a trick I’d used often: pretending to be engaged with my art while I listened to conversations going on around me.