Gwenivar paused at the door in shock, then breathed to steady herself as she took in the crowded foyer. Not even King Gwain’s coronation had been this well attended.

“We should have gotten here sooner. Now you’ll have to fight through the crowd,” Lavender complained.

“I didn’t insist on a third skin treatment.”

“You needed it. And I did, too.” Lavender lifted her nose into the air, her dark hair shining in the lamps' light.

She spotted Lord Yale at the same moment he saw her. He wove through the crowd to join her. "All alone?" Her pudgy lord of sometimes ill-gotten information beamed his sunny smile at her. "May I escort you then, Lady Gwenivar?" He offered his hand. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he had something to tell her, but, unfortunately, now wasn’t the time.

She took his hand, though, and allowed him to escort her through the mire of bodies. Lavender trailed behind. Thankfully, the current fashion of big skirts gave her some personal space. Her history of illness kept people from touching her without consent.

"The queen has been in unusually high spirits today," Lady Tracer said as Gwenivar approached. "Odd, since I heard Sir Owen dumped Prince Solace into the fishpond. Oh, welcome, Lady Lorraine," the older woman greeted. "You've been to see the queen, haven't you? Tell us, how was she?" She fussed with her satin gloves; three of the fingers were stuffed, making them stick straight out.

"She did seem unusually cheerful. However, she did not say what had caused her change of mood. Prince Solace was not at tea today," Gwenivar said.

"I knew it!" Yale said

"What?" Lady Petunia Betherwethers asked.

"I've heard..." Yale leaned in, "That Prince Solace spoke."

"Spoke? What a lie!" Petunia said.

All the ladies laughed. Even Gwenivar chuckled, but Charlotte’s question tickled the back of her mind.

What if he wasn't soulless?

Soullessness had become a problem in the last two hundred years. One in every twenty children was born an unresponsive husk, alive only in the sense that they had bodily functions. It was customary to discard them upon confirmation of the condition, a test consisting of a prick or pinch that would normally elicit a cry or some reaction to outside stimulus. As a result, Queen Charlotte was greatly criticized for keeping her son for seventeen years. It didn’t help that she continually insisted on bringing his limp body to events and social gatherings. Gwenivar was of two minds about the practice. For poor families, keeping a child who could never contribute but would still require feeding and care was a drain they couldn't afford. On the other... it was technically still a child.

“Have you heard the rules for the competition?” Lady Tracer asked Gwenivar.

“Yes,” Gwenivar admitted. Though the rules hadn’t been officially announced, it seemed like everyone already knew.

“What are you going to do?” Tracer asked in fake concern.

“I suppose I will have to marry,” Gwenivar said.

Petunia laughed, fluttering her fan. “Put away your list, Lady Tracer. They don't meet her standards."

"If no one meets your standards, then you may as well say you'll only marry the Beloved," Tracer said cattily. "Lord Elliot is a fine match, you know."

“What have you arranged for Solace to wear today?” Lady Emerald asked as she bustled over, providing a welcome change of topic.

Petunia smirked. “You’ll have to go see!”

Lavender rolled her eyes. “No matter how pretty his clothes, drool always ruins the look for me. I wish she would accept that she lost her child and officially adopt Gwenivar instead.”

Tracer gasped.

“Oh, don’t make that face. You’ve said the same in private,” Lavender retorted.

Despite agreeing with Lavender, Gwenivar said, “I feel bad for her. She lost her chance to bear any more children because of that awful doctor. Hanging wasn’t punishment enough for his negligence." Gwenivar glanced aside. The number of people in the room was too much. She desperately wanted some fresh air, but dinner would start shortly. Reaching into her sleeve, she pulled her handkerchief. The expected cough came, and she turned away. It wasn’t as bad as other fits but still left her breathless. Wincing at the taste of blood in her mouth, Gwenivar folded the handkerchief into itself. Like Tracer's dog-bitten hand, Gwenivar's illness was politely ignored.

“I think you’ll want to see him this time, Lady Lavender,” Petunia insisted.

Gwenivar’s gaze wandered the crowd, spotting Count Bird by himself, cane under his arm as he adjusted his cuffs. “Excuse me.” The ladies didn’t notice her exit. “Count Bird.” Gwenivar bowed to the man.

“Ah, Lady Lorraine,” Bird said cheerfully. He took his cane from beneath his arm and leaned on it. “I got your letter, and the terms are amenable to me. I’d intended to reply tomorrow, as I’m sure you’ll be busy tonight.”

Gwenivar nodded to the man with a smile. “I’m glad we could reach an agreement. I hate to see children suffering. Did the investigation find who was responsible for the fire?”

Bird shook his head. “I fear not. It was likely an accident. Loose fibers in the air easily combust, and putting out an entire building full of cotton is impossible.”

She sighed. It wasn’t as if she had expected a different answer. The City Guard was more competent than the Palace Guard, but only because the City Guard captain was formerly Hunter's Guild. Though rumor had it that Sir Owen frequently assisted whenever disputes arose with the Hannish population. One day… I’ll reform this whole system, she promised herself, reminded of Sir Owen’s current plight.

She glanced left, spotting Knight Commander Kelvin speaking to Archduke Harthford. The least he can do is make it less obvious. It was a shame the Archduke looked so much like Dunn. His personality was rotten to the core.

Harthford's eyes narrowed at them.

Count Bird politely nodded at the archduke in return. “Don’t worry about him, my dear.” His smile wasn’t reassuring. Count Bird was part of the Aristocrats and on the council, but Gwenivar had hoped his business experience would entice him to consider joining the Progressives. Instead, it seemed he had accepted Gwenivar’s assistance with his fabric factory disaster only as a means to draw her close. She expected the next words out of his mouth would be about his son.

