Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

My smile disappeared. Abi, who’d just returned from the map room, stopped in the hallway. My father’s expression hardened.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"In the south sitting room with Lady Konstantin’s maid and two guards. He didn’t answer the sound. He asked for you."

A small weight inside me eased. He didn’t answer. Good. Good child. Very good.

"I will go," I said.

Abi moved to follow.

"No."

He stopped. "Brother."

"No."

My voice came sharper than I intended. The hallway quieted. I took a breath.

"Spiro asked for me."

Abi’s expression changed slightly, then he nodded. "I will remain here."

It was too easy. I disliked easy. But I didn’t have time to investigate his restraint.

The south sitting room was warm. A fire burned low in the hearth, lamps had been lit, the curtains closed. Two Sonomi guards stood near the door with the grim faces of men who’d been told that if a raindrop became suspicious, they were to challenge it.

Spiro sat on the settee with a blanket around his shoulders. He wasn’t crying. That made it worse. Children should cry when frightened. It was honest. It told the adults around them what had broken the air.

Spiro sat very still, both hands wrapped around a cup of warm milk, his pale hair falling over his forehead. When he saw me, his fingers tightened.

"Father."

I crossed the room. "You should be asleep."

"I know."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Did you hear a voice?"

"No."

"Only the tapping?"

He nodded.

"Three notes?"

"Yes." His eyes lifted. "Like the song. But not the song."

I sat beside him. Not too close. Close enough.

"Did it call your name?"

"No."

"Did it say mine?"

He hesitated. My chest tightened.

"Spiro."

"It didn’t say it," he said quickly. "It just felt like it wanted me to think of you."

How wonderfully repulsive. A sound that didn’t speak but carried suggestion. I wanted to stab the rain. Unfortunately, weather remained difficult to prosecute.

"It wasn’t me," I said.

"I know."

The answer came immediately. Too immediately. I looked at him. "How?"

Spiro lowered his gaze to the cup. "Because it was asking me to listen."

Ah. Yes. The kind of statement that made one want to place several adults into a furnace and call it infrastructure reform. Children should not distinguish safety by whether something demanded obedience. Yet here he was.

"I see," I said.

He looked worried. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"But I thought about opening the curtain."

"You didn’t open it."

"No."

"Then you did well."

His shoulders lowered slightly. The fire shifted, throwing gold over his face. For a moment, he looked very young. Younger than his eyes. Younger than his caution. Younger than every adult in this city had allowed him to become.

I reached out and placed my hand on his head. He leaned into it before he could stop himself, then stiffened. I pretended not to notice.

"Listen carefully," I said. "If rain taps, bells ring, walls hum, mirrors whisper, or anyone uses my voice from somewhere I’m not standing, you don’t answer. You find William, Mother, Father, Abi, or me. If none of us are present, you find the nearest Sonomi knight and order him to bring you to us."

His eyes widened. "Order?"

"You are Spiro Altan Konstantin. The knights know what that means."

He swallowed. "Yes, Father."

"Good."

He looked down at the milk again. "Father."

"Yes?"

"The boy from the prince’s memory. Ansel."

I stilled. His voice remained small.

"Was he like me?"

There were several answers. A cowardly one. A kind one. A careful one. I hated all of them.

"He was a child who tried to help another child when adults failed him," I said.

Spiro’s eyes lowered. "Then he was better than the adults."

"Yes."

His fingers tightened around the cup. "Will we find him?"

"If there’s anything left to find."

"Is that a promise?"

"No." He looked up. "A promise is something I should only give when I control the result," I said. "This, I don’t control. Not yet."

He absorbed that with the grave seriousness he gave to anything involving rules, safety, and adult honesty. "Then what is it?"

"A declaration of intent."

His mouth twitched faintly. "That sounds very official."

"It is."

"Then I believe it."

My hand on his head stilled. How troublesome. Trust was a heavy object when placed in one’s hands by a child. I withdrew before the weight became visible on my face.

"Finish your milk," I said. "Then sleep."

"Will you stay until I do?"

"Yes."

His eyes brightened just enough to make my chest feel unreasonably tight.

"Okay."

So I stayed. A Grand Duke had many duties. Running territories. Commanding knights. Hoarding wealth. Plotting the slow, elegant domination of an empire. Apparently, sitting beside a half-asleep child while rain tapped three harmless notes against the glass had joined the list.

How hateful. How very necessary.

By the time Spiro’s eyes closed, the tapping had stopped. The rain outside had become ordinary again. I remained for several minutes after that, one hand resting on the arm of the settee, listening.

Nothing called. Nothing whispered. No voice borrowed my name. Only the fire crackled, the child slept, and somewhere beneath my very expensive household, bells were being locked away in rooms designed because I had once been too curious for my mother’s peace of mind.

When I returned to the study, everyone was waiting. Of course. Abi stood near the shelves. Mother had reclaimed my chair again. Father leaned against the window. Bernard sat with an emergency ledger. William poured tea. The Empress was present, as was Adrien, pale but upright, wrapped in a dark robe that did not belong to him.

Mine, probably.

I looked at William. He looked innocent. It was a lie.

Adrien looked at me. "Your son?"

"Asleep."

His shoulders eased. The Empress noticed. So did I.

Interesting. Adrien had begun worrying about Spiro. That could become useful. Or inconvenient. Often, those were the same thing.

Mother folded her hands over the desk. "Lady Marielle is secured. The soundless bell is contained. Eron is in the medical wing. The white leaf hasn’t reacted since entering the study."

"Good."

"Father Lorian hasn’t regained speech. Vesren tried to bite his own tongue. Caldus began praying when Marielle arrived. Marcellus asked whether the red glass splinter in her palm was whole."

"Was it?"

"No. It shattered."

Marcellus would dislike that. Good.

"Fate sent word," Bernard said.

I sat in the side chair. "How does that woman keep doing this faster than official couriers?"

William answered blandly. "She’s competent, Your Excellency."

"Distasteful."

Bernard handed me the note. I opened it.

Your Excellency,

The Capital is awake. By dawn, every noble household will have heard at least four versions of tonight’s events. Two already involve you challenging a demon beneath the coronation dais. One claims the Crown Prince has been replaced by a Jinn. One, regrettably, is close enough to cause concern.

The Choir’s remaining couriers are burning records. Temple warehouses in the western district have gone quiet. House Rouvier’s lesser branches are trying to move money. Lady Marielle’s capture will accelerate the panic.

Also, I have found out who the woman writing under the Crimson Quill actually is. Calm down, I know what you’re going to ask, and no, it isn’t romantic curiosity, it’s professional. The Lady of the Crimson Quill is preparing an evening special.

If the ritual can travel through rumor, you need the better rumor first.

Payment later.

Fate

I read the note twice, then folded it.

Abi’s brows rose. "What does Fate say?"

I handed him the note. He read it, then smiled slowly.

Mother looked at me. "A better story," she said.

"Yes."

Adrien frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means," I said, standing, "that if the Choir wishes to use gossip as a road, we shall pave a different one over it."

The Empress’s eyes sharpened. The Crown Prince stared. Abi began to laugh. Mother’s smile appeared, very faint, very terrifying.

"And how," Father asked, "does one pave gossip?"

I smiled. "By hiring the best liar in the city."

Bernard looked horrified. William looked resigned. Adrien looked as though he’d just realized my definition of strategy involved several crimes wearing formal shoes.

Excellent.

The night was young. And the Capital, unfortunately for itself, loved to read.