“As it was relayed to me, you are the last one who ever saw my son alive,” my father stated with chilling composure, as though he were selecting attire for the evening rather than addressing the death of his youngest heir. “I would like to hear all that you witnessed. Omit nothing; Kyolhan has already informed me of the more gruesome particulars.”

  I had, by then, grown accustomed to the ambiance of the office. The eastern-facing balcony allowed the sun’s rays to cast warmth into the room, making the atmosphere pleasantly mild. The red, velvety chair I had been offered provided a welcome reprieve from the unforgiving stone floor where I had passed a sixth of the day. To my right, an unlit lamp rested upon the desk, and Princess had taken the opportunity to guide me in adjusting our dress before we sat.

  Opportunities to observe my father’s interactions with others were exceedingly rare, making it difficult to discern what he might expect of Princess. In my own experience, plain, unembellished speech sufficed in our exchanges, yet Princess’s apprehension was palpable, suggesting that others dared not address him with such ease. She was not mistaken; the man had indeed taken lives over slights that fell beneath his dignity to tolerate.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” I replied, adopting a tone of reverence tinged with a touch of fear. “Master Dubart sent me away the night it occurred, as he often did. I doubt the reason holds much significance.”

  “You are mistaken. Everything matters. Everything,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through my words like the sharp blade by his hip. “I am uninterested in what you children were quarreling about; I only seek to know every detail. Speak.”

  “As you command. I was extinguishing the fire, as Master Dubart complained that it was too warm when he-”

  “Was he correct? Was it too warm?” He interrupted once more, yet this time, it afforded me a glimpse of his expectations.

  “No. It was frigid, yet his every command is to be followed.” I opted for succinct responses, granting him ample opportunity to interrogate further as he pleased.

  “Did you ascertain whether he was feverish?”

  “No, I did not.” Apologies were unnecessary; the man sought no excuses from Princess, only the cold, objective truth.

  “He ordered you out of the room after that. Why?”

  “I muttered complaints while extinguishing the fire.”

  “Because you were displeased with him,” he concluded with accuracy. “I want to hear that as well.”

  “Physically, it is taxing to maneuver the logs with the poker; that is one part. The other is that Master Dubart had me start and extinguish the fire repeatedly throughout the night—four times in total. I assumed he did so merely to vex me.”

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  In truth, I could not afford the room to become too warm for the special wax I had prepared, yet neither could I allow it to grow too cold for my own sake. It was a delicate balance I made Princess maintain, though she likely believed I was imposing pointless tasks upon her for my own amusement.

  “So you muttered insults, and he dismissed you because of your ill temper,” my father clarified once more.

  “Yes, Your Grace. His exact words were, ‘If you insist in such behavior, your presence shall sour my evening. If you cannot perform your duties without complaint, leave. I shall call for you when I need you’,” I remembered them still.

  “How long were you outside the room?”

  “At least half of my shift.” Just enough time to complete my preparations, though in Princess’s body, the task would have required a mere fraction of that. “I returned when I heard Master Dubart scream.”

  “Describe it all, as clearly as you recall, but add nothing of which you are uncertain.”

  Having rehearsed the details with Tirrha beforehand, I recounted them to my father with even greater scrutiny. He listened with an attentiveness that betrayed his surprising knowledge of the subject. When I mentioned the circles drawn upon the alchemy table in my laboratory, he immediately began to interrogate me about the shapes, the axis of the geometrical figures, and even drew some symbols that he asked if I recognized. It was clear he had studied sigil edification.

  Feigning ignorance was a necessity, for I remembered every symbol I had inscribed, every potion I had concocted to compensate for my inability to muster sufficient lifespark, and every reversed Akhnot circle I had meticulously prepared to ensure the sequence unfolded as intended. Other than these deliberate omissions and the fact that Princess had taken a particular blue gem, my father became the second most informed person regarding the events that transpired in that room—second only to myself.

  “And now, I would appreciate hearing precisely what you believe occurred, Princess,” my father remarked with a sinister smile, as though daring me to lie. “It would not be in your best interest to deceive me.”

  “The sins of the old ones,” I responded without hesitation. “Master Dubart attempted theurgy upon himself. His reasons were his own, but he endeavored to employ forbidden dark arcana and failed.”

  “You have not shared this with anyone else,” my father inquired, though it was difficult to discern whether it was a question.

  “Only Kyolhan.” I forgot to address him as ‘Master’. Too late now. “Lady Lunatora, Tirrha—she pressed me for gossip. I told her nothing of the circles or the candles, only enough to satisfy her curiosity and make her leave me be.”

  “How very sincere of you,” he commended, his voice a mixture of praise and warning. “And bold, to admit such things. You indulged in gossip about my son’s demise? I imagine she sought to extract some morbid thrill, and you obliged?”

  His deduction was hardly impressive; I, too, had once asked for details about the deaths of others who had borne witness to them. Morbidity held a certain allure for those unacquainted with the victims.

  “It was her price for lending me a carriage so that I might arrive at Highsummit Manor sooner, Your Grace. She also holds leverage over me and could easily embarrass me if she chose; it is difficult to refuse her.”

  “You are truly candid to a fault. Fret not, for it is an earnest compliment. It is imperative that what you share with me aligns with what I have gathered from others,” he insinuated, both congratulating me and delivering a subtle threat. “I am also aware that you were pressured into leaving, largely due to your surprising newfound talent in painting. I do not require your apologies; I understand.”

  It served as a timely reminder that eyes and ears were always lurking. Yet, despite that, my unfettered honesty must have resonated with him, for his demeanor grew noticeably more cordial thereafter, warm, I could almost say.

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