The Captain of the Guard swore viciously, and I was too shocked to remain silent. I do not know if my gasp was very loud, but it certainly had an effect.

He whirled, and the sound of a blade leaving its sheath stunned me further. He carried a sword by the grace of the King — the Guard was trusted implicitly, and the Captain even more so. The bright length of metal glittered in the hall’s gloom.

It looked very sharp.

Tristan d’Arcenne regarded me over the length of his sword. He was breathing heavily, and so was I. The Minister Primus lay dead on the floor, smashed like the vase and the end table.

No few of the older ladies-in-waiting had succumbed to fever; I had even nursed Lady Atterlina di Herence a year ago until she died. One would have to be blind to avoid seeing death in the world. Yet I had never attended a hanging or a beheading, it being faintly improper for a young noblewoman to see such a thing with the common crowd, and besides I am possessed of a weak stomach. I felt faint each time I saw a duel begin, and usually watched no more than the first exchange of blows.

I could barely even watch a chicken being prepared for the feast. And now, this.

“Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy.” D’Arcenne’s tone had lost its violence but none of its quiet, as if he reminded himself who I was. And yet, there was something — an accent, perhaps, or simply the way his lips shaped the words — that seemed highly improper.

Heat rose up my neck, stained my cheeks. I dropped the wet rag. It made a small sound as it hit the floor.

“You — you—,” I stammered. “You k-k-k—”

“Not I. The spell was laid on him by another.” His blue eyes burned in a sharp face. I had never before noticed how much he looked like one would expect a d’Arcenne to. They are mountainfolk and have the faces to prove it, sharp and handsome. “Are you part of it, then, hedgewitch? Are you?”