Chapter 96: The Grand Duke Begins the Arrests Properly (2)
"By whom?"
Father Lorian smiled, and the aura thread around his throat darkened slightly.
A self-silencing seal. Of course.
Abi stepped down from the dais and moved toward him, the violet knot still hovering above his palm, his glamour fallen away entirely now. The entire hall could see he wasn’t the Crown Prince, his silver hair, his amethyst eyes, the pressure around him that made the air behave as though it feared offense.
I heard whispers ripple through the nobles. Let them whisper. At this point, anyone still prioritizing gossip deserved to choke on it.
Abi stopped before Father Lorian and looked down at the black marks beginning to stir beneath the priest’s jaw. "That seal is poorly made," he said.
Father Lorian’s smile faltered. Abi looked genuinely offended. "Whoever designed it believed cruelty could substitute for craftsmanship."
I stared at him. "Is this the time to critique technique?"
"Bad technique creates unnecessary mess."
"That sounds like something my mother would say."
He brightened. "Thank you."
"That wasn’t praise."
"It had shape."
I sighed. Father Lorian tried to speak, and the seal flared. Abi touched two fingers to the man’s throat, and the black marks stopped. Not broken. Pinned. The priest’s eyes widened.
"Now," Abi said pleasantly, "answer my brother."
The hall went very quiet. For a moment, Father Lorian looked not like a fanatic, but like an animal realizing the cage was not where he’d thought it was.
Beautiful. Terrible. Useful.
"By whom?" I asked again.
His lips trembled. "The Choir received the names."
"From whom?"
"The House."
"Which house?"
His throat strained against the seal, sweat gathering along his brow. "The House of Gentle Mercy," he forced out. "The chapel sorted. The academy trained. The archive counted. The court witnessed."
Bernard wrote faster.
"And the noble trust?" I asked.
Father Lorian’s eyes moved unwillingly toward Duke Rouvier. The duke flinched. Barely. But enough.
I turned. "Duke Rouvier."
His face had become grey. "I was told the trust funded charitable instruction."
"Music?"
"Yes."
"Children’s choir training?"
"Yes."
"Transfer of children from House of Gentle Mercy to Melverne Conservatory?"
"I did not know it in those terms."
I smiled. Duke Rouvier swallowed. "An interesting answer," I said. "Not the same as no."
Lady Evelina looked at her father. He didn’t look back. How unsurprising.
"Did Lady Marielle Rouvier administer that trust?" I asked.
A muscle jumped in the duke’s jaw. Lady Evelina turned pale. There it was. Not merely fear for her father. Recognition of a name connected to a woman she trusted, perhaps admired, perhaps had called aunt or cousin or benefactor with all the innocent confidence of a child in a powerful house.
"My cousin handled charitable correspondence," Duke Rouvier said. "Not the funds."
"Do not insult us both."
My father’s voice was warm. The duke went silent. No one in the hall mistook that warmth for kindness.
Lady Evelina’s hands curled into her skirt. "Father," she said, voice shaking but clear, "did Aunt Marielle know?"
Duke Rouvier closed his eyes. "Evelina."
"No." Her voice broke slightly, then steadied. "Did she know?"
He didn’t answer. That was an answer.
Lady Evelina stepped back as though the floor beneath her had become unclean. For one short moment, her composed face cracked, and she looked painfully young. Younger than her gown. Younger than her rank. Younger than all the careful lessons that had taught her how to smile at a ball while men arranged her future beside them.
Then she lifted her chin. "Your Majesty," she said to the Empress, though her voice trembled at the edges, "I request temporary protection until my testimony is taken."
Duke Rouvier looked at her then. "Evelina."
She didn’t look at him.
Good. Excellent girl. Love did not require stupidity.
The Empress moved first. "Granted."
The Emperor looked at his wife, then at Lady Evelina. "House Rouvier’s status will be reviewed."
