Page 18 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“Nothing she’s said so far to you seems to be truthful. What if she’s using a fake name for her business?”

“Like a pen name? Or a stage name?”

“Exactly. Perhaps she’s from a recognisable family and doesn’t want to use her family name to get ahead. Just like how you use aliases for hotels and other things.”

Hm. When he says it like that, it’s not impossible, I suppose, but that doesn’t explain the lilt to her accent. Not to mention I know every recognisable family in the city. I’d wager I could recognise most of those who don’t live in the city, too.

“Which family would she be from? Unless someone has been hiding a daughter, it seems unlikely.”

“You said her accent isn’t local. Is she even from Askurg?”

“Yes. There’s more than enough to pinpoint her as Askurian, but there’s something foreign there, too.”

He shrugs. “Maybe she went to a foreign school. That would explain everything.”

That seems too simple.

Too easy.

But isn’t it often the case that the simplest explanation is the correct one?

“Let’s assume that’s the case,” I say. “But would using a fake name matter? She’s not a celebrity photographer. By all accounts, she’s a regular, run of the mill one who specialises in portraiture. Why would she need a fake name to do that?”

“You know, it occurs to me that you could get the answers to all your questions if you just asked her,” Oscar says dryly, pushing the laptop away. “You’re not going to rest until you find out who she really is, so why don’t you just set up a shoot and ask her?”

I get up and run my fingers through my hair, walking away from him. I stop at the window and look out at the front courtyard of the palace where the fountain with my grandfather’s statue is happily performing its little hourly dance. A crowd of people is gathered on the other side of the gate with phones and cameras aloft to capture the water show.

“I can’t just ask her,” I say once the water fountains have finished. “If she’s using a false name, she’s doing it for a reason. She’s not going to tell me why.”

“Make her.” He shrugs.

“I can’t just make people do things they don’t want to do.” As tempting as the idea is. “I do wonder if she’ll be more forthcoming when I admit who I am.”

Two gentle knocks sound at the door, and I turn to see my father poke his head in. “Oh, here you are. Your mother is looking for you,” he says.

“What does she need?” I ask.

“Both of you, actually. Something about your birthday portraits.”

Oscar nudges me after greeting my father. “Have you asked her if she knows Hannah? She knows all the photographers, so she might have heard something.”

“Who’s Hannah?” Dad asks, walking into the room. “I thought you’d use Kristoff again.”

“Uh, someone I met recently.” I motion to the laptop on the coffee table. “Her work is fantastic, and I thought I might elevate a smaller photographer instead of using a known one this time.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Who are you thinking of?”

Oscar turns the screen towards Dad, and he pauses. A flicker of recognition crosses his strong features, and my gaze briefly meets Oscar’s.

“Dad?”

“Have you run this by your mother?” He looks up from the screen and over at me.

“I plan to,” I reply slowly. “Why?”

“No reason.” He straightens and takes a few steps back. “I’ll ask her to come now.”

“What’s wrong, Uncle Louis?” Oscar asks, tilting his head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”