Xander rested his hand on her shoulder and met her eyes. “It has always been my belief that your father is truly unwell, and that the Justice has taken advantage of his misfortune. As your father deteriorated, he handed over more and more responsibility to the Justice, who was eager to accept the reins of power—and eventually petitioned the Wise Men for the Protectorship. The Duchess was always terrified of magic, and she never had a head for politics anyway. She respected the Justice, believed him—he was at pains to make a friend of her. Although she cared deeply for the Duke, she too wanted nothing more than to rid the city of mages.”

Constance nodded grimly. She knew the truth of that.

“He’s a fanatic, Constance. The rest of us watched, helpless. What can the Wise Men do, a mere advisory council, against the decisions of the Duke and the authority of the King?”

Constance lowered her eyes. Did he want her to apologize for not being there sooner? She wasn’t going to, but she let him read into her expression.

“Don’t blame yourself, Constance. You’re back now, and I have a feeling things are going to change.”

“Yes. Yes, things are going to change.” She clenched her left hand tight around her cane.

Once Xander had gone, Constance wished for nothing so much as a cup of hot milk and a warm bed. But she had work to do—and only a few hours left before dawn.

Lifting her broken-paned lantern a second time, she hurried across the pleasure gardens, pulling her cloak tightly around her. The castle was quiet as the grave, her footsteps sounding strangely loud on the cobblestone path. She reached the porch of the great hall, lifted the lantern, and extinguished the flame. She slipped through the heavy wooden door.

Constance waited for a few moments, breathing quietly in the darkness as her eyes adjusted. Eventually, she eased the door shut, satisfied the hall was empty but for the detritus of the feast.

She fastened the bolt behind her and moved swiftly across the floor to check the two servants’ entrances at either end of the room. They were locked already, but Constance whispered a charm, tapping her cane against the handles. A series of rapid purple flashes cast strange, fleeting shadows. If someone tried to open the service entrances, they’d find them mysteriously jammed.

She shifted the benches and brushed aside the piles of dirty floor reeds from the center of the room—the smell of spilled wine and dust wafted up to her. She stared down at the large trapdoors.

This is it.