“Good morning, Master von Reigenbach.” The castle’s chief steward, Franziska, knocks on the door and marches in, understeward Barthl on her heels. She drops a quick curtsy and shuffles the papers in her arms. “I’ve the documents you requested, and Barthl is here to take notes.” Sure enough, there’s a slate and chalk in the man’s hands. “But before we begin, young Prefect Conrad is here to request an audience.”
I almost choke on mydamfnudeln. Is he seriously going to try to expose me in my own castle?
“Hmm.” Adalbrecht glances briefly at me, then discards another empty sausage casing. “He can wait. We’ve far more pressing matters.”
“He was quite insistent on speaking with theprinzessin, m’lord. Claimed it’s a matter of some . . . urgency.”
Saints and martyrs, I’m going to throw him back into the Yssar. But then I find I have a new problem: Adalbrecht is setting down his fork to give me a long, affronted look.
“Wh-what is it?” I gulp and add, for good measure, “My darling?”
Adalbrecht’s lip curls. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about your visit with the prefect yesterday? Anything at all,my jewel?”
I shake my head, doing my best wide-eyed airhead stare. “No, nothing.”
(The answer to a question like this is always,alwaysno, by the way. It’s a trick. You might tell them something they already knew; you might confess to a greater trespass than they imagined. If they’re going to catch you, make them work for it.)
Adalbrecht gives me another long stare, then turns on Barthl. “Fine. Bring him up here. He can have nothing to say to Gisele that can’t be said in front of me.”
Oh no. It’s happening. “Must we, darling?” I venture. “I would hate to delay planning our special day.”
“We won’t.” He snaps his fingers at me and points to an empty chair at his end of the table, like I’m an errant spaniel. “Move here.” He drums his fingers on the table as I grudgingly relocate with mydamfnudeln. Once I’m settled in arm’s reach, he jerks his chin at his steward. “Franziska. Begin.”
The steward, a lean woman in her forties, straightens up and consults her papers. “We’ve removed the family wedding regalia from storage. The Reigenbach bridal crown is being cleaned and polished, and your father’s wedding suit is being tailored to your most recent measurements—”
“I want a new one,” Adalbrecht barks.
Franziska pauses. “A new suit, m’lord?” He nods. “What would you like changed from the . . . traditional one?”
Adalbrecht rattles off a list: ermine lining for the cloak, fresh woad dye for the blue fabric, polished gold buttons, on and on. I do my best to maintain a placid expression; as Marthe the Maid, I’ve been in those chests, seen the wedding regalia. It’s already got gold buttons, ermine, bright blue dye. He’s asking for the exact same suit made all over again, just because he can.
What a waste.
Barthl slips through the door. Emeric is hovering in the hall behind him, just out of the frame. He seems to have dug up a uniform that actually fits this time, but he’s still fidgeting like a premium fusspot.
Though . . . why is he keeping up the act? Emeric caught me last night; he should be marching in here to haul me off to await trial. Yet neither he nor Barthl seems inclined to pay me any mind.
Adalbrecht ignores them both either way, continuing to dictate to Franziska. “Tell me of the schedule.”
“Sunday will be the ball, where the assembly will witness the signing of the marriage decree,” Franziska says. “Then the full week must pass before—”
“I told you to get around that.”
Franziska hesitates, mincing her words and flicking her gaze pointedly to the hallway. “The officials were quite firm, m’lord. All seven days, according to the law.”
I barely hold in a sigh of relief. Dame von Falbirg used to claim that the law was to give couples time to reflect on the beauty and sanctity of marriage; Joniza used to say it was to keep nobles from kidnapping a politically advantageous spouse and catapulting them to the altar. (Joniza, of course, had the right of it.)
Adalbrecht glares daggers at the glimpse of Emeric’s sleeve peeking through the doorway. I don’t know what vexes the margrave more, that he wasn’t able to bribe city hall into letting him have his way, or that he can’t exactly order Franziska to increase the bribe within earshot of a prefect of the Godly Courts. He grumbles, “Continue.”
“There will be an event every evening until the following Sunday, when the marriage will be consecrated in the eyes of the High Gods and the Low.” Franziska places an elaborate schematic of the decorations on the table before us. “We will use the traditional chapel here in Castle Reigenbach for—”
“Pfah.” Adalbrecht throws his napkin onto the drawing. “Any common drudge can use a chapel. I want the Göttermarkt.”
Barthl and Franziska trade looks. “Which temple, Master Reigenbach?” Barthl asks. “Also,MeisterConrad—”
“IsaidI want the Göttermarkt. Was that not clear?” Adalbrecht’s ire has found a new target, it seems. “I want every temple, every chapel, every cathedral. I wanteveryLow God’s blessing. We’ll stage the ceremony in the plaza. You have two weeks to clear out the rabble and make it presentable. Get it done.”
The knot in Barthl’s throat bobs. “Very well, m’lord. And the prefect is here.”
