News reached Mahaut that Prince Anryniel had resurfaced at Amwarren. Early reports of the prince at Dorland had been accurate. The catastrophe that destroyed the town had prevented the prince`s expedient return to Mahaut. Now some mysterious illness waylaid him.

　　The Queen ordered a day of prayer and thanksgiving. Hymns were sung in the church, which Beatrice dutifully attended. She stood toward the back, too anxious to greet Queen Eva.

　　True to her word, the Queen of Ammar sent back Beatrice`s belt, melted down into coins stamped with the visage of King Anathas, and a little velvet pouch to hold the jewels picked out of it. A receipt came with them. The belt had made seventy-eight silver coins; Gruffydd the Elder kept nine of them as Master of the Royal Mint.

　　The receipt horrified Beatrice more than the destruction of her property.

　　"He keeps twelve percent of every dollar?" Beatrice asked Riccardo, waving the slip of paper at him. "That`s an outrageous sum! How did he become Master of the Royal Mint?"

　　"It is only for a ten-year term while the currency is rebased," Riccardo explained.

　　They were sitting together by the fire in the great hall, Beatrice in her veil and Riccardo now with a shaven head to fit under the leather cap he wore everywhere, even outside the council. In the month and a half that had elapsed since their arrival in Mahaut, King Anathas had written to Cesar of Sanchia, and the Duke had had time to write back. He sent a letter to both Beatrice and Riccardo, admonishing them to adopt local customs, and remember to keep the family`s pride and prestige intact.

　　"The King gave him the project to complete as some sort of bribe," Riccardo continued, scratching underneath his cap. "He has a history of it with Gruffydd—apparently, they are near-cousins, and Gruffydd guards the valley south of the mountain from Nynomath. It takes a lot of money to keep the border closed where the land won`t lend itself to the task&"

　　"Don`t do that—don`t talk down to me like I`m a baby who can`t read a map," Beatrice snapped. In the days following her humiliation, she`d been especially sensitive to any tone in Riccardo`s voice that was the slightest bit mocking. "I know where Gruffydd`s lands lie. I am worried about where his loyalties lie. If he`s richer than the crown, that`s dangerous."

　　"Don`t talk down to me," Riccardo snapped back. "I sit in council with the King, not you."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

　　That was another problem: Beatrice`s complete lack of influence in the absence of her bridegroom. After her disastrous start with the Queen of Ammar, Beatrice had no other means to insert herself into the Ammarish elite.

　　It did not help that she was sixteen and stubborn. She kept the coins sent to her by Queen Eva—made from a symbol of pride in her womanhood—and refused to spend them, instead stashing them in a silver casket she hid under her bed. In church, Beatrice sat in the back, stubbornly wearing the veils she`d brought from home, muttering the prayers for Prince Anryniel`s safe return instead of singing them with the other women.

　　Beatrice struggled to think of some other way to reassert herself, something that didn`t rely on engaging with fashion. In Ammar, where women did not hold even ceremonial office, Beatrice understood that that might mean leading from behind rather than the front. Without a husband handy, she was left with few options.

　　Help came from home. The Duke of Sanchia had been able to send another ship with messages, gifts, and things to occupy Beatrice. Of these were a series of coded letters from her mother and sisters, and a cipher made in the shape of a papier mache duck. The contents of the letters were banal—gossip, complaints from her mother about how fat her father was growing, a clumsy poem from her youngest sister—but the decoding exercise amused Beatrice and restored some of the confidence Ammar had chiseled away at.

　　Emboldened, she asked Riccardo to find a way for her to listen in on the council meetings. Riccardo did not agree at first.

　　"I will tell you what you need to know," he reassured her. When Beatrice raised her eyebrows, he was quick to defend himself: "I keep nothing of substance from you. But I can`t possibly repeat everything that is said. It`s all a jumble of domestic concerns and maneuvering for the King`s favor."

　　"Tell me more," Beatrice prompted. "It`s not a jumble to me. I should know who is sucking up to my future father-in-law. Go on—tell me just one tidbit that you remember from yesterday`s council."

　　Riccardo did his best to indulge Beatrice. "It`s just whining. Gruffydd takes up most of the time complaining that he was not consulted about the marriage of Teqwyn`s daughter. This marriage took place five years ago—and the argument took up the better part of an hour, going on about the King taking the advice of foreigners over that of his natural subjects. I suppose Teqwyn`s grandmother was a naturalized citizen&"

　　"Ha! You see? That is something that I, as the future king`s wife, would want to know," Beatrice argued. "Think of it, Dick. The men in that room will be the men at my wedding. They and their sons will be the ones who will have the most influence on my husband when he is king. I need to know more about them now to prepare myself for later, when I am one of the foreigners whose advice my husband takes."

　　Riccardo sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "You cannot sit in the room, Bea. The women here don`t sit in on councils, so you will not sit in."

　　"No," agreed Beatrice. "I will stand."