Duchess Lenheim’s eyes were like golden glass, clear and impossibly sharp. She watched Rune Felton with the patient interest of a cat that had already decided which way the mouse was going to run.
“You don't seem to be in a particularly festive mood, Madame Felton,” the Duchess said, taking a delicate sip of her tea. “Did something unpleasant happen at the Brant estate today?”
Rune hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Oh, no, Your Grace. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a routine delivery.”
“Is that so? Then why did I find this boutique entirely cleared of customers before I arrived? And why do the clerks look as if they’re preparing for a funeral?”
Rune flinched. She hadn't realized that the Duchess had the power to clear a room just by walking through the door—or perhaps she’d sent her own people ahead to ensure privacy. Either way, the silence in the store was now deafening.
“Rune,” Lenheim said, her voice dropping into a tone of gentle, dangerous intimacy. “Have you visited the Duchy of Brant today?”
“H-how did you know?”
The Duchess laughed, a light, silver sound. “Rumors in this capital are like smoke; they find every crack in the wall. It would be more surprising if I didn't know. So, tell me. Did the ill-tempered cat of Brant like the gift her daughter-in-law brought her?”
Rune swallowed hard. She was at a crossroads. She could maintain the silence of a professional merchant, protecting the privacy of her clients even as they insulted her work. Or she could speak the truth and risk the wrath of the most powerful noblewoman in the Empire.
*She called our jewelry 'cheap,'* Rune thought, a flash of old, bitter anger sparking in her chest.
Rune’s mother had died young, a broken woman who had been systematically crushed by a husband and a mother-in-law who despised her for "failing" to produce a son. Her father hadn't even wept at the funeral. That was why Rune and her sister, Russell, had fled that life to build something of their own. Seeing the Dowager treat Cornelia—a princess, no less—with the same casual cruelty had made Rune’s blood boil.
“Honestly, Your Grace,” Rune said, her voice gaining a sudden, hard edge. “It wouldn't have mattered what we brought. The Dowager Duchess has no taste for anything that doesn't come from *Twinkle*—and she has even less taste for her daughter-in-law.”
Lenheim’s eyes crinkled into half-moons. “Oh, really? I heard she preferred *Twinkle* because it’s run by the Arguin family. Rivals of yours, aren't they?”
Rune didn't answer directly, but the look in her eyes was enough.
“But was there something else?” Lenheim pressed, leaning forward. “Something about... a physical confrontation? Or perhaps a sudden, joyful announcement?”
Rune froze. She realized that Lenheim wasn't just fishing for gossip. She was looking for a specific weapon.
“Your Grace, I cannot... it is a matter of client privacy...”
“Rune, I thought you were sharper than this,” Lenheim interrupted. “Who do you think sent me here? Who do you think has the power to clear a boutique of the peerage at three in the afternoon?”
Rune went still. There was only one man with that kind of authority. The Emperor.
“I told you once before,” Lenheim continued, her smile widening. “When you gain a reputation in this city, you eventually have to choose a side. The Nobles' Faction, led by the Brants... or the Emperor’s Faction. By standing up for the Duchess today, you’ve already made your choice. You’re on my side now.”
Rune realized she’d been maneuvered. Cornelia hadn't just used her as a witness; she’d used her as a bridge to the Emperor.
“What do you want me to do?” Rune asked, her voice quiet.
“The guests will be allowed back in shortly,” Lenheim said. “When they start asking questions—and they will—you only need to answer with 'yes' or 'no.' If they ask about the pregnancy, look embarrassed and look away. If they ask if the Dowager tried to strike the Princess, stay silent. In this world, silence is the loudest confirmation of all.”
Rune bowed her head. “I understand, Your Grace. I thank you for your... protection.”
***
The next morning, I woke up feeling the lingering fatigue of yesterday’s performance.
*I might have overplayed the 'distressed princess' bit,* I mused, stretching my limbs. *But the result was worth the headache.*
I’d barely finished my morning wash when a knock sounded at the door. Randon entered, carrying a breakfast tray. But as I looked at him, I nearly dropped my towel.
“Randon? What happened to your face?”
The former head butler looked like a ghost. His eyes were sunken, and massive dark circles hung under them like bruises. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a week.
“It’s nothing, my lady,” he croaked, setting the tray down. “Please, eat. You must maintain your strength for the baby.”
“I can't eat while looking at a man who appears to be dying on his feet,” I said, sitting at the table. “What have you been doing?”
“I... I monitored the kitchens,” Randon said, his chest puffing out slightly despite his exhaustion. “I stood over the chef from the moment he cracked the eggs to the moment the tray was plated. I ensured that no one—not even the head maid—came within three feet of your food.”
I blinked. *He’s been playing poison taster?*
I hadn't even asked him to do that. I’d told him to watch Zenon and the Dowager. But it seemed Randon’s fear of the Dowager’s "gifts" had sent him into a paranoid frenzy of protection.
I felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. I was using this man’s devotion as a tactical tool, but he was genuine in his desire to protect the child.
“I think it’s time you got your official position back,” I said, offering him a warm, sincere smile. “You’ve more than proven your loyalty. Have you tried to... make amends with the Dowager lately? Shown her how indispensable you are?”
Randon’s face went pale, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by a look of sheer, stuttering panic. “T-that... I... heck, my lady! I’ve tried, but every time I see her, she looks like she’s about to have me executed!”
I furrowed my brow. “What? Why?”
“She’s... she’s been muttering about 'the fake' and 'the real Eric' all morning,” Randon whispered, leaning in. “She’s not herself, my lady. She’s planning something. Something big.”