Savine’s father—in every way that counted—sat in that wheeled chair Curnsbick had designed for him, knees making two knobbles in the blanket across his withered legs, frowning at the unfinished canvas. The Young Lion bursting through the city gates astride a sable charger to deliver the nation from chaos, sending as yet roughly sketched traitors routing for their cowardly lives.

Savine walked to him, skirts hissing on stone in the heavy silence. All the way her mouth was open to speak, but when she got to the chair she still had not found the words. In the end, she simply put her hand on her father’s bony shoulder, the way she might have years ago. He laid his hand on top of hers. They looked up at the half-finished painting of Leo embodying the manly virtues, his iron leg hidden by horseflesh and his ruined arm by gold braid, pointing his sword towards a better tomorrow.

“I think it will be a fine portrait,” said her father. “Somewhat overwrought and sentimental, but so is its subject. It’s also an absolute pack of lies.” He gave a sigh. “But if people wanted the truth they could look at the real world. In my experience they much prefer paintings.”

“Paintings are less likely to kill you.”

“There is that. Where is the Lord Regent himself? Delivering the nation from peril once again?”

“Overseeing the organisation of his new army.”

“Someone’s compensating for something. But I suppose a warrior must have a sword.”

“I understand they’re calling it the Regent’s Own.”

“That could apply as much to the Lady Regent as the Lord.” Savine’s father glanced up at her. “I always thought armour would suit you rather well.”

“Difficult to nurse in a breastplate. And toy soldiers were never my playthings, as a girl.”

“Neither were dolls. As I recall it was fencing, money and power from the time you could talk, which was precociously early.”

“Did it ever occur to you that those things interested me because they interested you?”

“Who cares where they came from? They’re fine interests to have.” His grin became a grimace as he clawed at one of the wheels of his chair, turning it towards her. “I have to tell you how impressed I am, Savine. You not only plotted a safe path through this madness but made yourself exceedingly popular in the process. Quite the feat, for a woman who once put so much effort into making herself unpopular.”

“I can do without your flattery,” she lied. Honestly, his approval was still a headier drug than pearl dust to her. No one knew her better than he did. No one understood her so well. Except Orso, perhaps, and he was gone.

He took her hand in both of his, frowning down at it. “You have no

idea how hard it has been, to know you were in danger. But with your marriage… and the choices you made afterwards… you put yourself beyond my reach. I hope you can understand that I was always doing my