Frustrations of a Self-Proclaimed Villain Lord

The Lady of the Crimson Quill was late.

This was brave. Not wise, necessarily, but brave. I had extended a private invitation to a woman whose entire profession was built on trespassing through reputations with ink-stained fingers, and she had the audacity to arrive seven minutes after the appointed time.

Seven. Not five, which could be dismissed as traffic. Not ten, which could be framed as deliberate drama. Seven. A number that suggested she wanted me to notice but not accuse.

How irritating. How skilled. I respected it against my will.

The meeting was arranged in the smaller eastern salon rather than my study. The study contained too many sensitive materials, including maps, coded ledgers, the white leaf, and Bernard’s increasingly traumatized relationship with paper. The salon, on the other hand, was elegant enough to flatter a guest and secure enough to prevent said guest from leaving with anything she wasn’t given.

A proper balance.

My mother chose the tea. That was ominous. My father chose the seating. That was tactical. I chose the guards. That was satisfying. Abi chose to attend. That was unavoidable.

Adrien, to my annoyance, also insisted on attending. Not publicly, of course. He remained behind a privacy screen with the Empress, listening but unseen. His physician objected until Mother looked at him. The man’s professional courage collapsed in a dignified manner. I didn’t blame him. I, too, had experienced my mother’s gaze. Survivors recognized one another.

Bernard sat at a side table with blank paper and an expression that suggested he was preparing to record either history or slander. William stood near the door.

At precisely seven minutes late, the visitor arrived.

She wore dove grey. That was the first surprise. I’d expected red, or black, or something offensively dramatic. Instead, the woman who entered the salon looked like a widowed minor noblewoman with excellent posture, silver threaded dark hair, a veil thin enough to reveal sharp eyes, and gloves the color of old parchment.

She was perhaps forty. Perhaps sixty. Perhaps one of those women who had discovered early that age could be edited by confidence.

She curtsied with perfect form. "Your Excellency."

I didn’t stand. "Lady Crimson."

Her mouth curved. "Is that what we’re calling me?"

"I refuse to call you my dove."

Abi choked. My mother’s teacup paused halfway to her mouth. The woman laughed, not loudly, not girlishly, like a blade sliding free from velvet.

"Wise," she said. "I would have charged extra."

Good. I disliked her less. Terrible development.

"Sit," I said. She did, without waiting to be asked twice, which I appreciated. False humility wasted time.

William poured tea. She accepted it, smelled it once, and smiled. "Lady Konstantin’s selection?"

Mother looked at her. "Yes."

"A warning tea, then."

"An honest one," Mother replied.

She lifted her cup. "My favorite kind."

Abi leaned forward, eyes bright. "You called me expensive sin."

She looked at him, then smiled. "I underpriced you."

Abi placed a hand over his chest. I closed my eyes. "No," I said.

He turned to me. "I said nothing."

"You were about to become unbearable."

"I was already unbearable."

"At least you know."

The gossip columnist watched us with open interest. I pointed at her. "Do not write that."

"I write many things, Your Excellency."

"Write that, and I’ll buy your printing house."

She paused, then laughed again. "You wouldn’t burn it?"

"I am not a barbarian."

A silence followed. Not because anyone believed me gentle. Because my family was from Sonomi.

Her eyes gleamed. "Noted," she said.

"Good."

Mother set down her cup. "You know why you are here."

"I know several reasons I might be here," she replied. "The first is that you wish to suppress tonight’s rumors. The second is that you wish to redirect them. The third is that something happened at the coronation rehearsal that cannot be allowed to become whatever the court makes of it before breakfast."

I smiled. "Competent."

Her expression brightened slightly. Praise was also a weapon. Most people forgot that.

"The fourth," she added, "is that the Grand Duke of Sonomi doesn’t summon a gossip writer at night unless the story itself has become dangerous."

The room quieted. Behind the screen, Adrien shifted. The woman’s gaze flicked there for half a second.

She knew. Of course she knew.

I leaned back. "Do you know what kind of dangerous?"

"I know that every noble house in the Capital received fragments within the hour. Some heard that a cleric attempted an unauthorized rite. Some heard that Duke Rouvier collapsed. Some heard that Lady Evelina denounced her father. Some heard that His Highness was absent from rehearsal because he is dead, replaced, cursed, recovering, married, or secretly hidden in Sonomi."

