Safi’s heel taps, and though she keeps her smile pasted on, her mind is shrieking every swear word she’s ever known. If the Emperor does not have a wedding night with her, then she cannot execute the final step in their plan. She needs to be alone with him, unguarded. As exposed as a person can possibly be.

“We need a new plan,” she whispers, pretending to yawn and covering her mouth with her free hand. Before she can actually suggest one, though—or wait for Iseult to—Henrick reaches out and rests a hand on her throne’s armrest.

“It is time to go,” he says, and Safi realizes with a jolt in her knees that the music has ended. The dancers have stopped.

She’s out of time, and she does not try to hide her sudden terror. She can feel that her face has drained of blood.

“Already?” she squeaks out.

And his perpetual frown eases into something almost kind. “You need not worry.” He pats the armrest. “I have no intention of bringing you to my bed. A barbaric custom.”

Please do! she screams inwardly. Please take me to your bed!

Aloud, she simply says, “You … do not want an heir?”

“I have one.” Henrick runs his tongue over his teeth. Then: “He is well suited to succeed me and even better trained, so consider yourself free from my bed for the rest of your life.”

No, no, no. This cannot be happening. All of Safi’s and Iseult’s plans are collapsing, for if Henrick will never take Safi to his bed …

That is the end of everything. This pocket at her chest and the golden item within are useless.

And there is nothing Safi can do to argue. If she presses the point, it will seem suspicious. Beyond suspicious—downright traitorous. Henrick knows she had no desire to marry him. She ran halfway across a continent to avoid it. If she suddenly insists on sharing his bed, those sharp, taro-playing eyes will understand in an instant that she is up to something.

All Safi can do is nod and push to her feet as Henrick pushes to his own. I am relieved, she tries to say with her posture. With her face. I have just been offered freedom and it is all I have ever wanted.

Yet each step off the dais feels a thousand years long. Each sweep of her skirts across the floor like slogging through mud. She has no time to come up with a plan, and no way to effectively communicate with Iseult. One hand is rested on Henrick’s arm, and the other waves while she smiles. Always the smiling.

Ten paces become twenty become sixty, and the arched doorway from the room swallows her. In the hall beyond, Hell-Bards instantly arrange around them with Caden at the fore. Newly promoted and gleaming in his dress regalia.