"Get these filthy things out of my sight," Seraphina said, her voice smooth as silk but cold as the grave. The grand hall went quiet in the way a theatre holds its breath. Tapestries rustled. Candles guttered. Guards stiffened like sculptures. Oscar Cooke, hand white at his cane, did not laugh. He had come expecting applause. Behind him, beneath a damp shawl, two small faces peered up—one puckered, one puckish—both smeared with mud and the smell of floodwater. A nursemaid trailed, wet skirts clinging to her calves. A steward hovered beside Oscar, eyes darting as if to catch which way the room would break. Oscar smiled. A practiced tilt. "Sera—" He always used the pet name in public when he wanted pity. "They were found at the river banks. No home, no name. I—" He spread his palms, the posture of a benefactor. "They are surviving. They deserve—" "To be clean," Seraphina amended. Her hand rose. "Clean, then gone. We are not a refuge. There are rules. The orphanage takes flood cases. The Crown does not adopt every tragic face the city offers." He blinked. For a heartbeat he forgot to maneuver. The two babies' eyes searched the hall as if the marble itself might be a cradle. A dog at the foot of the dais tilted its head and sniffed the air. "You would leave them on the streets?" Oscar forced a laugh that did not reach his eyes. "Sera, you're—" "Practical," she said. "And not