The chamber smelled of browned wax and cinnamon and something older—cloth singed at the hem, the faint iron tang of worry. I had kneaded the braid at the nape of my neck until my fingers ached. The tribute sat on the low table: a silver box the size of a coin purse, its lid trimmed with Whitmore crest, a sprig of rosemary tucked beneath like an apology. I had practiced the angle of my head, the length of my bow, the softness of the voice I would not use. Helena stood by the shutters with her hands folded, face a pinched coin of calm. She'd pinned the last glint of blue into my braid; her eyes flicked to the doorway every few breaths as if expecting someone to swing a lantern in and shout that all this was a mistake. Which it was. The ritual itself was a mistake—made necessary by alliances and by Lord Marcus's appetite for spectacle—but I wore it because the world rewarded those who learned to keep the worst of the scorch marks inside. They came in with the smell of spring and something new and insolent. First Dominick, all silk and a smile that never reached his eyes, a cape thrown back so the light glinted off the Whitmore star on his shoulder. For a moment I thought he’d crossed the room to kiss the back of my hand in public, to keep appearances. Then Angela Moreau followed like