But the thought of Oskar trying to sleep while mice chew on his velvet curtains warms my heart almost as much as the purring now filling my courtyard.

  “Come,” I say to my team. “We have renovations to oversee. And I believe these new guards will need names.”

  I look at the scarred orange tom, who is currently rubbing his face against my boot. “I shall call you ‘Baron’,” I tell him. “You look like you have more sense than most of the ones I met at the wedding.”

  The morning air is crisp, a biting precursor to the coming winter, yet the sun is shining on my new, smooth white road. I am on my way back from the Old Mint, but as our carriage passes through the palace gates, I signal the driver to stop. I look out at the guards. There are four of them on duty. They are stamping their feet and blowing into their cupped hands. Their cloaks are thin, threadbare wool that looks more like sieve-cloth than winter gear.

  It is a pitiful sight for a Royal Guard.

  “It is embarrassing,” I murmur to Melina. “Does Oskar expect them to fight off assassins while freezing to death?”

  “The King has… budget constraints,” Melina says diplomatically, though her smirk betrays her.

  “Well, the Fey Embassy does not,” I declare.

  I direct the driver turn around and take us to the Guildhall of Weavers and Tailors. When we arrive, the Guildmaster rushes out, having undoubtedly heard of the gold flowing through the city like water from a broken dam.

  “Princess Víl?!” he bows so low his nose nearly brushes the floor. “How may the Guild serve you? Drapes for the Embassy? Tapestries?”

  “Cloaks,” I say, stepping down from the carriage. “For the Royal Guard.”

  The Guildmaster blinks. “For… the King’s guard?”

  “Yes. All of them. How many are there? Three hundred? Four hundred?” I ask.

  “Close to five hundred, My Lady, counting the night watch and the city patrols,” he answers, calculating the cost in his head.

  “Excellent. I want five hundred cloaks. Heavy wool, double-thick. Lined with fur. I suppose rabbit will do for the lining, since it is soft and warm. They must be waterproofed. And I want them dyed the Royal Blue of Centis, so the King cannot claim they are out of uniform.” I give the guildmaster a smile but inwardly, I'm dancing.

  “That is… a massive order, My Lady. It will take weeks.” he informs me.

  “You have three days,” I say, reaching into my purse.

  I pull out a Fey gold coin and let it roll across his knuckles. “Hire every seamstress, tailor, and apprentice in the city. Pay them triple. Just like the cleaners.”

  The Guildmaster’s eyes bulge. “Yes, My Lady. We will start immediately.”

  “One more thing,” I add, stopping him before he can run off to count his profits. “There is a condition.”

  “Anything, My Lady,” he replies with a bow.

  “On the inside of every cloak, right where it wraps over the heart, I want a label embroidered. In silver thread. Large enough to be read easily, ” I explain.

  “And what should the label say?” he asks.

  I smile, sharp and sweet. “It should read: Warmth provided by the Fey Embassy. A Gift from Princess Víl?.”

  With that detail handled, we return to palace. We are waved in with smiles and I hand out a bit more silver. This will be much better. I hate to see them shivering at the guard posts. I eye their boots and they’re not any better than their old cloaks. That will require a bit more creativity, but I should be able to get them some boots and maybe some gloves.

  Dinner tonight is a more settled affair now that most of the staff have returned to the palace. Oskar stomps into the hall. He looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his mood is foul. He stops at the head of the room, glaring at the wine steward who is, for once, standing exactly where he is supposed to be. Oskar sits heavily, ignores the wine poured for him, and turns his bloodshot eyes directly on me.

  “You,” he croaks, his voice rough. “Princess Víl?.”

  I incline my head politely, taking a sip of water. “Your Majesty. You look… tired. Did you not sleep well?”

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  “Sleep?” Oskar barks, slamming his fist onto the table. The silverware jumps. “How could I sleep? The walls were alive! Scratching. Squeaking. Scuttling!” He leans forward, his face flushing. “My Groom of the Stool tells me there is not a cat to be found in the entire palace. Not in the kitchens, not in the stables, not in the royal chambers. He says they vanished. Like smoke.”

  “Animals are sensitive creatures, Your Majesty,” I say sympathetically. “Perhaps they sensed a change in the weather.”

  “They sensed cream,” Oskar accuses, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I am told the Old Mint is currently housing a legion of them. Heated boxes? Fresh fish? You lured them away! You stole the Royal Mousers!”

  “I merely offered sanctuary to some hungry strays,” I reply innocently. “If they preferred my accommodations to yours, that is hardly my fault. Perhaps they prefer a cleaner environment? I hear the Old Mint is spotless now.”

  A few stifled snorts of laughter ripple through the court.

  “And the noise outside!” Oskar continues, his voice rising. “I tried to nap this afternoon, but all I could hear was hammers and chisels. I looked out my window, and what did I see? Masons. Dozens of them. Tearing up the street!”

  “Maintenance is important, Your Majesty,” I say soothingly.

  “They are laying white stone!” Oskar shouts. “Marble! In the street! Do you think Dobile is a temple? Do you think my cobblestones are unworthy of your carriage wheels?”