“Have you met my son?” Count Bird asked.

“He’s a darling child. I’ve seen him occasionally play with his friends in town.” She didn’t like telling on children, but Bird was sorely mistaken if he thought she would consent to marry a twelve-year-old just to become a countess. She was already going to receive that title from her father.

Bird’s expression darkened. He did not like hearing that his son had been cavorting around town with commoners. At least he understood that Gwenivar did not see the boy as husband-material. “Ah. Yes. He is an adventurous soul. It would take a steady, mature woman to keep him in line.”

Or maybe he didn’t catch my meaning at all, Gwenivar thought, keeping her expression pleasant by sheer force.

“Perhaps our future endeavors could be sanctified with a marriage?” Bird suggested.

“I’ll let my little sister know she has a potential partner.”

Count Bird sighed. “You could simply decline, Lady Gwenivar.” He turned his cane in his hands, grinding it into the floor.

“I thought we were playing make-believe. I pretend to have a sister, and you pretend a twelve-year-old is a suitable husband for anyone. Perhaps in five years, you'll find him a proper match.”

“But by then, you will be of a soured age.”

Gwenivar's brow twitched.

Bird smiled. “I’ve heard that Lord Elliot is interested in courting you.”

“I’m sure he is, though I believe he has already long spoiled at twenty-five if twenty-two is a soured age.”

His eyes crinkled in amusement. “Then what tender age is acceptable to you, Lady Gwenivar? I’ve multitudes of cousins.”

“Which we share, and none would be an improvement to my current station. My ideal man would be more beautiful than myself, of similar age, and a prince.”

Bird scoffed. “Are you implying Solace?”

"Wouldn’t you say marrying a soulless would be on par with marrying a child? Neither could legally consent. At least His Highness won’t have any annoying habits to live with.”

The count looked disgusted, as he should have been.

“I believe it would be best if we maintained a purely business relationship, Count Bird,” Gwenivar said. At least she’d gotten three hundred bolts of cloth for her troubles, and the children would be seen by trained doctors.

The reception hall clock struck the hour, and those closest to the dining hall door began filtering in to take their seats. Tonight, she would sit at the head table with the king, queen, Prince Solace, and Elliot Harthford.

A man in dark grey appeared at her side. As if my thought summoned him.

Elliot offered his hand, smiling stiffly. "Lady Gwenivar, I've been looking for you all evening." He was King Gwain’s first cousin and, thus, shared a resemblance but had not inherited the royal silver hair. Instead, he had Dunn’s dark eyes and a similarly beautiful face. “Count Bird, if I may?” Regardless of anyone’s answer, Elliot roughly turned her away from the count, causing her to stumble. "Were you with the queen today?" he asked bitterly as he hustled her to their seats at the head table.

Prince Solace was already there, his head leaned back, facing the ceiling. Marigold was leaning over him, smiling. He’s going to drown like that… Gwenivar thought. He was dressed in crimson, silver hair shining in the lamplight. Marigold looked excited, but she always was when they revealed a new look. This was certainly a bold color. His constant presence at events felt like a cruel joke. Out of all the men of the royal line, Solace resembled Dunn the most.

“I met her for tea, as I normally do,” Gwenivar said as she mounted the stairs to the head table, walking behind Solace and his maids.

“You don’t think that’s inappropriate?” Elliot asked.

He pulled out the chair for Gwenivar at the end of the table. She frowned, irritated that he’d changed their seating to place himself next to the king. He intended to block her out of conversation.

"Regardless of the competition, she is entitled to spend time with whomever she wishes," Gwenivar said.

"I believe it to be unfair access to Their Majesties," he said as he took his stolen seat.

"You're welcome to have tea with her, too."

Elliot scoffed, “She would insist on bringing that thing. It turns my stomach.” Like many in the Aristocratic faction, Elliot was under the delusion that King Gwain was in sole control of the kingdom. Queen Charlotte had just as much to do with policy and decisions, even though she didn't attend council.

Prince Solace's posture had straightened, head lifted instead of lolling. He twitched slightly as if glancing in their direction at Elliot’s gesture.

Did he just turn his head on his own? Gwenivar thought, then looked across the dining hall to see if anyone else had noticed. The other nobles were still getting settled as they waited for the king and queen to make their appearance. Seated below, at the head of the middle table, Archduke Harthford glared up at Solace. Chancellor Floritan sat beside him, urgently whispering.

Lavender sat at the lower tables as well, still talking to Petunia Betherwethers and the other unmarried ladies.

Elliot leaned closer to Gwenivar. "Why don't you excuse yourself from the competition? I'll make you my wife, and you can have the comforts of being queen without any of the responsibilities. You'll just become ill again if you exert yourself too much."

Gwenivar pressed her lips together in fury.

"Announcing Their Majesties!"

The room stood as one. Gwenivar thought she saw Prince Solace twist to look over his shoulder as the king and queen entered from the door behind him. Of course, Elliot blocked her view. He had a knack for being in the way.

Together, they bowed and sat.

Elliot immediately started, "Your Majesty, I have a proposal for the Phyrrica plague. I believe we should limit travel and trade from that region to prevent the spread of this disease."

"I'd rather not speak of such things at the dinner table," Gwain said.

Gwenivar risked looking unladylike by leaning in her chair to see if she could catch a glimpse of the queen. What was going on at that end of the table? People at the lower tables on the far end were staring at Prince Solace’s seat. There was a lot of chatter and not much eating.

Feeling her gut rolling with anxiety, she set her fork down. What is going on over there? Surely... not. Lavender looked from Gwenivar to the end of the table and back, her eyes wide in horror.