She stares at the page. Why that question? Why not: What is your purpose? Or: How do you mean to achieve it? It’s stupid. She doesn’t understand why it’s asking these questions in the first place. Is it some kind of test?

Something scuttles up in the rafters, and Valerie jumps.

“Me.” She grits her teeth. “Where else would it come from? Me. Please—”

*

Over the next two days, letters flew back and forth from the Emperor’s household. She received the promised invitation to the summer ball from Lady Melody, which was scheduled only a few short days before the election. Avon’s uncle accepted an invitation to a weekend hunting trip. Valerie and Ophelia penned a letter to the Archbishop of Arden, who replied that he would be delighted to meet them for afternoon tea.

Ophelia liked to paint, and she had a standing easel and canvas in her quarters. With her permission, Valerie set aside a rather lovely watercolour of the garden pond and drew herself a calendar counting down the days to the election. Gradually, they filled it up with the coming social engagements.

But one name on her list eluded her. She still didn’t know who Baron Madoc Frask was, let alone how to contact him. And since Avon had not prioritised meeting with him, she guessed that he was more relevant to her mission to learn about the war than Avon’s mission to secure his reappointment as Chancellor.

Their progress was both promising and frustrating. Avon had little time for her. Fortunately, the Emperor was also absent; during the week, he attended to matters of state and did not return to the villa. She began to think of it as another prison, an enclosure for the women and children to run around like cattle in a field. Always watched, always guarded.

What was the difference, she wondered, between being protected and being held captive?

On the third day, she had the bright idea of joining Edrick for his daily tutoring sessions. The tutor, a short man with thinning hair and thinner lips, did not appreciate her presence.

“Lady Valerie, I welcome your interest in the finer points of Drakonian government, but I am trying to teach the young master the geography of our Empire…”

Edrick’s quarters were like a miniature version of the adults’. He had his own four poster bed, a ridiculous size for a child that small, but perhaps he’d grow into it. A chest of toys stood open by the foot of the bed, including a toy wooden sword on the floor. For his lessons, however, he and the tutor sat around a table scattered with books. The tutor opened the cupboard behind him and brought out a most curious object: a model of the world, not a paper map, but a painted wooden globe.

She scooted in next to Edrick. “What’s that?”

The tutor pursed his lips. “Why don’t you tell the young lady, Master Edrick?”

Edrick grinned, then reached out to spin the globe on its axis. “It’s our planet. It spins like that!”

“Very good, Master Edrick,” said the tutor. “Do you see Drakon on there? Can you find it?”

The little boy pointed to part of the landmass in the northern hemisphere. She peered at it. Each of the world’s realms were labelled, including Drakon and its provinces: Carthal, Dhonis, West Lovinia… Other parts of the globe were simply “the Wilderness” or “the Great Blue Sea”.

“What about Maskamere?” she asked. “Do you see it?”

Edrick shook his head, so she pointed to show him. Southwest of Drakon, a great peninsula jutted out to the west of the Triatic Sea. It was perhaps a third larger than Drakon. That surprised her. She hadn’t quite realised the scale of the difference, if this representation was accurate.

“Are all provinces ruled in the same way?” she asked.

“They vary,” said the tutor, “but they are all governed by a Council and led by a Chancellor or the local equivalent.”

“Like Father,” said Edrick.

“Do they always have the same people on the Council? Like the Masters of Health and Justice and all that?”

“Again, it varies according to need, but yes, they’re broadly similar. Now, if we can return to the topic…”

“What about the Master of Administration?” she persisted. “That’s one we don’t have in Maskamere.”

The tutor sighed and pinched his nose. She’d caused that look more than a few times both at the convent and at home in her village.

“Lady Valerie, once again I do appreciate your interest, but none of this knowledge is necessary for a lady, particularly not one of your standing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man coughed. “Please. I don’t wish to make a scene.”

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“The Master of Administration is the spymaster,” said Edrick, turning the globe slowly with his fingers. “He knows everything there is to know about the Empire, and he whispers it in Grandfather’s ear.”

She whipped her head around to the little boy, trying not to give away her excitement. “Really?”

The tutor rose to his feet. “Lady Valerie, I must insist. I am teaching geography. You are distracting my pupil.”

Cajoling didn’t work. He turfed her out, but she didn’t care; she was already thinking of how to catch Edrick later. Five years old he might be, but he was the grandson of the Emperor. His education level could be exactly what she needed right now.

And if that didn’t work, she’d tell Avon to stop playing around and give her the information she needed already.

So thinking, Valerie hurried back to her quarters to add another note to her list. Before she got there, however, Captain Doryn appeared in the hallway to block her way.

He bowed. “Lady Valerie, would you please come with me.”

“Doryn,” she said. “What’s going on?”

He was wearing the black uniform of the imperial guards rather than his full armour, but he carried his sword at his hip, and the two guards accompanying him carried muskets. They looked serious.

“No need for concern, my lady. This way.”

She frowned. This wasn’t on her calendar. Doryn is Avon’s man, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t give her away to the Emperor, and if she had to make a list of Avon’s people she trusted, Doryn would be very near the top.

