“Make no mistake, this is all for my benefit,” she says. “Not yours.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod along anyway.

Evangeline doesn’t lead us to the throne room, but to Maven’s private council chambers. The Sentinels guarding the doors look more imposing than usual. When I enter, I realize they’re even manning the windows. An extra precaution after Nanny’s infiltration.

The last time I passed through, the room was empty save for Jon. He’s still here, quiet in the corner, unassuming next to the half-dozen others around the room. I shiver at the sight of Volo Samos, a quiet spider in black with his son, Ptolemus, at his side. Of course, Samson Merandus is here too. He leers at me and I lower my eyes, avoiding his gaze as if I can shield myself from the memory of him crawling into my brain.

I expect to see Maven seated alone at the far end of the marble table, but instead, two men flank him closely. Both are draped in heavy furs and soft suede, dressed to withstand arctic cold even though we are well sheltered from the winter. They have deep, blue-black skin like polished stone. The one on the right has bits of gold and turquoise beaded into the intricate whorls of his braids, while the one on the left settles for long, gleaming locks topped by a crown of blossoms hewn from white quartz. Royalty, clearly. But not ours. Not from Norta.

Maven raises a hand, gesturing to Evangeline as she approaches. In the light of a winter sun, she gleams. “My betrothed, Lady Evangeline of House Samos,” he says. “She was integral to the capture of Mare Barrow, the lightning girl and the leader of the Scarlet Guard.”

Evangeline plays her part, bowing before the two. They bow their heads in turn, their motions long and fluid.

“Our congratulations, Lady Evangeline,” the one with the crown says. He even extends a hand, gesturing for her own. She lets him kiss her knuckles, beaming at the attention.

When she glares at me, I realize Evangeline means for me to join her. I do so reluctantly. I intrigue the two newcomers, and they watch me in fascination. I refuse to so much as nod my head.

“This is the lightning girl?” the other prince says. His teeth flash moon white against night-dark skin. “This is the one giving you so much trouble? And you let her live?”

“Of course he did,” his compatriot crows. He gets to his feet, and I realize he must be almost seven feet tall. “She’s marvelous bait. Though I’m surprised her terrorists haven’t attempted a real rescue, if she’s as important as you say.”

Maven shrugs. He exudes an air of quiet satisfaction. “My court is well defended. Infiltration is all but impossible.”

I glance at him, meeting his eyes. Liar. He almost smirks at me, like it’s a private joke between us. I fight the familiar urge to spit at him.

“In Piedmont we would march her through the streets of every city,” the prince with the quartz crown says. “Show our citizens what becomes of people like her.”

Piedmont. The word rings like a bell in my head. So these are the Piedmont princes. I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know of their country. An ally of Norta, forming part of our southern border. Governed by a collection of princes. All that I know from Julian’s lessons. But I know other things too. I remember finding shipments on Tuck, supplies stolen from Piedmont. And Farley herself hinted that the Scarlet Guard was expanding there, intent on spreading their rebellion through Norta’s closest ally.

“Does she speak?” the prince continues, looking between Maven and Evangeline.

“Unfortunately,” she replies with a pointed smirk.

Both princes laugh at that, as does Maven. The rest of the room follows suit, pandering to their lord and master.

“Well then, Prince Daraeus? Prince Alexandret?” Maven sweeps his gaze over each in turn. He proudly plays the part of king, despite the two royals twice his age and size. Somehow he measures up against them. Elara trained him so well. “You wanted to see the prisoner. And you’ve seen her.”

Alexandret, already standing so close, takes my chin in soft hands. I wonder what his ability is. I wonder how afraid of him I should be. “Indeed, Your Majesty. We have a few questions, if you would be so kind as to allow it?”

Though he frames the words as a request, this is little more than a demand.

“Your Majesty, I’ve already told you what she knows.” Samson speaks up from his chair, leaning across the table so he can gesture to me. “Nothing in Mare Barrow’s mind escaped my search.”

I would nod in agreement, but Alexandret’s grip keeps me still. I stare up at him, trying to deduce exactly what he wants from me. His eyes are an abyss, unreadable. I don’t know this man and find nothing in him I can use. My skin crawls at his touch and I wish for my lightning, to put a little distance between us. Over his shoulder, Daraeus shifts so he can see me better. His gold beading catches the winter light, filling his hair with dazzling brightness.

“King Maven, we would like to hear it from her own lips,” Daraeus says, leaning in to Maven. Then he smiles, all ease and charisma. Daraeus is beautiful and uses his looks well. “Prince Bracken’s request, you understand. We only need a few minutes.”

Alexandret, Daraeus, Bracken. I commit the names to memory.

“Ask what you will.” Maven’s hands grip the edge of his seat. Neither one stops smiling, and nothing has ever looked so false. “Right here.”

After a long moment, Daraeus relents. He inclines his head in a deferential bow. “Very well, Your Majesty.”