A week before the imperial wedding, Sylvia discovered that betrayal could arrive in cream paper, gold ink, and the handwriting of a palace protocol secretary who had probably never committed a crime in her life.
The seating arrangement sat on the long table in the private planning room like an execution order pretending to be stationery.
Sylvia stared at it.
Then stared at it harder.
No change occurred.
Beside the ceremonial procession chart, beneath the finalized witness placements, between three columns labeled attendants, noble escorts, and foreign household positions, her name had been written with perfect, devastating clarity.
Lady Sylvia Croft—lady-in-waiting procession partner: Commander Thomas Lancaster.
Sylvia closed her eyes.
Opened them again.
Still there.
She inhaled through her nose and said, very calmly, "Dean."
