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It might have been pure coincidence that the messenger arrived the day after Remin’s birthday.

But later, when Ophele had time to think about it, the first words that came to her mind were poisoned sweet.

“Thank you, Adelan,” said Remin when the butler came to announce the messenger’s arrival. They had just sat down to supper; the man must have barely made it through the city gates before they closed for the night. “Wife, stay he—”

“The message is for both of you, Your Grace,” said Adelan apologetically. “Black for you and blue for the lady, I saw the message toggles.”

“Both of us?” Ophele echoed, looking up at him quizzically, but she set down her napkin and followed them down the stairs. She could think of no earthly reason why someone would send her a message; there was no one with whom she corresponded, except for the Duchess Ereguil, who would not have any information so urgent that it required a messenger. The difference between a message and a letter was that the messenger was entrusted to deliver it directly to the hands of its recipient, and witness that it had been received.

In this case, witnesses, plural. Perhaps the messenger had chosen to arrive at this time of day deliberately. Most of the workers had already gone home, but there was a number still passing by the house, and half the servants were still abroad, Emi and Peri standing outside their shared cottage, and Sim coming around the side of the house with an armload of firewood. Lady Verr had only just departed the house herself and was standing at the foot of the steps, watching with sharp gray eyes.

The messenger, a stocky young man of medium height, dismounted his horse. Under his gray cloak, Ophele saw a flash of dark blue livery.

Remin stopped in front of her so suddenly, she bumped into him.

“To the Duke of Andelin and Princess Ophele Agnephus,” the messenger said in a ringing voice, loud enough to cover half the hilltop. “I present this message from the Divinity, Emperor Bastin Agnephus, Beloved of Stars. The presence of the Princess Ophele is required at the Imperial Court in Starfall. I extend to you this summons.”

Ophele’s legs wobbled. For a moment, the world executed a sickening, swooping rotation, and she felt Remin’s hand on her elbow, simultaneously steadying her and pushing her behind him.

“Adelan,” he said, gesturing for the butler to accept the scroll of papers from the messenger. “Your summons has come too late,” he told the messenger coldly. “The Duchess Ophele may be with child. Article four, subsection fifteen of the Imperial Code. She cannot be compelled to risk her life or the life of her child by traveling so close to winter.”

The messenger bowed, accepting Remin’s rebuke without the least change in his expression.

“The Divinity, in his wisdom, foresaw this possibility,” he said. “The audience may be delayed to the spring Turning of the Stars. No later.”

“You’ve delivered your message.” As if to punctuate his words, Remin accepted the scroll from Adelan, with its many ribbons and toggles and large silver seal. “Adelan, please find him a bed for the night. Elsewhere.”

It was a matter of pride that they stood together, upright and unmoving until the messenger had vanished down Eugene Street. In the back of Ophele’s mind, the thoughts whirled frantically, her father, the capital, the dreaded image of a vast banquet hall filled with people who all looked like Lady Hurrell.

She was frozen. Her insides had hardened into a block of ice so solid she couldn’t breathe, until Remin finally turned to look back at her and she realized she was breathing too much, so fast and shallow that a high-pitched buzzing filled her ears.

“Your Grace,” said Lady Verr from the foot of the stairs. “My lady, it’s just an invitation to court, don’t— ”

“Sim, go get Juste,” ordered Remin, the paper crumpling in his fist as he pulled Ophele against him, her face buried in his chest, a warm dark that shut out everything else. “It will be all right,” he said steadily. “I promise.”