The Princess Morgan-Islet’s glazed eyes stared through the windows of the infirmary. She was attentive to the exchange of gunfire and artillery. From the notes, she wondered if she might judge who was winning, but it all sounded the same really. The gaps between her contractions were getting shorter, and every few minutes her doula would rush to her bedside from across the aisle to coax her at every bout of pain. She had given her something for that, but it just made her numb.

Islet looked down the infirmary at the vacant beds and wondered if they might soon begin to fill as the noise drew closer. Predictably, her father had not visited all morning, but she supposed that was reasonable. He was a busy man after all.

A bout of deadened pain turned through her abdomen and she exhaled sharply, remembering to concentrate on every breath.

‘Eames,’ she breathed, and the doula came to kneel at her bedside.

‘My Lady, is everything alright?’

‘Would you fetch Wiser, Brakkis, please.’ Islet could see the questioning look on Eames’ face, but she stemmed her urge to question. The doula nodded and retreated from the ward. Two minutes later and her return was accompanied by the Count’s Wiser, Leopold Brakkis.

‘What troubles My Lady?’ he said with a slow and solemn bow at the end of her bed. Eames stared uncertainly at him from behind.

Islet sensed his irritation. Why had he been summoned from her father’s side? Doubtless, he thought it was some trivial matter. He always looked down on her from a great height but that made the topic at hand all the more amusing for Islet. In any case, she doubted her father would care for whatever Brakkis had to say right now. What was done was surely done.

‘There was a matter of discretion I wanted to discuss with you. My father cannot know.’

At once, the Wiser’s irritation was coloured by intrigue, and he moved a stride closer.

‘Leave us,’ the Princess ordered, and Eames banished herself from the infirmary, followed by the nurse Po who was wiping curtains across from them.

‘I trust you are doing well, Lady Morgan?’ His eyes fell on the bump of her belly as she caressed it. No one called her that except her father’s counsellors, and the late Lady Bakh. The name had grated ever since. But she was unmoved.

She ignored him, reached a hand behind, searched under her pillow for a small envelope and held it in front of the Wiser. His eyes narrowed, ripe with curiosity. ‘I’ve had long to think these past months.’ She was careful to speak slowly, punctually. Every word was pre-mediated and deliberate. ‘Since Aron was taken.’

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Islet’s tongue tripped over his name; it had long gone unspoken.

‘A tragedy to be sure. His presence is greatly missed.’

‘You need not with that, Brakkis,’ Islet said. She carried her father’s voice. His command. She had seen enough of him commanding unruly advisors to know how to keep them in their place, even at her bedside. ‘I would entrust you with this letter. It renounces my claim to the lands and titles of the Countship of Ellaga upon my father’s death.’ The utterance was well-rehearsed.

‘My lady—’

‘My decision is absolute, and final,’ Islet said.

Brakkis scowled, his brow furrowed over his pointy eyes. ‘Is My Lady in a fair state of mind to arrive at such a conclusion?’ The man passed a look at her child, as another blow of pain struck out at her.

Islet held an enraged silence, then said, ‘With this child, I speak with greater clarity than perhaps I ever have, Brakkis. I care more for it than I do for this castle, and its memories. I would not deprive my child a childhood for Ellaga. I was raised by the house staff, as you well know. Were my father to die, I would not have you take my child away in much the same way, lest I become “distracted”.’

The Wiser bit down on his lip. His concave cheeks writhed as he chewed on her words. He could seemingly think of no retort and bowed curtly. She could sense the tightness in him, the disgust, the condescension. That she was not worthy of this decision. That her father would have something to say about it. But she was sure in his heart of hearts he agreed. He had long cursed this place since mother died.

The pain clubbed Islet, but she did not yield to it. She stared at the man with empty eyes.

‘My father cannot know about this,’ Islet repeated mechanically. ‘I do not want to burden him, not between the war and a grandchild.’

‘The Count must know who is to succeed him.’ The niceties in Brakkis’ voice faltered. He spoke with a stately contempt.

‘In the event an heir or heiress is unable or unwilling to fulfil their familial titles, it is a matter for the House to arrange an orderly succession. I owe nothing to Ellaga. I should think, in any case, my father would be secretly grateful,’ Islet snapped.

Brakkis smiled. ‘Of course. As My Lady wishes.’

The Princess passed him the letter from her bedside. ‘It is to remain sealed until my father’s death, be it a week, a year or ten.’ The words caught in her throat. How could she talk of such things as matter-of-factly as the weather? Any thoughts Brakkis had that he might prey on her ignorance surely subsided. He clasped the envelope with a spindly hand, tucking it away in the lining of his blazer.

‘May I ask,’ Brakkis began cautiously, ‘why does My Lady decide this now?’

Islet’s eyes narrowed. Was he still fishing for an excuse to undermine her, to imply she was not fit for such a decision? ‘I have thought on this for a long time,’ she said diplomatically. ‘But today of all days, the risk remains that something may befall us. I would rather this matter was resolved before, not after my father’s death.’ Her voice was grimly blank. ‘Uncertainty is best avoided for our subjects; would you not say?’ She feigned a smile.

Brakkis replied in kind. ‘Yes, of course, My Lady.’ He bowed again. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

With a weighty sigh, she turned back towards the window and was briefly caught in her imagination. The exchange of laserfire was not a battleground but polar lights above a snowy fjord of some distant backwater, where she might turn and see her child playing at the fireside. Then, she paused again and waited for the pain to start.

‘Fetch me my doula on your way out.’