Lane got a decent six hours of sleep before a woman she had never seen woke her up. She introduced herself as Duke George Louis’s Head Housekeeper, Mrs. Ehrik, who had sprung into action as soon as Grooch had had a copy of Lane’s new authority delivered.

Which meant that there was breakfast, cooked in the safety of the Stuard mansion in the city, for Lane and the prince and by extension, anyone who worked for her. Mrs. Ehrik was stiff around the werewolves, clearly scared and worried about Greg, yet treating Annabelle with such reverence that Lane could only conclude that Prince George had told her the truth about his mother.

Which was going to be a problem, eventually, but right now, Lane couldn’t bring herself to worry about it.

While she enjoyed the food, one of the duke’s special servants reported on their findings of the night. Which amounted to “not very much.” They had searched all the kitchens again, with a jar from Vavre's house for comparison, all the waste collection places—not just inside the palace, but just outside, too. He wanted a werewolf on guard so he could have people go into the river, too.

Since Nathan had arrived back from Windish with every stable werewolf that could be spared, that request wasn’t a problem, though Lane wondered what good it would do. Even if they found the jars in the water, how could they prove who had put them there?

“We need to find them first,” the man shrugged. “Then we see about the rest. We are preparing to break into the suspects’ rooms, too, which frankly, is probably our best chance. We hope to be ready tonight.”

Lane nodded. She agreed that searching Picot’s and Pettau’s places directly was probably their best chance of finding proof of their treachery.

She went back to the Gallerie, checking on Imani and Charlene deBurg. There was an elder for every two healers in the palace now, though they still only had a bare handful of those “true” elders capable of transforming even on a new moon.

The nobles on the Grande Gallerie hardly even complained about all the werewolves, not after Bishop Larssen had told them that it might help.

Faced with their sudden mortality, a lot of the sick were listening very closely to what the bishop had to say.

There was a brief period of hope, the sick feeling better if inexplicably tired, the werewolves shadowing the healers, who looked just a tiny bit less exhausted.

And then the news from Port Neaf reached them.

Picot dragged the shaking young man in his dirty red uniform into the centre of the Gallerie, so everyone could hear his breathless testimony of what had happened.

Two horses he had ridden to death, the young man claimed, and then he had jogged the rest of the way, despite his own injuries, to the trainstation at Virkwall, the most southern stop with regular travel. Lane believed him. Kind people had given the soldier food and water on the train, but he still looked near death himself.

The story he told—of ships landing just as the city seemed to have fallen, of werewolves and humans dying alike, of a hostile relief-force from the south, so many soldiers armed with silver—

And no word from David.

“He was down at the harbour, milady. A lot of werewolves made it out of that deathtrap, I don’t know how, but I didn’t see him when I fought my way out of the city.”

“Who sent you?” Lane asked. “Or did you take this journey on your own?”

“No, milady, Count deVale sent me. He sent two others, too?”

“Count deVale. So he lives,” Picot repeated, probably for all the people listening in.

“Yes, milord. The count rode out of the city on a werewolf’s back! A huge red beast it was, I saw it with my own two eyes! The traitors fired at them, but the bullets just fell out of the air!”

He coughed, and added: “The count stayed to gather the army—lead everyone north, slow the Valoise, if possible.”

“So Count deVale is still fighting,” Lane said. That at least was a relief.

“Yes, milady! We’ll fight for every yard of Loegrion!” The soldier started coughing again.

Lane looked towards a nurse. “Take him to the infirmary, please. Duke George Louis will want to hear the news, and the doctor there can see to his injuries.”

The last thing she needed was for the soldier to collapse in front of everybody, even if it was just exhaustion. Intentionally or not, deVale had helped her with his choice of messenger. The soldier’s fighting spirit was admirable.

Which didn’t change the fact that they had lost. Lost Port Neaf, a large part of their army, and any chance of stopping the Valoise from landing.

“My condolences,” Picot said.

“We do now know what happened to Lord Feleke yet,” Lane reminded him, pulling herself up. “If Count deVale has not given up, then neither shall I.”

It wouldn’t do. She knew it wouldn’t. She had been wondering about what to say once the news hit them, and she still had no idea how to rally morale.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Picot didn’t say anything, either. She had expected him to appeal to the sick and their relatives right away, but he just rubbed his lower arms restlessly.

“Perhaps you would meet me in my quarters later today?” he finally said. “Not just the two of us,” he quickly added. “The full council.”

“So you mean Marquess Rover, you and me?”

“Lord Mire, too, if he will join us,” Picot said. “Charlene Desmarais, if she will leave her mother’s side. The Prince. Possibly other nobles in good health. It’s time to make a decision on the future. Surely, you can agree to that? As the aristocracy of Loegrion, it falls to us to make a that choice.”

“Without hearing Duke Stuard, first?”

“With all respect for the duke,” Picot said. “I don’t think he’ll have to live with this decision. Or do you disagree?”

“I believe that since he was the one who led us into this situation, we should at least see if he has a way out,” Lane said. She still had faith in Morgulon. But she also had to admit that bringing in the pack hadn’t been as much of a change as she had hoped.

