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“What proof can I offer?”

“The Underqueen was said to have been a dreamwalker. A marcherêve. Your aura, while unusual, could be that of an oracle.” He clapped. “Come. Possess one of us! We would relish a display of your talents. To feel the power of a dreamwalker must be a most exciting sensation.”

I kept my smile nailed in place.

“Such displays are only suitable for my enemies,” I said. “I’d hate to leave either of you with permanent damage.”

The cryomancer lifted a fine-boned hand to her lips, showing off yet more diamonds, this time confined to a ring on her finger.

“Perhaps I can offer you some other evidence of who I am,” I said. Turning my face, I indicated the scar on my jaw. “A mime-queen gave me this at the scrimmage, when—”

“Common knowledge,” the binder interrupted. “That scar could be self-inflicted. Part of a grand deception.” He leaned forward a little. “But the Underqueen is said to have another scar. On the back of her shoulder, always concealed. The mark of a Scion brand.”

First he had wanted me to make a spectacle of my gift, as if it were a parlor trick. Now he wanted me to take off three layers of clothing and show him my bare skin.

At this point, the cryomancer stood with a rustle of silks. The light sparked off her brooch and earrings as she descended from the dais, making her glitter like moonlight on ice.

“We cannot expect a fellow ruler to compromise her dignity, mon frère. If this is the Underqueen, it does not set a good precedent,” she said. A beauty mark perched to the left of her mouth. “Must you always be such a disciplinarian?”

“I’m afraid I must insist, ma chère sœur.” The binder tapped the arms of his throne. “The mark.”

The cryomancer pouted.

Silence descended in the chamber. Slowly, I reached for the top button of my coat, maintaining eye contact with the binder. In a minute, I would be half-dressed, exposing my scar—my scars—to two strangers. They would see how bruised and brittle I still was. That was all they would ever see.

“Allow me to serve as your evidence,” Arcturus said.

My fingers stilled as he came to stand beside me. “And who is this . . . individual?” the binder said delicately.

“My bodyguard.” I had already slotted my hands back into my pockets. “Just a precaution, you understand.”

“Of course. He has a mesmerizing aura,” the binder remarked, a glint in his eye. “Perhaps your bodyguard would care to explain why he serves as confirmation of your identity.”

I looked up at Arcturus, realizing.

“Because he’s a Rephaite,” I said. “I assume you know of them, and my alliance with them. Your voyants certainly do.”

They both stared, mouths ajar. Arcturus stared right back at them with those inhuman eyes.

“Yes,” the binder admitted. “We had heard. But I never imagined—”

He looked Arcturus up and down again, searching for evidence of a trick, finding none. I could empathize. I had never imagined, either.

“Very well.” The binder regarded me as if for the first time. “I bid you welcome to the Scion Citadel of Paris, Underqueen. I am Le Latronpuche, and this is my sister-in-chaos, La Reine des Thunes.”

“Enchantée,” La Reine des Thunes said. “You are most welcome on our streets, Votre Majestée.”

Arcturus stepped back. “Thank you, Vos Altesses,” I said, hoping it was an acceptable way to address them. With a nod to the empty throne, I added, “I understood that there were three grands ducs.”

“Oh, Le Vieux Orphelin seldom joins us down here.” Le Latronpuche settled deeper into his seat, while La Reine des Thunes returned to hers. “He and his perdues prefer the pleasures of the surface.”

Deep within me, instinct drummed. “I see,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Oh, two or three days ago, or thereabouts. Time is so difficult to reckon here among the bones.”

“Strange. I heard he went missing around New Year.”

La Reine des Thunes stroked the pearls around her neck and shot a look toward Le Latronpuche, who intertwined his fingers on his stomach and looked down his nose at me.