The waiting car had a satin dressing gown, soft slippers, an inlaid comb, and a meal of broth, champagne grapes, fresh-squeezed mandarin juice, young cheese, wine from Ganymede’s own vineyard, and a fresh baguette, still warm. Broth and fruit’s sweetness breathed quick life into the duke’s lips, but he did not speak; parched membranes or politic caution kept him silent. The king spoke instead, a gentle summary of the events the prisoner had missed. He spoke of the proud-hearted Humanists, how they had united behind Ancelet, who snatched from the dust Ganymede’s lost presidential crown and bore it in conscientious stewardship. He spoke of the angered hordes at Odessa, and the more calculating horde which had exploited the riots there to strike at those who use Brill’s arts to rear unearthly set-sets. He spoke of the Mitsubishi general strike which still stretched on, of Sniper’s spreading bull’s-eye sigil, of the Senate’s triumph over chaos, and of the second Senate battle coming on the morrow, when the Conclave would present its new prescription for salvation. He spoke of the terra ignota. I, who weep too easily, strove at least to weep in silence. His majesty was too kind. Every actor he mentioned he made seem full of dignity and purpose. Even Tully. I would have called them poison incantations, the videos which leaked from my coward enemy, fertilizing the thorny weeds of war. The king called them instead «the prayers of one who, despairing of peace, hopes at least to warm the war with meaning.» As my tracker continued to scroll through hate-filled newsfeeds, the kind king felt as miraculous as lost Mommadoll.

«Majesty! Dear Majesty, they’ve tried to kill our darling Son!»

The car had not even landed before Madame’s voice burst in, making Ganymede shudder beside me like a rain-soaked nightingale.

«What?» Spain tried to block the doorway as he stepped out, but I caught a glimpse of fluttering frills. «Is Epicuro hurt?» he asked.

«Not hurt, Cornel’s guards took care of it. He’s with Cornel now, but they tried to kill Him! Right in the Sensayers’ Conclave! It’s too much! Too much!»

I leaned and peered past Spain to see Madame, dark in a hooded traveling cloak which would have completely shrouded her skirts if not for a sea breeze which exposed the amethyst-trimmed black of her gown beneath. She was pale, her painted cheeks a waifish purple rather than her usual sensual pink, and so artful is her mask of makeup that, even though I know its falseness, the change felt real enough to awaken empathy.

«The attack was inside the Conclave?» The king gasped.

I was glad His Majesty could not see my face and the guilt upon it. I had witnessed the attack on his Son myself, of course, but Caesar, Conclave, Jehovah, and Utopia had all commanded that I hide the truth; a king, however kind, did not trump that.