The steward's room squatted at the back of the south wing—bars on a small window, ledgers stacked like teeth, a brass lockbox fat with keys. Silvia reached it with the glide of someone walking to a piano recital, not a vault.
“Open, Walden," she told the steward.
Walden—thin, honest, and allergic to conflict—fumbled keys. “M-my lady, I—this is irregular—"
“Order from the heir." She smiled. “You like orders."
He swallowed. The lock clicked.
Cora and Mara stepped into the doorway like weather changing. Walden tried to bow to all three women and nearly folded in half.
“Give it back," Cora said.
Silvia didn't turn. “We are placing it somewhere safe."
“It's safe with me."
Silvia looked over her shoulder, pleasant as a winter postcard. “Your temper makes poor safes."
Mara's voice went
