“I’ve sent your acceptance.” If my mother noticed any edge in my words, she declined to acknowledge it. “We have some concerns about Ruven’s purpose in Raverra. His visit is unusual; our peace with Vaskandar remains an uneasy one, even fifty years after the war, and Ruven’s father is hardly the most cordial of the Witch Lords. This invitation may provide a chance to find out what he’s up to.”

None of this made any sense. My mother knew full well I was no spy. “I don’t understand. You want me to ask him the reason for his visit?”

The marquise of Palova laughed. “He’s already given one. It makes you uniquely suited to speak to him.”

My mother’s mouth quirked. “He claims to be seeking a bride.”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head, stepping back. “You can’t possibly want me to—”

“To attend a harmless social gathering with him?” My mother’s eyes gleamed. “You don’t have to court him, Amalia. Just let him talk, and listen to what he says, and perhaps nudge the conversation in a useful direction.”

“Isn’t there someone else? I have no idea why he invited me. I don’t know the man, and I’ve barely been introduced to the ambassador.” Not to mention everything I knew about Vaskandar came from reading bloody histories of its ruthless expansion across northern Eruvia. Its princes hardly seemed the types to make genteel drawing room conversation.

The doge fixed his glittering eyes on me. “Prince Ruven is the heir of one of the Witch Lords of Vaskandar. They have a rather inflated regard for their own bloodlines, and will only consider marriages with the best families—and those with some history of magical power.” His brows bunched, as if breeding magical potential into royal lines were some annoying and messy habit, like shelling summernuts in bed. “Your father’s line carries the blood of artificers and vivomancers, and your mother’s cousin Ignazio is a minor alchemist. Your pedigree is golden, rich with doges and royalty, and you will inherit your mother’s place on the Council of Nine. There are few in Eruvia he would consider so desirable a match.”

“Which means you have something he wants,” the marquise concluded. “And thus a far better chance of getting useful information out of him.”

Baron Leodra grunted. “I still say Ruven isn’t worth our attention. He’s just a spoiled princeling indulging himself abroad. Surely if he had a more sinister purpose, our intelligence services would already have some hint of it. Or are they not worthy of the faith we place in them?” He stared significantly at La Contessa.