Lord Veredith—the newly appointed master of ceremonies (an honor that would usually fall to the Justice)—waited at the end of the aisle, dressed in his finest robes. The small book of ceremonies lay open in his hand, a red ribbon marking the place. The pages trembled slightly with the old man’s fatigue. Nearby, a green velvet cushion rested on a pedestal, bearing the crown—a plain silver circlet inset with emeralds twining around its length like vines. The traditional ducal crown had been too large and heavy for her, so she’d chosen the circlet once worn by her mother, and by Winton’s mother. The Wise Men sat in a broken semicircle of chairs directly below the dais. Constance continued at her stately pace toward the steps to the raised platform.

She felt the heel of her slipper catch slightly as she climbed the steps. She tripped, landing hard on her knee. Her heart lurched, and a few gasps sounded through the hall. Another bad omen. That’s what they’re all thinking. She stood up slowly, paying no heed to the screaming bruise on her knee, keeping her expression blank. She smoothed her robes and continued up to the dais. For all her apparent composure, she felt a bead of sweat trickle down her brow as she knelt at Lord Veredith’s feet.

The old man took a rattling breath and embarked on the long-winded preamble to the ceremony of confirmation. She tried to relax. You have no enemies here, she told herself. Dr. Thorn was locked in the dungeons, the Justice confined to his apartments. She was safe. And she was nearly Duchess.

“Constance Rathbone, daughter of Ethelbur Rathbone,” Lord Veredith said finally, his voice quavering as he placed his palm flat on her head, “the living and the dead gather in this hall to witness your oath to the duchy. Do you swear to uphold the King’s laws and accept his overlordship?”

“I do.” But her reply was underlaid by a flurry of noises: clicking and a distant tinkling like a bell—or a coin dropping to the floor. Lord Veredith’s eyes flickered across the crowd, but quickly returned to his text. Constance breathed deep, a leaden feeling in her stomach. Not now, she thought. Please not now.

“Do you swear to protect the people—”

A moan, louder this time, interrupted the old man. His eyes drifted to the floor, his face abruptly pale. Constance followed his gaze, dread building in her ribs. Not again. Everyone was watching the trapdoors set in the middle of the aisle, holding their breath.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was unmistakable now. A noise emanating from below. From the crypts. Where only the Ancestors existed.

Somebody in the crowd whimpered.