“I’m sorry,” High Priestess Glynda tells her, “but there will be no blessing tomorrow.”

“Sorry, kid,” Aster tells her, “but I have to go. Queen’s orders.”

Something’s going to happen at the harvest festival—

*

She’d asked the obvious question. “Who is the Patriarch?”

Lord Avon had answered. “Rupert Gideon, the head of the Divine church, de facto leader of the Senate, and Emmett Gideon’s father. He is the second most powerful man in Drakon. Some might argue the most powerful. Of course, there’s one thing about being in second place. You always have an eye on the man ahead of you.”

Valerie had shivered then to hear those words, and she shivered now, her boots muddy under a damp grey sky as the funeral procession approached its destination.

A freshly dug grave awaited them, surrounded by marble tombstones. They were in the shadow of the great cathedral, its spires pointing mournfully into the heavens, but the procession itself was no grand affair. The family wanted a small, private funeral, Avon had told her, and so the cathedral had been closed to the masses.

The marchers carrying Lord Gideon’s coffin arrived first: four men in black who lowered the casket into the grave.

Then the other mourners gathered. They’d marched in silence, and they bowed their heads in silence.

She looked for familiar faces. The Empress, Lady Juliana, stood beside a tall man she didn’t know, her eyes downcast, gloved hands clasped. Lady Melody she recognised even behind her veil, holding the hands of her two boys who were fidgeting less than usual. Another woman, a lady who looked to be in her forties, clutched a white lily to her chest. Lord Thorne had swapped his usual white bishop’s robes for a gown of black.

Somewhere in this group lurked the men who had plotted against the Emperor and his family, or so Avon believed. Valerie hadn’t wanted to attend the funeral. But he insisted that they must, and so she stopped by the grave too, Avon holding her hand.

On his other side, Lady Ophelia and Rufus bowed their heads. They were not close to the coffin, for which Valerie was grateful. She was conscious that she had taken Lord Gideon’s life, and some of the people here knew that.

Perhaps the Patriarch knew.

Speaking of…

The iron gate leading to the cathedral’s great entrance flung open. A guardsman in Drakonian black livery sounded a deep, mournful note on a horn. And stepping through that gate…

Rupert Gideon shuffled towards the grave in no great rush. All eyes followed him.

Dressed in the white robes of the Divine priesthood, a golden collar and embroidered gold sleeves set the Patriarch apart from the other holy men she had seen in Maskamere. She had an impression of an enormous white mass, tufts of white hair poking out from beneath his white cap, pale thick fingers clutching at his holy book, and pale thick lips that stretched into something resembling a human smile.

“Welcome, friends.”

His voice was not what she had expected: soft, whispered, almost sibilant. He cut a path through to the coffin, the mourners scattering and then resettling like a flock of black crows around this pale man.

“Friends,” said the Patriarch, his watery gaze drifting between each of them, “we are gathered here today to pray for salvation for my son, Lord Emmett Gilbert Gideon. Only a chosen few ever escape the cycle of torment in this earthly life and ascend to oneness with the Divine. To purify the soul is a task that may take many lifetimes. Emmett was one of the holiest of men…”

As the Patriarch extolled the many virtues that Lord Gideon most certainly had never possessed, Valerie looked again at the mourners. Those standing by the grave must be his closest family, she thought. Then, for a second, she locked eyes with Lady Juliana, and the sheer hatred in the other woman’s eyes shook her to the core.

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Juliana definitely knew who was responsible for her uncle’s death.

“Death is not the end,” the Patriarch droned on. “For we escape the filth of this mortal life only to be thrown into the next—unless we atone. We pray that Emmett Gideon reaches his final end and the ascension that he so richly deserves. We purify his soul.”

The Patriarch raised his hand and scattered white petals over the grave.

“We purify his soul,” the mourners chanted.

Valerie blinked. She hoped they weren’t expecting her to join in.

“We proclaim him blameless,” said the Patriarch, tossing another handful of petals over the grave.

“We proclaim him blameless,” the mourners chanted.

She suppressed a snort. Avon remained silent beside her.

“We proclaim him pure,” said the Patriarch, with a final flourish.

“We proclaim him pure.”

