The morning after the masquerade, Ashcombe Hall was quieter than it had any right to be. The velvet storm of the night had left wine stains on marble, torn lace in corners, and a thousand new rumors fluttering like moths against candlelight.
I stood in the west drawing room, the desk before me buried in letters. Not one was ordinary. Every wax seal was either noble, royal—or forged well enough to fool an archivist. I hadn’t even poured tea yet.
Marcelline entered without knocking, her expression sharp. “The Queen sent a reply,” she said, handing me a folded parchment. “And half the court sent spies disguised as thank-you notes.”
I opened the Queen’s letter first. It smelled faintly of rosewater and iron.
To Her Grace Vivian of House Ashcombe,
One does not host a dance with daggers and
