Jurand’s throat made a distinct squelching sound as he swallowed, the knob on his neck bobbing. “I hardly know… what you can mean.”

She held his eye a moment longer. Until she was satisfied that neither one of them could have any doubts exactly what she meant. Then, with a final squeeze, she let him go and took up her steels again, all business. “I can only apologise, I have wandered so far from the subject. Women! We simply cannot resist discussing affairs of the heart when they come up. We were talking about the composition of the new Closed Council, I think?”

Jurand cleared his throat with some difficulty. “Er… I… yes. Were there… any names in particular you—”

“Curnsbick, Kort, Vallimir and Selest dan Heugen.”

He blinked. “You have given this some thought.”

“I hate to have my time wasted with ill-considered proposals, don’t you? I promise there is excellent sense in every one of those names. Forward-looking people, each with fine qualities. Properly led, with Leo’s charisma and your prudent oversight, they will be invaluable servants of the Crown.”

“Well…” His mind was clearly elsewhere as he took his mark. “I suppose I can talk to Leo.”

“That’s all I ask. When do we begin?”

“Whenever you—”

This time she came at him with even less warning, snapping the jabs out in a lethal flurry that would have made even her father applaud. Jurand managed to stumble back from the first, just about parried the second, but the last three thudded into his padded jacket in about the same spot, rocking him back on his heels then sending him stumbling from the circle.

“Oh,” said Savine. “I suppose that would be another touch to me?”

Jurand winced as he rubbed at the dent in his jacket. “Is there anything you do badly?”

“Lose.” She gave her sweetest smile. “I swear I’m the worst loser in the world.”

When Savine walked into the gilded immensity of the Lord and Lady Regents’ great chamber, Zuri was sitting in a pool of lamplight, working at the book.

“How was the swordplay, Your Highness?” she asked, setting down her pencil.

“You don’t need to Highness me, Zuri, not when there’s no one else here.”

Zuri arched one black brow. “My chicken, then? My pigeon? My dove?”

“How about Savine.”

“Then how was the swordplay, Savine?”

She rubbed at the sore patch the long steel’s grip had left down the side of her little finger. “I am rather rusty but will soon polish up. And I think I was able to tickle young Lord Jurand where he is most ticklish.”

“I never doubted it.” She caught Savine’s eye, that brow creeping higher. “It only remains to be seen whether he can tickle your husband half so deftly.”

“Zuri, you’re a devil.”

“I daresay my scripture teacher would be deeply disappointed in me.”

“You sound rather pleased at the prospect.”

“I believe I am. How were the designs?”

Savine crossed tiles already scored with scratches from Leo’s mechanical foot and tossed the sheaf of plans on a side table under the ever-disapproving painted eye of Lord Marshal Kroy. “There were some awful ones. We could have a triangular Lords’ Round, apparently. Or one that looks like a wedding cake.” She slipped the box from her sleeve and took a little pinch of pearl dust. Just to keep things afloat. “But there were some good ideas.” She stifled a sneeze. “And they’re already clearing the site. Within ten years the Union will have a new heart, bigger and better than ever.”