“By all means, speak to him,” Picot said. “It will take some time to set everything up. But will you be there?”

“Let me know the time, and I shall,” Lane promised.

Maybe this was actually a positive development.

She went to find Morgulon, who was still following Bishop Larssen around. “I’m sorry, Monseigneur, I need to borrow your shadow for a little while.”

He smiled at her, face pale and gaunt. “I should eat something anyway. Perhaps I’ll even rest a little. Thank you for your help,” he added. “Please, find me again when you’re ready.”

Morgulon inclined her head, then walked after Lane. Infirmary first. She had briefly talked to the duke in the morning, to let him know that the prince was with his tutor. He dozed when she came in but woke when she asked his caretakers to give them a few minutes of privacy.

“You heard the news?” Lane asked.

“I did hear,” George Louis grumbled. “You promised to take that bastard down.”

“I’m planning to do it today, in fact,” Lane said. She cast around the room for a clean sheet, and pulled one off a bed, holding it out to Morgulon. The werewolf tilted her head at her, but understood quickly when Lane added: “Morgulon, Lord Picot has invited me and some others into his quarters to discuss the next steps. How long can you be invisible?”

The werewolf flowed into her other shape and with a sigh, grabbed the blanket. She held it up in front of herself, frowning at it, instead of wrapping herself up in it as Lane would have thought. “How long. You need?”

“If I walk across the palace to Picot’s quarters, can you follow me invisibly all the way to the door, get inside unseen, and search his rooms? You’ll probably need to be human for that, too.”

“Search. For what?”

“The jars the poisonous mushrooms were in.”

“Why would he still have them?” Duke George Louis asked. “And how would you even recognize them?”

“They didn’t come up in any of the waste collection places in the kitchen or the rest of the palace,” Lane said. “Your own men searched for them after you gave me control of them last night. Picot didn’t leave the palace either. If he’s got a confidant with the servants, we might be screwed, but I think we need to look for them. I’m confident they’ll be labelled because whoever picked them out at Vavre’s house didn’t bother bringing the other jars of mixed pickled mushrooms that were down there in the basement. That was also confirmed by your own spies.”

She looked at Morgulon. “If you can’t find the jars, any other link to Rambouillet will do. But the jars would be best. If you cannot find anything at Picot’s quarters, I’ll arrange some excuse to search Pettau’s apartments next.”

“Look,” Morgulon said. “I will. Yes.”

“Is there anything you would like me to do, Your Highness?” Lane asked. “Anything you would like me to say to whoever Picot can gather for this ‘war council’?”

George Louis shook his head. “I don’t—I don’t know what to tell you. Let me think about this.”

He rubbed his face, looking distressed.

“Perhaps a general call to endure?” Lane suggested.

“For what, though?” he whispered. “Who’s going to…If we at least knew that David is alive and fighting…”

“You may have to endorse deVale,” Lane replied. “He wouldn’t be my first choice, either, but he is the one lord who we know is still fighting.”

George Louis’s gaze travelled around the room aimlessly, as if he were hoping to find the answer in the white sheets and strange tools of the doctors. He stopped at Morgulon, still struggling with the sheet of fabric.

“Remind them of the true enemy,” he said softly. “Remind them of the Rot that has taken place in the heart of the Church and our homeland. Remind them that this is our one chance to renew the country. If they have any love left for Loegrion, they will fight for that. Even with the aid of werewolves.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m not going to endorse anyone at this point in time. But tell them I’d like them to have an open mind. They maybe won’t have a duke to rally around, but there are many skilled commanders—and soldiers—in this country, regardless of rank. Or even gender,” he added, eyes closing.

“Thank you,” Lane said.

He gave the faintest wriggle or his fingers in response. Maybe it was time to get the doctor back in here.

Morgulon turned wolf as soon as Lane turned to the door, following her back to the Grande Gallerie. It had always been an important location in the palace, but Lane still thought it was somewhat macabre how it had become the place to be now.

Lord Mire was not excited to see her. His sons had somewhat recovered, just as the other patients, but the castle’s steward hadn’t left his wake by their side.

“Go away,” he grumbled at her. “Picot already approached me. I’m not interested in playing war council right now.”

“I understand that,” Lane said. “I have little interest in Picot trying to secure power, either. However, I will make a first attempt during that meeting of unmasking the traitor.”

The old man turned to look at her for the first time. “You have a lead?”

“I have a theory,” Lane said. “I think it’s a good theory. And I have secured help to test it. If it turns out I’m right, I believe I’ll be able to challenge the traitor right then and there.”

“You think it’s somebody Picot will invite.”

“He gave me his abbreviated guest list, and I think the person in question will be there, yes.”

“Can I have a hint?” Lord Mire asked.

“I wouldn’t want to warn them,” Lane said. “In fact, I hope you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone else. But I thought you deserve to be there, if you’d care to.”

“Who doesn’t?” Lord Mire muttered, turning back to his sons. “But I’ll be there, yes.”

Lane left him. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake just now, but she needed there to be at least one person whose word would be trusted everywhere.