Chapter 4: The Council

At nine in the morning I walked into the council chamber wearing my crown.

Catrin had found it under a bread cloth in the pantry, where a kitchen boy had hidden it for safekeeping after the banquet.

She polished it on her apron and set it on my head with both hands.

"Now they'll know what they're looking at," she said.

The council was already seated: the chancellor, the treasurer, the steward, six lords of the realm and, at the foot of the table, the Dowager.

The Dowager's hands were folded and her smile was perfect.

"Majesty," said the chancellor, getting to his feet.

His eyes slid past my face to the doorway.

"We were told you were indisposed."

"I was. I have recovered."

The Dowager's smile did not move.

"My dear, you are plainly not yourself. Sit down before you faint."

"If I faint," I said, "the steward may tell you why."

The steward went the color of porridge.

I took my chair at the right hand of the king's empty seat.

I had sat in that chair for eight years, and I knew every item on the agenda by heart.

"The grain report," I said. "Read it."

The steward cleared his throat and unrolled his parchment.

"Four thousand sacks of winter wheat, Your Majesty, in the granaries at the river. All sound. A fine harvest."

"Four thousand sacks in granaries that hold three thousand."

Nobody breathed.

"The mill at Brightwater sent a tally on the ninth," I said.

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