Neither duke noted, since they had no possible reason to, a small man, also dressed in black, among the serjeants behind Robbin de Vaux. Someone paying attention would have observed that the small man looked as unhappy as the dukes did, but in his case it appeared to be a result of his horse being restive at the moment. One of the serjeants reached over, took the horse by the bridle, and calmed it. The two dukes didn’t see that either, of course.

What they did see—heard it first, in fact—was the queen’s carriage behind them, also approaching the palace, from her own home in the city. They looked back. An accident of timing, everyone arriving at once. Her driver pulled to a halt behind the dukes and the provost. Queen Bianca leaned out of a rolled-down window into the morning cold of Orane, a dyed-black marten-fur hat on her head.

The dukes turned their horses, bowed to her. This public encounter was deeply unusual. Of course it was. It also meant that she’d hear whatever they now heard from the provost.

Robbin de Vaux’s face had been grimly serious, waiting for them. It tended to be, the Duke de Barille thought. Old soldier, de Vaux. He wore a helmet not a hat. The man would be better suited to be sculpted than painted, the duke thought. Hard, powerful features. An idle reflection, given the moment. He was prone to such. He lived in a fierce pursuit of beauty, in a world that resisted that.

The queen spoke first. She said, her voice carrying to the crowd that had gathered in the cold beside the road, “Provost, are you here to offer us tidings and conclusions?”

De Vaux bowed. “I am, your grace.”

“Not here, then,” she said briskly. “In the palace. Uncles, I will be present for this. Begin nothing at all until I join you.”

The Duke de Regnault wished to say he would prefer to begin nothing at all! He greatly desired to be home just now, warm, with one or two of the young women to whom he felt indebted for what remained of his vigour and joy in life. Along with wine.

He didn’t share this thought either. There had been a murder. Of one of them. The king’s brother. They might all be in danger now, if you thought about it.

“Shouldn’t Barratin be here?” he asked suddenly. It had just occurred to him.

“He should, my lord,” said the provost calmly.

De Vaux always appeared so unruffled, Regnault thought.

“Then why…?” asked Barille, bewildered.

“He is no longer in Orane,” the provost said.

If you had been looking at the queen of Orane just then, you might have seen a look of bitterest satisfaction on her elegant, imperious features.

“What?” said the Duke de Barille. “He was with us at the funeral! He helped carry the casket!”