Page 195 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“His eyes look like bruised plums,” Genefra inserted herself. “Understandable, yes. But moons, he has become impossible. Another week of this and I shall personally storm the emperor’s chambers from my own despair.”

From there the conversation drifted, as usual, to gowns, rumors, petty grievances. Kora smiled when required, offered small comments when addressed, and waited.

The moment came when Genefra launched into a theatrical retelling of Violleta’s failed attempt at honey pastries. The ladies leaned in, gasping and laughing. Kora set her cup aside and murmured something about needing air. No one questioned her as she slipped from the room, walked calmly toward the balconies, made sure no one was nearby, then turned sharply into the corridor leading to Seraphine’s chambers.

The room was immaculate, curated rather than lived in. Bottles arranged in precise rows upon the dressing table. Combs laid out like ornaments. Her perfume saturated the air. Kora carefully opened drawers and velvet boxes of accessories, then searched the writing desk, scanning folded parchment and fresh ink, finding nothing that spoke of murder.

Frustration tightened her chest.

Meaning to give up, she turned toward the door and caught her foot on an irregularity in the floorboards—a hairline seam visible only where the light struck at an angle.

Kora crouched and traced the wood with her fingertips. The panel shifted with slight resistance and opened to reveal a narrow compartment hidden in the floor. Inside lay a small bundle wrapped in velvet. She lifted it carefully and unfolded the cloth.

A dagger rested within, scarcely larger than a letter opener. Slender. The hilt bore delicate engravings of wolves. And initials intertwined in fine script: SdB.

Kora’s brow furrowed. Then she remembered Seraphine’s maiden name. “Seraphine derBrandelov,” she breathed, certainty settling in her stomach.

She turned, mind racing, and her attention fell to the hearth. Ash still glowed faintly beneath the grate. Something pale clung to the edge. Kora coaxed the scrap of parchment free with the poker. Most of it was gone, consumed by flame.

One line remained. Blurred, but legible.

Your loyalty will be rewarded, my love. Burn this. – V.

Chapter 88

Koraleise

Kora read the curling script once more, to be certain she had understood it.

Your loyalty will be rewarded, my love. Burn this. – V.

The ink was blurred but clear enough. Intimate. Possessive. And signed with an initial that needed no further explanation. Kryovarre was behind all of it.

It was not proof enough to confront Wolmer. But it was a thread to pull.

She folded the scrap carefully and slid it into the inner lining of her sleeve. The dagger she wrapped in velvet and secured in the concealed pocket beneath her bodice. Then she restored the panel precisely as she had found it, leaving no trace of disturbance.

As she turned toward the door, voices bled through the adjoining wall. Three men, speaking in hushed, brisk tones.

Kora stilled.

She imagined Merrick in her place. He would not retreat.

Reaching for courage, she crossed to the far corner and traced the molding with careful fingers until she found a catch, similar to the hidden access in the Lemierre apartments. The panel shifted. She eased it open and slipped into the service passage.

The space was narrow and dark, thick with the scent of plaster and old dust. A sliver of light marked a vent farther down. Kora moved toward it slowly and crouched beside the lattice.

“Must your wife always host half the court at breakfast,” Firrigan’s voice muttered, sounding vaguely distracted. “We could do without the audience.”

“My wife is not the complication,” Duskmere snapped. “Lemierre is the moons-cursed complication. I told you he would be.”

“Calm yourself,” Firrigan replied smoothly. “Everything is still moving according to plan. Lemierre has only the remnants he can rally from outside. It will not be enough to stop what’s coming.”

They had access to information beyond the palace. Of course they did.

Kora pressed closer to the slats, frustration flickering.

“And if he gathers more than remnants?” Duskmere demanded. “Years of preparation undone. Do you grasp the risk we took convincing Oorlon?”