smell of hay and wood shavings, leather and manure, and the warm fragrance of clean horses.
Working and moving, they chatted until the sun went down.
It was almost like being home.
“And I said I don’t need my own security!”
Philip stood in the middle of his new sitting room, flushed in equal parts indignation and embarrassment. It was a plush suite, tasteful in olive green and cream tones, and he still held the embroidered throw pillow he’d been admiring when Frankie had first walked in.
“And I said you do,” Frankie said, crossing her arms.
“It’s wildly unnecessary,” he said, and set the cushion back on the armchair. “And frankly, it will look like a foolish waste of palace resources for a pair of guards to shadow a mere royal advisor down every hall. I’m not a Jaroka. My life is hardly at risk.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Frankie’s attention swept the room critically. “Just let me know when you have plans to leave the palace and I’ll arrange the proper security escort.”
“I’m not important enough to—”
“Wrong.” Her voice hardened and he caught her eye with a start. “My job is to protect this family. And now that includes you. No, stop—stop arguing.”
“Fine.” Philip held her stare before sighing. “I wish that tone would work on Kristof. He’s lucky Markus was able to step in for the drinks reception tonight.”
“Never doubt they’ve got each other’s backs.” She gave a final glance around his new suite. “Get someone to clean those windows or you’ll miss the way the lake sparkles at sunrise.”
He grumbled, but his brows rose interestedly as he turned to his sweeping second-story windows.
Adding Philip to her list of primaries threatened to jailbreak Frankie’s panic, but she locked it down as best she could. She could handle this. Her team had secured the royals since day one. The situation had not worsened—she was just getting closer to the black heart at its core.
And she was going to take down whoever she found lurking there.
By Friday morning, she was wrung out. Her mind wouldn’t stop chewing on the investigation—cud she refused to spit or swallow, not even to sleep. Kris had done his best to distract her the night before, but the intimacy had put an ache in her heart.
Obviously being with Kris would come with a catch. These first nights in each other’s arms should be wondrous and tender—and she was finding it harder and harder to forget that some group of psychos wanted him dead.
“I’ll be okay,” he’d murmured afterward as they lay facing each other. “I will.”
“I know,” she’d replied, clinging to his hand.
Because it was up to her to ensure it.
Too torn up, she’d left Kris sleeping and spent the night working at her desk. Of all the ways to dispose of a royal family, why a weakened balcony? The main advantage was clear. Many hands contributed to its construction, making it difficult to pinpoint sabotage, and as an unlikely murder strategy, the deaths seemed far more tragic than suspicious. They’d been smart on that score. But she couldn’t work out how a group of laborers could know that the entire family would dine there together. The plan was absurdly improbable without someone to encourage the family onto the balcony.
Frankie was in the staff dining hall for breakfast, grabbing a slice of juniper jam toast and coffee when the question hit her.
Whose idea had it been to dine there that night?
It was common knowledge that Prince Aron had enjoyed a riotously popular social media presence, and had cajoled his father and uncle into a banquet on the un-rendered balcony. The final post before his death had been a staged selfie taken with King Vinci and Prince Noel, revealing the extravagant banquet laid out on a slab of chipboard behind them, flower arrangements bursting out of old paint tins, and the Kiralian mountains towering beyond, complete with the hashtags #royallife #royalsofinsta #kingviews #verygranddesigns.
Frankie had assumed the balcony banquet had been Aron’s idea. Shallow displays of frivolity were very much in character—but had the suggestion come from someone else?
Picking up the thread, she scheduled a meeting with Prince Aron’s old manservant for later that morning. She’d spoken to him soon after she’d arrived and he’d been so genuinely distressed that she’d discounted him as having any malicious involvement. But the prince would have spoken freely to his discreet, ever-present manservant and just might have mentioned something useful while dressing for his last meal.
Halfway through her second coffee, Frankie received a delivery from the jeweler. The