It had been a costly morning for the crown. King Robert wanted another tourney—larger than the last, richer in prizes, louder in singers, wine, and meat—and somehow expected the coin to appear because he had wished it so.

Perra Baelish sat in her chambers above a spread of ledgers, quills, seals, and half-finished sums. The numbers were ugly, but numbers could be made to smile if one knew where to place the ink. A loan from one, a delay to another, a new tax dressed as necessity.

The door opened.

Perra did not startle. She merely finished the line, sanded the page, and looked up with laughing gray-green eyes.

"Yes?"