Someone grabbed her wrists with strong, calloused fingers and wrenched her arms behind her back. Her mind didn’t catch up with her body quickly enough for her to scream. Instead, she blinked her vision clear. She was in a plush sitting room with paneled walls and delicate settees. There were a few soldiers about. One tugged on a rope, presumably tolling a bell that would send more their way. The soldiers wore blue tunics and leather armor, their heads bare of helmets. Across their fronts, in a darker blue thread, was a crest in the shape of a flower.

“Koravia,” Scratch mumbled through dry lips. “We’re here.”

There came a whistle, piercing and shrill. Scratch turned to find Brella with two fingers between her lips.

“Brella?” someone asked. The voice was distantly familiar. “Are you okay?”

“I need them to stop,” Brella cried, her voice strained and creaking. “Get them to stop, Maisie.”

“What do you mean?” The speaker came forward. She was a woman Scratch had seen only once before in a dream. “They’re not detaining you, you balloon.”

“Yes, I know. Let the guards go.”

“Keyes and the other?” Maisie asked, scandalized. “No way in the infinite hells, Umbrella. Good job. You’ve done it. They’re going to the dungeons.”

“The other?” James wriggled in the grip of a Koravian soldier. “My name is Sergeant James Ursus. This is Scratch. I assume you’re Maisie?”

“Keyes goes by Scratch? This is—no.” Maisie shook her head as if to clear it. “Stop this, Brella. Anyway, it’s not my call.”

“It’s mine,” said a figure lurking in the corner.

Between this and her surprise appearance at Scratch’s thinking bench back in Ivinscont, it appeared that Princess Frances made a regular habit of dramatic entrances from dark corners. Her jewel-studded tiara twinkled in the low firelight like hot coals. She wore a red frock, roughly the Ivinscontian crimson, and her piebald hair was swept up off of her neck in some sort of elegant fashion involving pins. Scratch had never seen the princess look like this before. Not like a princess at all really. Like a queen.

“Your Highness.” Scratch attempted a small bow, though her arms were bound and a soldier breathed down her neck. “Our allegiance has shifted. Brella and I discussed—”

“Yes, please tell me what Umbrella told you.” Frances held her shoulders stiffly. She seemed tight and uncomfortable, like she could use a few puffs of Roselap. “This was a secret mission after all.”

“Your Highness.” Brella bowed clumsily, unable to keep the tension from her voice. “Yes, I did tell the Sergeant Major of your plans. But circumstances changed. She and James—”