  “They were rather uneven, Your Majesty. I feared for the axles of the trade wagons. I thought I would save the Crown the expense of repairs by upgrading the infrastructure myself.”

  “You are making my city look like a patchwork quilt!” Oskar rants. “Mud here, marble there. It makes the rest of the city look… it makes it look…”

  “Neglected?” I supply helpfully.

  Oskar chokes on his rage. He grabs his wine goblet and drains it, slamming it down again. “And now,” he hisses, leaning over the table, “I hear rumors from the Guildhall. Whispers. My Captain of the Guard tells me there are tailors measuring men in the barracks. He tells me you have placed an order. A massive order.”

  I smile, buttering a roll. “Winter is coming, Your Majesty. It is important to be prepared.”

  “Five hundred cloaks?” Oskar asks, his voice trembling with incredulity. “Rabbit fur lining? Are you trying to bankrupt the tailors by buying all their stock, or are you trying to buy the loyalty of my army?”

  “I am simply a concerned guest,” I reply. “I noticed the men shivering at the gate. It distressed me. Fey are very empathetic.”

  “You are not empathetic,” Oskar snarls. “You are a menace. You throw gold at problems until they suffocate. You think you can embarrass me into submission.”

  “I think,” I say, dropping the pretense for a split second, my voice turning cool, “that if you fed your cats, paved your roads, and clothed your men, I would have nothing to do but embroider. But since I am bound here, by your will and I am bored, Your Majesty… I fix things.”

  Oskar stares at me. He looks at the servants who are watching him with critical eyes. He looks at the nobles who are whispering behind their hands. He knows he cannot order me to stop fixing his kingdom without looking like a petty tyrant who prefers squalor.

  He sinks back into his chair, defeated by his own lack of resources. “I forbid any… sedition,” he mutters sullenly, finding a threat he can actually voice. “If I find those cloaks are being used to buy favor, or if there are treasonous whispers sewn into the linings…”

  “They are just wool, Your Majesty,” I assure him. “Though I did insist on high-quality stitching. I would hate for them to unravel… like other things in this court.”

  Oskar stabs his roast beef viciously. “I hate you,” he mumbles, his mouth full.

  “I know,” I beam at him. “Eat your vegetables, Your Majesty. You need your strength. I hear the mice are getting bolder.”

  That night after dinner, I am looking out over the new stretch of road. The new road is a marvel. A ribbon of seamless white stone cutting through the mud and muck of Dobile, leading straight from the palace gates to the Old Mint . It is so clean it almost glows in the moonlight. Almost. I stand at the window of our temporary rooms, looking out at the dark street. It is dangerous for my staff to walk between the two buildings at night. And, more importantly, it is aesthetically displeasing.

  “It is too dark,” I murmur to Kenric, who is reading a report from Luka by the fire.

  “It is night, my love,” Kenric replies without looking up. “Night is generally dark.”

  “Not in Imelenora,” I counter. “And not on my street.”

  I know what I need to do next. The next morning, I am back at the Guildhall. I do not need masons this time; I need metalworkers. I commission twenty tall, elegant posts. I sketch the design myself. They will be lovely. I’ve designed slender, fluted columns made to look like flower stalks, topped with glass housing that will look like the flower’s bloom.

  “For oil lamps?” the smith asks, wiping soot from his forehead.

  “No,” I say. “For… alchemical luminaries. A Fey invention. Much cleaner than oil. No smoke to blacken the palace walls.”

  Since Oskar refuses to believe in magic , I have decided to simply call everything “advanced Fey crafting.” It saves time. I spend the afternoon in the bank vault, one of the few places I can be assured of privacy, crafting the lights. I take ordinary river stones and compress them with my magic, changing their structure until they hold light like a sponge holds water. I bind the spell of Eternal Noon into them. They will glow with the clean, white intensity of the midday sun, forever .When the posts are installed along the “Silk Road”, as the locals have started calling my paved street, I supervise the placement of the stones myself.

  “Higher,” I instruct the workman on the ladder nearest the palace. “Angle it down slightly. We want to ensure the street is fully illuminated for safety.”

  The workman adjusts the housing.

  “A little more to the left,” I call out. I am looking past him, up at the royal apartments.

  I know exactly which window belongs to Oskar. I memorized the layout when I was hunting Aart .

  “There?” the workman grunts.

  I squint. The angle is perfect. The light from this particular lamp will bypass the street entirely and beam directly through the gap in the King’s velvet curtains.

  “Perfect,” I beam. “Lock it in place. Make sure it is very tight. We wouldn’t want the wind to shift it.”

  I leave them to finish their work and go back to the Guild of Artisans. What I need requires skill, but it’s a specific skill. I need to have some signs made, both in the local language and in Fey. “Hloir? Aralli? Fey Royal Embassy” and “Hloir? Aralli? Fey Royal Bank”. I’m told that the painted and gilded signs will be ready in a few days.

  Have you a light or a noise that kept you awake? Let me know in the comments...