Giddon spoke calmly, with no intention of answering Cobal’s question, though he knew the answer. In fact, he knew every detail of every aspect of the answer, because Bitterblue had asked for Giddon’s presence at every meeting on the matter, and his opinion on every part of her plan to transition Monsea to a republic should she die.

“The Monsean court is prepared for this situation, of course,” he said. “I’ll let them unveil the news at their own pace. In the meantime, however, I can comfort any worries you or Estill might have that Monsea has been left leaderless. The queen put a great deal of thought into her successor.”

“Oh, good,” said Cobal.

“We have to go now,” said Giddon.

“Don’t forget your toy,” said Cobal.

The cat toy that Giddon now held in one hand was meant to make him feel foolish. Giddon understood this now, but he didn’t feel foolish. He felt instead that the Estillan envoy had the maturity of a twelve-year-old schoolboy. While he was deciding how to respond—cycling through options that included throwing the cat toy into the fire, shoving it down Cobal’s throat, or bringing it home, because it was a shame to waste a perfectly good cat toy—Hava took it from him and held it out, dangling the pom-pom in front of Cobal’s face. She swung it gently, so that it tapped Cobal on the nose.

“Boop,” she said. “Good kitty.”

At Cobal’s outraged expression, Giddon, who was finding it hard not to laugh, walked quickly into the corridor, where his bubbling hysteria immediately threatened to turn into sobs. I will not cry here. Perry was fluttering around him. “He’s really quite a friendly person usually,” he was saying, overflowing with apology and concern. “I think some people just don’t know how to behave around grief. You go back to Quona’s, Giddon, and get some rest. Here, you should have this.”

He placed a letter into Giddon’s hands. When Giddon looked down, he saw a sealed envelope, addressed to Bitterblue in Prince Skye’s handwriting.

—

Dinner that evening was much like breakfast. The advisers were depressed and quiet; Quona was forceful; Hava pulled herself into herself; and the room swarmed with cats. One of them lay down on Giddon’s foot again and fell asleep. He peeked under the table. It was a small, pale gray tabby with its belly on one of his boots and its four legs stretched out flat on the floor like an X, as if anyone would ever want to sleep that way.

“Can I persuade you all to come look at the stars from the comfort of my upstairs sitting room?” said Quona brightly as dinner came to an end.