Duke Rouvier lowered his head, looking defeated. Not broken. I didn’t like that distinction. Defeated men could still bargain. Broken men could still lie. But a man who looked defeated while keeping one thought hidden behind his eyes remained dangerous.
"Take Duke Rouvier into separate custody," I said.
The Emperor gave me a look. I smiled. "He has information. He also has family influence, money, and enough shame to attempt something sentimental and foolish. Separate custody is preventative."
The Emperor’s jaw tightened, then he gestured to the guards. "So ordered."
The duke didn’t resist. As he passed Lady Evelina, he paused. She still didn’t look at him.
Well done. A child should not be required to comfort the parent who endangered her.
The bishop’s deputy laughed again, weaker now. "You arrest fathers, priests, scribes, and nobles. The mouth remains."
I looked back at him. "So does mine."
Abi laughed once. Several nobles didn’t understand. Father did. Arthur definitely did.
The Verdant observer in the gallery leaned against the railing and smiled. I found her smile increasingly irritating. Not because it was mocking. Because it was approving. Approval from strange women in green cloaks who smelled like living rain had no place in my current plans.
"Grand Duke," she called from above.
The hall looked up again. I didn’t.
"What?" I asked.
A wave of offended whispers followed. How amusing.
Her smile widened. "The hall’s outer echoes are still moving."
Abi’s expression sharpened. I looked at the violet knot in his palm. It trembled.
"Explain."
"The ring failed to bind the authority gathered here," she said. "But sound travels where people carry it. Fear is a fine carriage. Rumor is better."
"Are you saying the ritual can continue through gossip?"
"In part."
I stared at her. That was the most Capital thing I had ever heard. A ritual surviving through gossip. Of course it would. This city treated whispers like currency. Naturally, someone had decided to use them as infrastructure.
"How do we stop it?" the Empress asked.
The observer finally looked at her. "With a better story."
Silence followed. For once, I wasn’t annoyed by silence. I was annoyed because she was right.
"What story?" the Emperor asked.
The observer’s gaze returned to me.
"Simple," I said before she could speak. "The official record will state that certain clerical officials attempted to insert unauthorized archaic phrasing into the coronation rehearsal, creating a dangerous resonance reaction with old ceremonial architecture. House Konstantin, acting under temporary imperial emergency authority, identified and disrupted the anomaly. Several officials are under investigation."
Bernard’s pen scratched furiously. The Empress looked at me. "That is incomplete."
"Of course it is."
"It hides the children."
"It protects the living ones."
Her mouth closed. The Emperor’s expression hardened, then eased by a fraction. He understood. The names of living children could not become court food. Not today. Not while the network still had hands outside the hall.
"What of the dead?" the observer asked, her voice softer now. Not kindly. Not exactly. But the question carried weight.
I looked down at the folded cloth in my hand. Ansel.
"Their names will not be used as spectacle," I said.
Her expression changed slightly. Interesting.
"We will recover what can be recovered, record what must be recorded, and punish who can be reached," I continued. "But no child’s name will be turned into a slogan to make frightened nobles feel clean."
The hall went still. I had perhaps spoken too plainly.
How troublesome. My mouth had acted before my villain lord logic approved the line. Again. I decided not to examine that.
The observer’s smile faded. For the first time, she looked at me without amusement, only for a moment, before the expression vanished, buried beneath courtly ease.
"I see," she said.
"No, you do not," I replied.
Abi made a small sound beside me. Her amusement returned. "Perhaps not."
Good. Let that remain clear. I did not need strangers seeing anything.
Arthur approached with two guards holding the rehearsal master between them, the poor man half dead with terror and wholly determined to become useful before anyone decided he’d been intentionally unhelpful.
"Your Excellency," Arthur said. "He insists he received the original protocol from the Office of Ceremonial Continuity."
"Does such an office exist?"
Bernard looked up. "Technically, yes. It’s a sub-office under the Imperial Household Ministry, maintained only during coronations and founding anniversaries."
"Who heads it?"
Bernard checked a note, then his face went flat. "Lady Marielle Rouvier."
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