"Your hand—don't tremble." The King's voice cut across the room like a blade as he stepped inside. Kinsley straightened. She had been holding a letter with fingers that felt too thin for a queen's silk. She set it down on the dressing table, palms flat, and let the practiced smile settle into place. The mirror returned Alexandra's face back to her: the curve of jaw, the careless sweep of hair. She pinched the memory of the real queen like a talisman and breathed. Lucia Carter hovered by the door with a tray of tea, eyes sharp as a maid's should be. "You look white, Your Majesty," she said, and the softness in the words made an accident of loyalty. "I am not unwell." Kinsley lifted the teacup like a practiced courtesan, but her voice trembled once. She forced it away. "Just—prematures, some worry. The council can exhaust the stomach." Lucia's mouth tightened. She set the tray down and reached, briefly, for Kinsley's sleeve. A small touch. A permission. The kind of touch that said, I know more than I should and I will hold it like a secret. Kinsley unfolded the letter again. The courier's seal had come from Riverside—smeared ink, an urgent scrawl. The handwriting belonged to a woman Kinsley had known as Isabela, her neighbor when she still sold mornings in the fishmarket. The letter did not mince words. Mateo Gomes, imprisoned at the Riverside lock, charged