I paced the floor across from my bed with my fingertips on my trembling lips.

I couldn't prove it yet, but I knew he was dead.

I didn't know the specifics, but I recognized the powder in those tubes.

It was grey, finely crushed dust like ashes, and before my father, no one thought to dispose of treasonist prisoners through fireworks.

We didn't have any prisoners that night.

He was taken the night before, and he was missing since then.

I stood in the middle of the floor, frozen like a statue. Though I cried, I didn't feel sad that he died, I was sad for my mother and my sister. I was also afraid of what could happen if people found out we no longer had a ruler.

I felt my heart skip a beat at the thought of being killed for his sins, and I ran to my bedside. I sat on the edge and took my journal and pen from my nightstand.

I had to make a note of everything.

I recorded my suspicions and what furthered them — including the talks between my mother and uncle.

Virginia was asleep by then, and I wished she wasn't. I wished I had help finding his killer, and I wished it were all a dream.

I didn't wish he were alive, and that was for his sake; I was young and naïve for believing a woman's wrath would be worse. I also just wanted to think realistically.

***

The floorboards creaked under me with each step around the room. I had my pencil tapping my lip and my journal squeezed in my hand.

I had to start with what I knew: He was abducted the night before.

Why? Who?

I stopped and pushed my eyebrows together.

How?

No one but our family knew our layout. As I said, he was selective about that, so how could a stranger break in and somehow find their sleeping quarters before being caught?

I lifted my gaze to the faint sound of heavy footsteps. We were deeper into the nighttime, and everyone was asleep — or so I thought.

I crept through the chateau, going up flights of stairs and past multiple rooms, until it led me to the tower. I stood at the door and peeked an eye through the crack.

I saw a black and burgundy coattail suit parading through Father's study and knew it was Uncle Richard.

His eyes scanned the room of bookshelves and novelties before he sat behind the king's desk. As he reached for his quill dipped in ink, I slammed the door open, and he jolted to his feet.

His eyes – huge and alert – met my cold ones, but I failed at maintaining his fear. He merely sighed a breath of relief, adjusted his coat by the chest, and sat down.

"You're not supposed to be in here," I told him, my voice cracked once.

For a second, he looked evil when he looked at me without moving his head. His skin was lifelessly pale, his cheeks and eyes were hollow, and his black hair was gelled back.

He bore his elbows into the armrests and sat with his fingertips together. His gesture was as if he planted his feet into the ground.