Leo’s fingers stilled. Thirteen years ago the prince consort had charged the royal blacksmiths with creating a weapon that could be used against the only thing that had ever challenged the Echelon: a mob. Could it have been serendipity, or something far more sinister? The first steps in some long-reaching plan to rid himself of those whose very presence challenged his rule?

Blade’s legend gave the humans of the city hope. If Leo were in the prince consort’s shoes, the first thing he would do would be to destroy that legend and prove that not even the Devil himself was untouchable.

And then? Leo’s gaze shifted to that scrap of black silk. While the people in the streets might whisper that life would change, should their queen hold power, the truth remained—the ruling Council of Dukes were the only other gainsay to the prince consort, able to overrule him if they chose. And for years, the prince consort had held most of the vote, with four of the seven dukes in his pocket. The deceased Dukes of Lannister had both voted his way, and Morioch was fanatically loyal, as were the former Duke of Bleight and, of course, Caine. In the past three years, however, the Dukes of Lannister had both died; Lynch had overthrown Bleight; and Caine’s illness had thrust Leo onto the Council as his proxy.

The only trump card the prince consort owned was the queen. She could, if pressed, overrule the Council’s decision by right of regency.

Now two chairs stood empty: Goethe’s chair and the one that the Dukes of Lannister had used.

What if Goethe’s murder was simply the prince consort’s way to even the score? If a new, amenable Council was instated, the prince consort would hold complete power again.

Dashed clever, if Leo was correct. Not just a move on Blade then, but on all of the dukes who opposed him.

Prepared to speak, Leo paused as movement caught his eye. The queen was slowly coming toward the table. “You didn’t tell me,” she said, staring at that damning scrap of black silk. “You knew all morning, didn’t you? That he was dead. That Manderlay was dead.”

All eyes shot to her, including her husband’s. He reached for her hand but she jerked it to her chest, staring down at him with wide, devastated eyes.

Manderlay. A rather more intimate title than Goethe. Leo was drawing conclusions, as he suspected several others were too.

“Your Highness,” the duchess murmured. She slid out of her chair with extraordinary grace as she crossed to the queen’s side. “I think it best if we retire to your chambers. You’re looking peaked—”

“Peaked?”

“Alexandra,” the prince consort said, the word heavily laced with reprimand. “Hardly the time to create a scene.”

Instead of putting her in her place, as his words so often did, they seemed to ignite her. The queen’s eyes blazed to life, her laudanum-soaked haze sliding off her as fury raised something Leo had never seen in her before.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” she demanded. “How dare you—”

The sound of the duchess’s slap ricocheted around the chambers. Everybody froze as the queen drew in a harsh breath, her hand going to her reddened cheek.

The Duchess of Casavian seemed to collect herself, as if she too had been shocked by her own actions. “My prince, it seems Her Highness is overwrought by the excitement of the day. With your permission, I believe it time for her to retire.”

“An excellent suggestion,” the prince consort murmured. “Perhaps you should teach her some restraint, while you’re at it. Or I will.”

That was the first time he’d ever explicitly spoken of what went on behind closed doors. It wasn’t the first time the queen had worn a bruise. It wouldn’t be the last. The air in the chamber seemed to grow thinner, and Leo’s fingers clenched on the table. “Your Highness—”

“Your opinion is not necessary—or desired—at this moment. My wife is overwhelmed. I think it time for her to rest.” He gave the duchess a clipped nod.

The duchess replied with a more formal bow of the head. A little tremble started in the queen’s hands but she hid it well, curling her pale silk gloves in her skirts.

There was nothing he could do, was there? To speak out would earn him little more than a spoken reprimand, but it might cost the queen far more than that. The prince consort could do as he liked with her. She was his wife, after all, no matter how poorly it sat. Still, the only thing keeping Leo’s mouth shut at this moment was the knowledge that he could only cause the queen more pain.

Soon we’ll be in a position to overthrow him. The thought eased some of the guilt. Then nobody will ever lift a hand to her again.

Slowly his gaze lifted to Lynch’s, both of them sharing the same grim expression. Lynch gave a little shake of his head.

“Now, where were we?” Morioch drawled as the duchess took the queen in hand, her fingers locking around one of those slender gloved wrists.

Leo couldn’t help watching them leave the room while slowly sinking back into his seat. He also couldn’t help frowning as the queen scurried to keep pace with the taller duchess.

It was the first time he’d ever been disappointed in the duchess.

Six

Rumors Unfounded, States the Prince Consort

Recent whisperings in the general populace and certain publications have put a strain on the government, with the news that the humanist revolutionary leader Mordecai Hughes, who was executed seven months ago, was not, in fact, truly the mastermind behind the humanist movement. Though the humanists have seemingly vanished back into the populace since Hughes was unmasked as Mercury and executed on crimes of treason, propaganda pamphlets perpetuating this rumor are now being widely circulated among the human classes.

The prince consort and the Council of Dukes have recently released a statement confirming that Hughes was indeed the mastermind behind the bombing of the Ivory Tower and the attempted terrorist attack at the opera last autumn. Persistent rumor among the lower classes, however, suggests that Mercury was never one person, but merely a persona worn by several humanists to protect the true mastermind.

Cause to wonder, perhaps, who truly is in charge of the humanists? For if “Mercury” has many faces, someone must be in control. Despite the prince consort’s assurances, argument suggests that we haven’t seen the last of the humanists—or of the presumably faceless instigator behind this movement.

—London Standard