Ghosts of days gone by flitted about the warm study as I waited in it.

The fire was lit and roaring, casting light over the cream rug. I noted almost immediately how the massive armchair was missing, now that it was in my room and cell. In it's place was a meagre three-legged stool, in what seemed to be a very drastic excuse of replacement. Gavrila's rows of worn, loved books still lined the three walls, there were even more piles of them stacked up on the moonlit table. If only to assuage the uneasy silence, I went over to inspect the piled books.

Annual taxes, 1856

Annual taxes, 1855

Annual taxes, 1854

Most of them continued on in that fashion, but the smaller pile next to it was of more interest.

Guerre civile de Berelyia 1478

The glorious history of Ilragese monarchy

The history and development of modern democracy

Ekon Adesiyan; a Life

I would've opened the last one, intrigued by the name which seemed to be Zbecognian in style, but I felt a door behind me swing shut. Before I could even turn to see him, Gavrila's hand was on my shoulder. In an attempt to leave his touch, I sat down at the table.

"You need my help with reading now?"

He chuckled lightly as he sat down across from me, the moonlight helpfully illuminating his face. Producing a pad from his red formal jacket, he wrote a response. I pulled Ekon Adesiyan; a Life from the pile, if only to find something to look at which wasn't his face.

You said in the carriage on the way to the ballet that you probably would understand economic matters, the letter he slid over read, would you like to try assisting me with them now?

I couldn't even remember saying that to him. I answered nonetheless, mildly interested. "What kind of economic matters?" I asked as he wrote more, beginning to see the connection between the tax books and those on civil war and monarchies.

Thomas is set on imposing fairly hefty taxes to the lower classes, as you probably know. He will consider assuaging them only if I can prove that civil war may be a result of it. Even then, one large enough that his forces couldn't overwhelm it.

"Why don't you get Henrietta to help you?" I blurted it out again, though the words sent a painful shooting down my spine. Come on, Evie, just imagine Amelie is here with you to fight him.

The prince frowned, saying something beneath his massive beard. He reached his hand across the table to take mine.

"I can't understand you! I can't read your lips." Whilst I tried to keep my voice level, my hand began to shake. Pulling it hastily back, I walked over to face the fire, hoping that the heat would dry the tears which threatened to form. Gavrila seemed to take that as an invitation to come over and kiss me. My hands found his chest and pushed with all my might, sending him stumbling back into the table. It looked like he swore. But then he smiled again, rolling his eyes. "I'm serious, Gavrila." My words didn't come out snappy, like I wanted them to. They bent under the weight which was pushing down on my throat. "You should be spending your evenings with your wife. She's really smart too, you know. She'd know what to do. I'm ill and - and tired and-"

Well then I just need and excuse to spend time with you.

He cut me off, holding the pad up and cocking his head to the side just a little.

With great dificulty, I swallowed the lump which rose in my throat. "You can talk to me at the daytime events, when there's other people." It sounded feeble, plain as day that I only wanted him near to me when there was Henrietta or Cecily or even Andrey to intervene.

What? In plain sight where everyone can enjoy you? Our evening rendezvous were my favourite things about last season.

My voice was gone as I looked up from that card. Where everyone can enjoy you?

Before I could find the voice to question him on it, he wrote something on the pad again. He didn't even take it out of my hands, instead curving his body around mine to reach the pencil to the paper as I held it.

So. If you were a poor-ish citizen who was basically being robbed blind, but who had just lost half their family to war, how long would you wait to rise up?

I shrugged as I sat down, a flash of memory appearing behind my eyes. Grey, Ivy, Hannah, almost all my servants, dead on the ground as I was bundled into a carriage, my broken body unable to run to them. Perhaps if I had just swallowed my pride and agreed to help them, they wouldn't be dead and I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be deaf at least.

Though I was here wasn't I? In a private meeting with the crown prince - the second most important ear in both kingdoms. I left it too late to save my servants because I was afraid I wasn't a good enough leader. Well maybe I'm not a leader, but a puppeteer. Prince Gavrila would be a fine puppet to maneuver indeed.

"Well," I dropped down onto the loveseat, turning my head over my shoulder to look back at the ragged young man. "I think the Roi is foolish to assume that they're not already plotting. Sure, we're still recuperating from mass genocide now, but we'll strike as soon as we're strong."

Gavrila paused for a moment, his harsh eyes catching mine. A grin curved up his lips. He was smiling to himself still as he wrote down his response, waving his hand to catch my attention once it was written.

Yes but how soon?

I shrugged, pushing some of my too short hair over my face, and stretched. "They've already started targeting you, haven't they? With the Marguerites, the newspapers. Weaken the image of the royals, then take them down."

Spoken like a true spy.

He kissed me on the forehead again once I'd read it, laughing gently when I stiffened and pushed him back.

He was my puppet, I was not his plaything.