The fog tasted of coal and secrets. August clung to Violet’s threadbare shawl, the damp chilling him to the bone despite the summer month. Parliament House loomed, a gray beast breathing the city’s grime. Violet, barely ten, slipped between the legs of a portly gentleman rushing toward the entrance, a whisper of movement lost in the pre-coronation bustle.
“Think you can manage, Aug?” she murmured, glancing back at her younger brother. Her voice, though small, possessed a certain grit.
“Always.” He tugged the hem of her shawl, keeping pace.
The air inside hummed with anticipation. Gilded columns stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Men in fine coats and powdered wigs paced, their voices a low rumble. Violet steered August toward a lesser-used corridor, a network of offices tucked away from the grand halls. She’d mapped this place in her head, each twist and turn etched in memory.
“Remember what Old Man Hemlock told us?”
“The ledgers. Third office on the left. Look for the watermark.” August recited, his eyes scanning the doorways. He clutched a small, worn pouch at his waist.
They found the office easily enough. The door stood ajar, revealing stacks of documents piled high on a mahogany desk. A single oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows. Violet, nimble as a sparrow, scaled a stack of books, her small hands sifting through the papers.
“Got it.”
“What is it?” August asked, hopping up and down to catch a glimpse.
“A bill of sale. For the crown jewels. Supposedly.” Violet unfolded the document, her brow furrowing. “The paper’s right, the seals… but the signature.”
“What about it?”
“Look closer. The flourishes are off. It’s a copy. A damn good one, but a copy nonetheless.” She ran a calloused finger across the inked script. “Someone’s trying to replace the real bill with this. Before the Queen arrives.”
A voice boomed from the doorway.
“Well, well. What have we here?”
A man stood silhouetted against the hall light, his features obscured. He wore the uniform of a palace guard, but his eyes held a coldness that didn’t fit the role.
“Lost, little ones?”
“Just admiring the architecture,” Violet answered, her voice steady. She didn’t meet his gaze. “Beautiful building, isn’t it?”
He chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. “Indeed. Though I doubt you’d appreciate its historical significance.” He took a step closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “What were you looking at?”
“Nothing important,” August piped up, clutching his pouch tighter. “Just old papers.”
“Let me see what you’re hiding.” The guard reached for the pouch.
Violet reacted instantly. She launched herself off the stack of books, colliding with the guard’s arm, knocking his hand away. The pouch spilled open, revealing not coins, but a collection of meticulously crafted charcoal rubbings—duplicates of seals and signatures.
“Seems you’ve underestimated us,” she said, her voice ringing with unexpected defiance.
The guard’s face darkened. “You shouldn’t have seen this.”
“We saw enough.” August scooped up the rubbings, his small hands working quickly. “Enough to know someone’s playing a dangerous game.”
The guard lunged. Violet grabbed August’s hand, and they darted between his legs, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors of Parliament House. The chase was on. And with each echoing footstep, the fragile balance of the kingdom trembled on a thread.