Adrien made a faint sound behind the screen. The Empress probably silenced him with a look. I didn’t turn.

"The most concerning version," she continued, "says that the old ceremony required the gathered court to speak together, and that the Grand Duke prevented it."

"Why concerning?"

"Because that version makes people curious about the words."

Exactly. The Choir didn’t need the truth to travel. Only rhythm. A phrase repeated by enough frightened, important people could become a road. Gossip was an awful magical material. Cheap, fast, and self-replicating.

"Can you stop it?" I asked.

"No."

An honest answer. Wonderful.

"Can you replace it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She smiled. "With what?"

I looked at Bernard. He handed me the prepared sheet. She accepted it, scanned the lines, her brows lifting.

"This is very dry."

"It’s an official account."

"It reads like a chamberlain apologizing to furniture."

"That seems unfair to the furniture."

Abi coughed into his fist. She held the paper between two fingers.

"You cannot fight a dangerous rumor with a dead one, Your Excellency. You need something with a spine, a face, and a sentence people can repeat without understanding why it comforts them."

"I have a sentence."

"No borrowed voice shall be recognized," she read.

Her expression shifted. She read it again, then looked up. "Who wrote this?"

"Bernard."

Bernard stiffened at the side table. She turned toward him. "A good line."

He looked as though he’d been stabbed with praise. "Thank you, my lady."

"It has rhythm. It sounds official enough to survive courtrooms and simple enough to enter kitchens. Very useful."

Bernard’s ears turned red. How unexpected. The boy liked being praised by criminals with pens.

Concerning.

"No borrowed voice shall be recognized," she repeated softly. "Yes. That will work."

"It needs to travel before dawn," I said. "Not only among nobles. Servants. Guards. Temple attendants. Market sellers. Coachmen."

She looked at me. "You don’t want a court correction. You want a city phrase."

"Yes."

"Expensive."

"I am very rich."

Abi smiled. My mother closed her eyes briefly.

She placed the official sheet on the table. "I can print an evening special before the third night bell if I use my smaller presses. I can have copies placed at every major gate before dawn. I can spread the phrase through vendors, lamp lighters, kitchen staff, and drivers. But the story must be worth carrying."

"It will be."

"Not if you bury the children completely."

The room cooled. William’s posture changed. My father’s smile faded. I looked at her. "Careful."

She held my gaze. "No."

Interesting. Very interesting.

"I won’t print their names," she continued. "I won’t print their faces. I won’t make them symbols with pretty grief tied around their throats. But if the public account says only ’ceremonial anomaly,’ the city will fill the empty place with worse things."

"She’s right," Mother said.

I disliked that. Mostly because she was.

The Lady of the Crimson Quill turned toward her with the respect of one dangerous woman recognizing another. "The story must say protected children were involved," she said. "Not used. Not chosen. Not blessed. Protected. That word matters. It tells the city where sympathy should stand."

I tapped one finger against the arm of my chair. Protected children. No names. No spectacle. Enough truth to anchor the better lie.

Yes. Unfortunately, yes.

"What else?" I asked.

Her eyes gleamed. "The clerical faction attempted to use forbidden acoustics during coronation rehearsal. House Konstantin and the imperial family disrupted it. The phrase ’no borrowed voice shall be recognized’ becomes the protective line used by witnesses to reject unauthorized ritual phrasing. Duke Rouvier and a bishop’s deputy are under sealed investigation. Lady Evelina requested protection after speaking under her own will. Lady Marielle Rouvier is sought for questioning."

"Captured," I corrected.

She froze, only for a heartbeat, then her smile sharpened. "Captured?"

"Yes."

"That was fast."

"I was irritated."

"And is she alive?"

"Yes."

"Shame."

I looked at her. She took a sip of tea. "I’ve met Lady Marielle," she said. "Some people make charity look like an altar and children like candles."

I disliked how accurate that was. The line was too pretty. Too sharp.

"Do not write it," I said.

She smiled faintly. "I know."

Good. Perhaps she understood restraint. A rare quality in her profession.

Behind the screen, Adrien spoke. "What about me?"

She didn’t look surprised. She merely turned toward the screen and lowered her head with perfect courtesy. "Your Highness."

The Empress’s voice followed, cool as drawn silver. "You will forget you heard him."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I am known for forgetting things at profitable times."