The knock came just before noon—too sharp, too deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of knock you got from a servant or a friend. I was in the south parlor, trying to enjoy a lukewarm cup of tea, when Marcelline appeared in the doorway. Her expression gave nothing away, except for the way her eyes held just a little too tight around the edges.
"The prince is here," she said.
My fingers tightened around the teacup. "Alone?"
She shook her head. "Four guards. A scribe. And a box."
Of course there was a box. There was always a box when politics was pretending to be generosity.
I stood slowly. There was no rush—he could wait. I smoothed the front of my dark green velvet dress, plain enough to send a message, and deliberately left my jewelry tray untouched. Let him show up draped in gold and cerem
