The door opened, and the moment Malvoria stepped across the threshold, she knew something was wrong.
Not wrong wrong. No danger. No blood. No fire.
But the air was charged, and not in the thrilling, magical way that usually meant someone had summoned a minor demon or knocked over a teleportation sigil.
No. This was the thick, suspicious tension of guilty people trying very hard to look innocent.
Malvoria narrowed her eyes.
Elysia stood in the middle of the room, smiling—too widely—and the group of maids around her all snapped to attention like schoolchildren caught drawing mustaches on royal portraits.
"Tilda," Malvoria said calmly.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" Tilda answered with alarming brightness. Her hands were clasped tightly behind her back. She looked like she was vibrating.
"Why are you standing in front of that pillow like it's hiding a state secret?"
"Am I?" she said too quickly. "No reason. Just… fluffing."
"You are not fluffing."
