After the night’s unrest, Constance could hardly feel the weight of her ceremonial clothing; her dread was heavier still. Captain Trudan had lost his life to the revolt—they’d untied him from the chair in the Hanged Thief only to find him cold as stone, bled out from the wound in his head. It felt like a bad omen, and Winton had been distraught. Bad news over bad news, she thought grimly. Time was slipping away, and here she was, walking as slowly as she’d ever walked.

One step. Another three steps. Slowly, slowly. Encrusted with gems, the old robes clinked gently, hastily adjusted for the female form; heavy embroidery stroked the newly swept floor with whispers.

Considering the short notice, the hall had been miraculously transformed—the floor cleaned, cobwebs captured and banished, wall hangings beaten of dust. The benches had been arranged in neat rows, creating a long aisle down the center, the trapdoors to the realm of the Ancestors gleaming with beeswax. Traditionally, the walls and oak-beamed ceiling were bedecked with ivy for grand occasions, but the ivy had long perished and the servants had had to manage with swathes of green cloth woven with gold. An abundance of candles supplemented the weak midday light filtering through the freshly cleaned windows.

Constance couldn’t help remembering how bright the hall had been—bathed in golden sunlight—when her stepmother had been crowned Duchess.

Weapons forbidden, the city guards stood again around the hall’s periphery, their belts empty. Constance felt unsettled by the sight. She’d have liked to make an exception to the rule but hadn’t dared: she knew it would cost her politically. Most people seemed prepared to accept she was a mage—or at least offered no outward protest—but no one would welcome outright disrespect of the laws of Duke’s Forest by its own would-be ruler. Still, a sense of unease shivered in the back of her mind as she thought of Dr. Thorn’s warnings. She’d doubled the guard on the Justice’s apartments as a precaution and had his rooms searched, but nothing magical or mechanical had been found. She’d even swept around the apartments herself, turning the dial on her mask—but no spells had glimmered except the storm cloud.