Bren worked on some samples all day yesterday that she planned to bring you for approval, but they can't find them in the mess."
"Oh," Hava said, putting her cup down onto the hearth with a thunk. "Lady Queen," she said, reaching into a pocket and holding something out to Bitterblue. "This is what fell out of that sack."
Bitterblue took the thing from Hava and stared at it as it lay in the center of her palm. It was a tiny wooden mold of the first letter in the Dellian alphabet.
Closing her fingers around the mold, Bitterblue stood and walked numbly to the doors.
IN HER TOWER office, the sky glowed strangely through the glass ceiling. Snow blew at the windows.
As she entered, Thiel turned to greet her.
Runnemood was involved in something terrible, he'd said to her
once. I thought that if I could try to understand why he would do such a thing, then I could bring him to his senses. All I can think is that he was mad, Lady Queen.
"Good morning, Lady Queen," said Thiel.
Bitterblue was beyond pretending, beyond feeling, her body unable to absorb what her mind couldn't help but begin to understand.
"Runnemood, Thiel?" she said quietly. "Was it only ever Runnemood?"
"What, Lady Queen?" Thiel said, freezing in place. Staring at her with those steel-gray eyes. "What are you asking me?"
How tired Bitterblue was of fighting, of people looking straight at her and lying. "The letter I wrote to my uncle Ror about beginning a policy of remuneration, Thiel," she said. "I entrusted that letter to you. Did you send it, or did you burn it?"
"Of course I sent it, Lady Queen!"
"He never received it."
"Letters are lost sometimes at sea, Lady Queen."
"Yes," said Bitterblue. "And buildings catch fire accidentally, and criminals murder each other in the streets for no reason."
A kind of desperate distress was beginning to join Thiel's confusion; she could read the beginnings of his distress, and horror too, as he continued to stare at her. "Lady Queen," he said carefully, "what has happened?"
"What did you think was going to happen, Thiel?"
At that moment, Darby pushed through the door and handed a note to Thiel. Thiel glanced at it in distraction; stopped; read it again with more care.
"Lady Queen," he said, sounding more and more confused. "This morning at daybreak, that young Graceling with the Lienid decora tion—Sapphire Birch—was seen running along the merchant docks with your crown, which he then threw into the river."
"That's absurd," said Bitterblue evenly. "The crown is sitting in my rooms this very minute."
Thiel's eyebrows pinched together in doubt. "Are you certain, Lady Queen?"
"Of course I'm certain. I was just there. Have they been searching the river for it?"
"Yes, Lady Queen—"
"But they haven't found it."
"No, Lady Queen."
"Nor will they," Bitterblue said, "because it's in my sitting room. He must have thrown something else into the river. You know perfectly well that he's a friend of mine and of Prince Po's and, as such, would never throw my crown into the river."
Thiel had never been more bewildered. Beside him, Darby stood with yellow-green eyes that were narrowed and calculating. "If he did steal your crown, Lady Queen," Darby said, "it would be a hanging offense."
"Would you like that, Darby?" asked Bitterblue. "Would it solve any of your problems?"
"I beg your pardon, Lady Queen?" said Darby huffily.
"No, I'm sure the queen is right," said Thiel, blundering around for solid ground. "Her friend wouldn't do such a thing. Clearly, someone has made a mistake."
"Someone has made grievously many mistakes," Bitterblue said. "I think I'll go back to my rooms."
In the lower offices, she stopped, looking into the faces of her men. Rood. Her clerks, her guards. Holt. She thought of Teddy on the floor of an alley with a knife in his gut; Teddy, who only wanted people to know how to read. Saf running from killers, Saf framed for murder. Saf shivering and wet from diving for bones, a man coming at him with a knife. Bren fighting to save the printing shop from fire.
Her forward-thinking administration.
But, Thiel saved my life. Holt saved my life. It's not possible. I've gotten something wrong somehow. Hava is lying about what she saw.
Sitting at his desk, Rood raised his eyes to hers. Bitterblue remembered, then, the letter mold she still held tight in her fist. She took it between her thumb and forefinger and held it up for Rood to see.
Rood squinted, puzzled. Then, understanding, he slumped back in his chair. Rood began to weep.