She shifted in her seat. “I don’t blame you for that.”

Frances snorted, then caught herself, raising a delicate hand to her mouth. “I did it. Who else is there to blame?”

“As I see it, you didn’t have much choice.”

Frances met her gaze, vibrant green eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to flatter me, Sergeant Major. I haven’t the time.”

“I’m not.” She attempted a small smile, but it felt false. She let it drop away. “I’m an asset to you as either a price or a fighter. If I’m a price, I’ll be in the dungeons anyway. If I’m a fighter, you’d want to see whether my loyalty would survive a trip to the dungeons. Am I right?”

Frances nodded tightly. “Yes.”

“Right. Meanwhile, you only had Brella’s word for my changed allegiance. Maisie, I’m sure, told you a great deal about Brella. You know Brella bribed someone in your castle to give her written decrees. You know that she gives information to Kyrians and Westerners about how their rights have been stripped by your father’s regime. All of this means that, while Brella has a great affinity for justice, she has little time for the rule of law. She’ll put her nation above everything, but she’ll do whatever’s necessary to do it. You can trust that her motives are good, but that you might not understand them. She respects you, but it’s likely she respects her methods more.” She paused, pressing her lips together, watching for any change in Frances’s expression. There was none. “You also know that she and Maisie fight like two penned bulls, which can’t help your image of who she is.”

Frances smirked. “You’re wrong about that. Maisie can fight with anyone. That’s part of her charm.”

Scratch was momentarily struck by how young Frances looked. Despite the worry lines and layered frock, she was just a kid. “Your Highness, if I may, what day is it?”

Frances’ smirk faded away. “The first of Balladeers.”

“So, tomorrow—”

“It’s my birthday, yes.” She smoothed her hair, though it was already perfectly in place. Her shoulders rose just a touch. “I’ll be eighteen.”

Scratch stepped away from that potentially dangerous path. “Right, well. You only had Brella’s word that I had defected. That, and your impression of who I am.”

“What do you suppose my impression of you is, Sergeant Major?”

“I’m the strategist who built the octagon.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Frances rose to pour herself a cup of tea. She didn’t offer any to Scratch. “You may be a strong soldier, but I doubt you’re the only bright mind in the Ivinscontian Guard, despite Brella’s warning of your dangerousness.”

“Of course.” She nodded in deferential acknowledgment. “I mean to say that I wouldn’t fault you for thinking that I believed in your father’s cause.”