"Who does this baby belong to?" Forest Xu's voice cut through the main hall like a blade. Snow crabbed against the carved doors outside, thin white fingers tapping against brass. The household froze. Adeline was halfway across the marble when he pushed inside, coat flung back, powdered with flakes. He did not bother with bows. He stood in the center of her hall, one hand on a wrapped bundle like it was a reproach. House attendants pulled back. Lamps flickered. Hilda Bertrand, who had ruled the servants for thirty years and kept Adeline fed, clothed, and shielded from worse things than gossip, stepped forward without a breath of fear. "Forest," she said, flat as flint. "This is a private hall." "I asked a question." His smile was a blade sheathed. "Who does that child belong to, Princess?" A ripple ran through the servants. The question was a guillotine swung for show. Forest let it hang. Adeline set the tray she carried down and turned. Snow speckled her sleeves. Her face was calm. The calmness was not an absence of thought; it was a weapon she had learned to sharpen. "You will not speak like that in my house," she said. Voice small. Public, merciless. "You are a consort of the palace. Speak formally, or leave." Forest's smile thinned. "Formality will not clean up what we've seen. The courtyard whispers. The street notices. You present a child in your arms and everyone waits for a name. I will