At the Justice’s heels, a huge hound slunk into the courtyard, growling at the gathered crowd. Constance recognized the breed—identical to the hunting dogs in her father’s kennels. But it was white instead of the ordinary brown or black, and enormous—its head nearly reached her waist and its body was corded with muscle. The hound’s right eye was a scar, a gash of shocking pink against the creature’s short pale fur, while its left eye was a hideous, livid yellow.

From the corner of her eye, Constance caught sight of her brother smothering a scowl. As the Justice stepped toward her, the buttons on his black greatcoat gleaming gold, disapproval naked on his face, the courtyard fell silent. No whisperings. No curious glances. No more murmurs of excitement for a feast. Eyes fell to the ground like stones, and people shrank back from the hound, folding their arms as if afraid it might snap at their hands. Six years ago, when she’d left, the Justice’s role had been purely administrative—he was the King’s representative, sent to oversee the royal taxes and the interpretation of the law in Duke’s Forest, and to serve as an ambassador of sorts. Constance remembered the previous King’s Justice, who had been a kindly and very elderly man with a penchant for cream puffs. He’d died of extreme old age about ten years ago, and they’d sent this one to replace him. He’d always been seen as strict, by comparison. But glancing between her father, the Justice, Winton, and the people, she could suddenly see that he was more than just strict: the Justice held the true power here. A retinue of black-uniformed guards followed him into the space that spread around Constance like ripples in a pool. The dog barked at her three times, a rough, tight sound. She flinched, in spite of herself, scowling down at the creature.

“Sit, Barbarus,” the Justice said sharply, and the hound obeyed, its muscles coiled. A half-healed whip mark showed against the dog’s flank.

The physician reached his hand out to the Duke. He was tall and heavily built, with a thin, blandly handsome face, his brown hair cropped short in a military fashion. A kind of cruelty revealed itself in the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw.

“Come, my lord. Let me return you to your apartments; it’s past time for your medicine.”

Her father cringed, as if afraid, and Constance placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Get away from my father,” she snapped at the man. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Jonas Thorn, my lady.” His voice was as dry as kindling. “The Duke’s physician. And I believe you’ve met our Lord Protector, the King’s Justice?”