Petri stepped to the door and looked out as hurried footsteps converged on Lady Trask’s room. He watched a moment, then closed the door and returned to his task of carrying a glass of brandy to Damien. “Lady Trask, Highness,” he said. “Upset at the loss of the rubies, no doubt.” “Mmmph, I do not think so.” Damien took the brandy and cradled the goblet in his palm. He had heard the quiet opening and closing of the door beforehand and imagined that her lover Tavistock had gone to have a word with her. “I believe there is one thing more important to her than jewels.” Petri looked unconvinced. Petri, Damien’s valet, was only a few years older than Damien himself. The two men had been raised together, Damien to rule, Petri to serve. Petri had followed him into exile, finding a young Damien shivering and half-naked in the woods where the Imperial Prince’s men had unceremoniously dumped him. Somehow Petri had gotten them over the pass and down into the Danube Valley before the wolves had found them.
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