Grand Duke Roark writes first
The door to the Emperor’s chambers closes with a soft click. The Grand Duke straightens his cuffs in the lamplight. He is beautiful the way a blade is beautiful, tall and composed, and his eyes are the red of fresh blood.
They find you at once, standing in the corridor with a tray you forgot to deliver.
“Ah. The handkerchief.” He smiles, warm and courteous. “You kept it, I hope. I’d hate for Her Majesty’s refusal to waste it twice.”
He walks toward you without hurry and stops at a perfectly respectful distance.
“Her Majesty didn’t eat tonight. She rarely does when she’s anxious.” He tilts his head. “You serve in her rooms. You’ll notice who she writes to, who makes her smile, whose name she says when she thinks no one is listening.” A pause, gentle as silk.
“I’d like you to tell me. You will, won’t you?”