So she followed him, through the villa and outside into the grounds where an ebony carriage awaited them. Doryn held out his arm, and she climbed into the carriage with him, her heart beginning to thump. Typically, he was silent. As the guards whipped the horses into action, she folded her arms and stared at him.

“Where are we going?”

“The old Maskamery embassy,” Doryn answered. “We’re going to take the silvertree.”

*

She had to admit, the audacity of it impressed her.

They stopped outside Titus’s house, Valerie, Doryn and both guards. She followed by his side as Doryn marched through the iron wrought gate and rapped on the front door.

The door knocker was shaped like the head of a kestrel. A symbolic connection to the royal family. Then it opened, and a shock jolted through her.

Priska.

Instead of her grey servant’s uniform, the other girl wore a pale blue long-sleeved gown with a frilled neck and cuffs. Her hair was pulled back into a prim bun. A Drakonian style. She turned milk-white at the sight of them.

“We’re here to see Master Titus,” said Doryn.

Priska hesitated. “Is… Is he expecting you?”

“I don’t believe he is.”

Doryn didn’t wait to be invited in. He barged past Priska with a brusque air, the other girl stumbling back. Valerie followed in his wake, then the guards.

“What are you doing?” Priska wrung her hands. “Titus! Titus!”

“Hey, hey.” She grabbed the other girl’s shoulder. “It’s okay. They’re not going to hurt you.” She could feel Priska trembling and lowered her voice. “Tell him I didn’t have a choice.”

Priska blinked at her like a frightened deer. Then the noise of a door clattering startled them all; Valerie jumped. A burly manservant hurried through into the entrance hall, but Doryn’s guard lifted his musket and the man froze.

Doryn looked at Valerie. “Where’s the tree?”

“The garden,” she answered.

He swept through without hesitation. Valerie let go of Priska and led the way. The excitement of it all made her heart race. Here they were, barging into another man’s house, holding his servants at gunpoint, not even trying to hide their identities.

She’d reached the end of the hallway when footsteps stampeded down the stairs.

“What is the meaning of this? Who’s there?”

Valerie looked back, and Titus stopped in his tracks when he saw her. His face turned a blotchy red.

“You.”

“Go on,” Doryn urged her, and she lifted the latch, stepping through into the garden.

Shouts echoed through the house. She hurried on, down the winding path, past the pond and to the greenhouse. Doryn followed.

“It’s locked,” she said. “Give me a second.”

She laid her hand on the lock, the power of the silvertree just reaching the edge of her senses.

Meanwhile, Titus had stormed into the garden, ignoring the guards and their muskets. “This is an outrage! I know exactly who sent you—I know her. Step off my property right now.”

“Stay back,” Doryn warned him.

Valerie frowned. She felt the workings of the lock, but she was struggling to unpick it. Doryn glanced at her, then shook his head.

“Come here, my lady.” Then to his guards: “Hold him.”

“How dare you!” Titus fumed with impotent rage as the guards restrained him. “The Patriarch will hear about this!”

Valerie moved aside, and Doryn smashed the greenhouse door with two decisive blows. The glass shattered, and the door swung open.

Well, that worked, she thought.

She stepped delicately over the broken glass, her eyes already on the trestle table. And faintly, far-off, came another call: the queen. The thread still connected them should she choose to follow it.

Valerie ignored the call.

Taking great care, she picked up the plant pot containing the silvertree seedling and hugged it to her chest. Closing her eyes, she healed the welts on her back for a second time. Then she stepped out of the greenhouse and into Doryn’s shadow. He laid a protective hand on her shoulder.

Titus stared at her. “This is theft! Is Lord Avon mad? No, this is you, Valerie, isn’t it? He’s truly bewitched.”

“Master Titus," said Doryn, “I bring a message from Lord Avon. He would like to remind you that magic is forbidden in Drakon, and that for a Maskamery man to pursue witchcraft in the capital would be looked upon very poorly. He therefore kindly offers to take this seedling and make no mention of its previous owner, to ensure your reputation remains in good standing.”

The red had vanished from Titus’s cheeks. He was white with rage. But he said nothing.

Doryn nudged her forward, and Valerie started along the path back to the house. She avoided Titus’s gaze, but she could feel him glaring at her. Alliance in tatters, she thought. Avon had given her exactly what she’d asked for, but he’d done it in a way that benefited only him. Whether Titus blamed her or Avon for this, it would be an uphill battle to regain his trust. Her words to Priska might help, but would he believe her?

Doryn paused as he passed by Titus, and Valerie glanced back.

“Lord Avon will be at the Society Biologica this evening,” he said. “He hopes you’ll attend.”

Titus spoke from between clenched teeth. “Get out.”

And so they departed, Valerie carrying the seedling like a precious infant, the servants staring after them, shocked and silent. Priska peeped out from a doorway but said nothing. Doryn shadowed her back to the carriage trailed by his guards, and no one tried to stop them.

Safely enclosed inside the cab, Valerie allowed herself a moment to breathe. The soft warmth of the silvertree seedling embraced her. It was like a tiny taste of home.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Doryn asked.

She blinked. “Yes, of course. What’s the Society Biologica?”

He settled in his seat, indicating the street ahead. “Our next destination.”