She had not been sure where the Empress would meet them, but she did not expect the minor meeting room that they were led to. In contrast to most rooms in the palace, it was unadorned to the point of sparseness, although here and there the requisite touches of luxury showed in gilded hinges and couches upholstered in plushy purple velvet, sideboards bearing double-handled vases painted with golden flowers and birds and platters of fruit made from semiprecious stones. The floor underfoot was tiled with circular spiral patterns made of golden dots.

The Empress sat there. Not on a couch, but on an upholstered chair raised a few centimeters above the floor on a wooden dais, a sign that they would be permitted to sit in her presence. She wore a silver morning robe studded with tiny round mirrors, pale blue embroidery forming flowers in between the mirrors.

Whenever she moved, sequins of light scattered across her surroundings, reflecting the glow of the glow drones; the one that had followed them settled at the top of the ceiling with the three others that clustered there, sucking from the power charger hidden in the gilded bosses of the ceiling and illuminating the chamber as they did so.

The Empress did not greet them, simply pointed with a scintillation of light at the couch across from her. They settled into it. A little table stood between them with a tray on it. Atlanta caught the licorice smell of the sweet biscuits heaped on it, and her stomach growled, but she didn’t move to touch one.

Atlanta glanced over at Niko. She couldn’t help but imagine seeing the scene through her friend’s eyes. The splendor, which Atlanta had always thought so breathtaking, now reminded her of the cluttered jumble of Tubal Last’s throne room. Both were, she thought, designed to intimidate and impress. And this was only a minor meeting room. She was glad that the Empress had agreed to meet them and not sent some emissary, though.

Now she would find out, finally, why she had been sent away. Find out whether the Empire was in danger. Find out whether she was, in fact, someone special.

The Empress leaned forward, turning her face to Atlanta to address her directly. Atlanta’s heart surged in her throat; she held her breath.

“You’re not an heir,” the Empress said.

The words were unexpected. Something else should have been forthcoming, assurances or details of some plot. Atlanta’s upturned face was a bowl shattered by despair. “Then what am I?”

The Empress’s hand reached out as though to touch her face. “You are a clone of an heir who was discarded.”