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Julien leaned back in his chair, staring at the paper and grimacing. “What’s the plan now?”

“The castle staff will hate it, but we’ll have to move up the ball, if possible. Then Essie and Farrendel can make their graceful exit.” Averett’s frown eased a touch. “I’m sure Farrendel won’t mind retreating to Tarenhiel earlier than expected.”

Julien pushed away from the table. “I’ll warn Essie and Farrendel. I don’t think they’ll want to postpone their trip to the veteran’s hospital, but they need to be warned what kind of situation they’ll be walking into.”

Edmund nodded absently, still perusing the paper. Averett was right. There was just something about this piece… “Wait. I got it.”

Julien paused, then strode back to the table. Averett leaned forward again.

Edmund pointed at the paper. “Here. And here. The wording is nearly identical to the draft of the article that Trent showed me.” His mind swirled as he took in the implications. “The Times has a mole who is feeding information to the Sentinel. That’s how they found out about Farrendel’s illegitimate birth.”

Julien dragged his hand over his beard.

Averett muttered under his breath, then glanced up at Edmund. “You know what this means, don’t you? That exclusive interview could also be in the hands of the Sentinel.”

Now Edmund had to bite back a few curses in elvish. That exclusive interview had been entrusted to Trent. The Sentinel would twist it beyond recognition.

Edmund pushed away from the table. “I need to talk to Trent. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

* * *

It took a stop at the safe house the Intelligence Office maintained in Aldon to dress down, but by the time Edmund showed up at the brick building that housed the Times, he wore grubby brown trousers, an off-white shirt, and a cap pulled over his hair. Smudges of dirt obscured his features.

He knocked loudly, hoping someone would be able to hear the noise over the incessant clacking clamor of the printing presses.

After a long moment, a boy of no more than twelve opened the door. His gaze swept over Edmund. “What do you want?”

“I got information for Trent Bourdon.” Edmund stuck his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumping. “Said he’d have a coin for me if I brought him talk of the elf prince.”

“I’ll go and see if he has time to talk.” The boy shut the door in Edmund’s face.

Edmund rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited, keeping an eye on the few men that passed by. None of them looked like they would mug him, but it paid to be wary when walking the streets.

Finally, the door opened, and Trent stepped out. As soon as he saw Edmund, his eyes widened. “What are you…never mind. You saw the Sentinel this morning, I suppose.”

Edmund nodded.

Trent glanced around, then started off toward the side alley. Edmund followed, neither of them speaking as they trekked around the corner of the large brick building and halted in the dimly lit, refuse-filled alley. A few alley cats lurked in the corners, but no people.

“You have a mole.” Edmund started to lean toward the wall, then halted when he saw that it was covered with a mossy slime.

“Don’t you think I know that now?” Trent muttered something under his breath, dragging his hand through his hair. “I have to re-write my entire article. After I just spent an hour with my chief editor trying to prove that the Sentinel plagiarized an article that I wrote months ago, not the other way around as it appears.”

“Did you turn in the interview already?” Edmund clenched his fists.

Trent faced Edmund. “Yes. I submitted it to my editor last night.”

“Then run it. Run it today. Make it a special edition if you have to.” Edmund wanted to grab Trent and shake him, if that would make him see how urgent this was. “Surely your editor will agree. The Times needs to run your version of the interview before the Sentinel manages to steal that as well.”

Trent nodded and sighed. “We need to get on top of this story. I doubt they will be so bold as to make it obvious that they stole the interview—nothing the Times or the crown could go after them for—but they will make use of it.”

“Do you have any idea who the mole might be?” Edmund glanced over his shoulder, checking that they were still alone.

“No.” Trent grimaced and paced across the alley again. “And that’s what worries me. This business is always a little cutthroat. We all spy on each other a bit. But actually stealing an article isn’t done. If the Times could prove it, we could get the Sentinel shut down. No story, not even something this huge, is worth risking that.”

It didn’t make sense. The Sentinel hadn’t had to steal Trent’s article and twist it.

Unless the Sentinel didn’t realize the source of the article. The mole must have stolen the articles and given them to the Sentinel—a paper known to disparage the royal family—as another way to hurt them.