“A red velvet short cape with gold tassels—really? you make demands of me and don’t even tell me your name, pathetic.” ?nnywella growls as she scrounges through the depths of her vast walk-in closet. The mail had arrived much later than it should have today—just after dinner. Her only time to read and write private letters was just prior to her usual 23:00 bedtime.

  The hooks of the wooden hangers scrape against the brass rods as she languidly searches, fatigued after a long day of meeting with merchants and lesser nobles, all of whom want something but are ever only willing to give very little for it.

  She finds a thick maroon wool coat; unable to reach the hanger from the higher row, she tugs a thick maroon coat from its hanger, hoping not to damage it. The hanger swings as she wraps the coat over her thin silk nightgown, pulling the fox-tail-trimmed hood up above her head, insulating herself from the autumnal night air blowing through the open window.

  She continues searching, moving to the other side of the closet. Whoever this man was, going about, making requests of the queen's attire, better be who he claims to be; Konstanze would have her head otherwise. The letter had implied that the sender was one of Drewer Koeh-Styer’s advisors, but that was a problem for the ?nnywella of the future, as right now, her tired mind was fixated on whether or not she still owned the garment.

  “There you are.” She rises to the tips of her toes and takes both the short cape and its hanger from the guide rail and lowers her heels back to the carpet below.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Slipping off the coat, she puts the short cape over her shoulders and fastens it together with a golden acorn fibula just beneath her chin. She does a spin in front of the large mirror against the back wall; it still fits—unsurprisingly, her measurements have barely changed in the last decade—after all these years.

  Removing the short cape, she hangs it at the front of the closet and returns the coat to where it was, just on the lower rail—Konstanze will certainly not be pleased with her in the morning.

  The closet door clicks shut, and she returns to her vanity table. Her lighter comes to life as she lights a cigarette; looking at herself in the mirror, she blows a cloud of smoke, letting it cloud her reflection.

  She reads over the anonymous letter once more, drumming the pads of her fingers against the vanity table—not wanting to damage her nails or further scratch the finish.

  She decides to take whomever this is up on his offer; someone on the inside will only make things easier; maybe he can deal with Drewer—if he wants an alliance that bad. But now back to the real question: who could it be? It must be someone from the brief list of Drewer’s advisors, one of five—who can be ruled out? Her cigarette taps against the wooden ashtray—she needs to write Sor?n tomorrow. She takes a drag. Whoever the author of the letter is had placed criminals before mercenaries, so they are more likely to have a background with the city guard than they are to have with the military... Mar?l? he’s the only one who she knows has worked with the Styd?n city guard. How can she find out? Faey said she had letters from her uncle—the handwriting? Franheska can check it. Deciding on a course of action, she begins to draft a letter to Faey.