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“Mira,” I say.

“No.”

“You do not know what I am about to say.”

“I know your tone. I hate your tone. Your tone means I run while you do something clever and likely painful.”

“You need to take the Syrenya packet through Bren’s route now.”

“No.”

“If Syrenya receives her portion, Vaerith cannot contain the story inside the estate.”

“I said no.”

I pick up the first case and push it into her hands. “Then say no while moving.”

Her throat tightens. For a moment, neither of us pretends not to be afraid.

“You come after,” she says.

“I will try.”

“That is not good enough.”

“It is what I have.”

She looks furious enough to cry and too proud to do it where I can see. “I hate this house.”

“So do I.”

“I hate that you are calm.”

“I am not calm.”

“You sound calm.”

“That is because one of us is holding contraband and the other has a knife in her apron.”

Her mouth trembles, then steadies. “You had better come after.”

“I intend to.”

Mira clutches the case and vanishes through the service passage.

The hall door opens three breaths later.

Three guards enter first, charcoal tabards marked with Vaerith’s crest, followed by Master Senreth, the steward, whose pinched face has always looked as though joy failed to pass inspection. His gaze snaps to the open ledgers, the sealed cases, the ink still wet on my stamp.

“Lady Isolde,” he says, making the title sound temporary. “You are ordered to remain in this chamber while we conduct a theft inspection.”

“I am performing active damage assessment under Lord Vaerith’s own instruction.”

“That instruction has been superseded.”

“By whom?”

Senreth’s mouth thins. “By authority.”