Finally, the Patriarch stepped back from the grave. The woman holding the white lily approached in his place, eyes wet with tears, and let the flower fall gently on to the coffin.

“Be at peace,” said the Patriarch, dry-eyed.

The four men who had carried the coffin now shovelled dirt over the casket, filling in the grave. The lady who had dropped the white lily quietly sobbed.

When the casket was covered, Lord Gideon's family members lined up by the grave. The other mourners approached them one by one, little pockets of conversation breaking out amongst those waiting. Valerie joined Avon at the back of the line.

“Say nothing,” Avon whispered. “I’ll pay our respects.”

She looked up at him. “Who are they?”

The murmur of voices provided enough cover for their conversation. Avon pointed out each of the family members in turn.

“The Duke of Hennich, Grimmauld Gideon.” The tall man who had been standing with Juliana. “Emmett’s older brother and Lady Juliana’s father.”

“And the lady with the lily?”

“Lady Florence. Lord Gideon’s widow.”

His wife! Valerie couldn’t help but stare at the lady with burning curiosity. She had not met a single Drakonian wife in Maskamere. Or, well, she had, but those wives were also courtesans, playing companion to the Drakonian lords. It was all rather complicated.

Lady Melody was one of those courtesans. Married to some other man she’d never talked about, now here paying her respects in front of her dead lord’s wife. What did wives think of courtesans? What did courtesans think of wives? There was still so much she didn’t understand about Drakonian society.

There were other family members too: a boy barely grown, Lord Gideon and Lady Florence’s son; the Duke of Hennich’s wife; and the Duke’s son and his wife.

And every one of them with a reason to hate her. Valerie swallowed.

They reached the front of the line after Ophelia and Rufus, whose gracious condolences appeared to be well-received.

“My condolences,” Avon murmured, shaking the hand of each person he passed. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Valerie kept her head bowed and her mouth shut.

Then they reached the Duke of Hennich, Grimmauld Gideon. Older than his brother, his grey hair was receding at the temples and deep frown lines creased his forehead, but the biting smile he gave them very much resembled the other Gideon.

“You should have been arrested the second you set foot on Drakonian shores.” The Duke refused to shake Avon’s hand. “How dare you come here and pretend to show respect.”

“Arrested?” Avon cocked his head. “For what crime?”

Valerie nearly gasped. Others around her certainly did. The Drakonians had so many unspoken social rules, but they could be vicious when they chose.

“Don’t play the fool,” the Duke snarled. “I promise you this, Avon, I will see that justice is done for my brother.”

“Justice has been done,” Avon countered. “But I won’t disrupt your grief by bringing it up now.”

“The Senate will hear of this.”

“Let them hear it.” Avon’s retort was impressively smooth. “I shall be quite happy to tell the Senate all about your brother’s crimes. Do you really want the Senate to hear about that?”

“Now, now.” The Patriarch stepped in, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let us not be so quick to accuse. Justice will prevail in the end.”

The Patriarch’s cold gaze settled first on Avon, then on Valerie. He did not flinch, and she did her best not to flinch either. She remembered the implacable gaze of the dead man in the casket. Lord Gideon had tortured her with water, threatened her, plotted against her. He was a man who had taken a dreadful glee in hurting others.

The Patriarch’s gaze was equally dreadful, equally implacable, but there was no joy in those pale watery eyes. Only fathomless depths, like the nothingness of the ocean, a great maw come to swallow her whole.

She might have cowered. But she'd already faced the Emperor, and she had Avon at her side. What was one more old man who wanted to kill her? Valerie lifted her chin and stared right back.

“Your Eminence,” said Avon, bowing. “As ever, I appreciate your measured approach. Our condolences for the loss of your son.”

The Patriarch chewed his lip. Beside him, the Duke simmered with anger.

“Yes, we’ll put this dreadful tragedy behind us,” said the Patriarch, which struck her as odd, like he was saying it about some other man who had died rather than his own son. “But you are summoned to the Senate, Lord Avon. We have questions regarding your governance of Maskamere. Several troubling issues have come to light.”

Avon gave a tight smile. “As I said, I shall be happy to answer any questions from the Senate.”

“Tomorrow, then.” The Patriarch licked his lips. “And bring your witch.”