“No cries of innocence or pretty words geared toward your own defense? You disappoint me.” I heard, rather than saw, her settling onto the throne.

“The Duchess of Shadowed Hills was in danger.” It was true: if Tybalt and the others hadn’t broken me out of jail, Luna would have died.

“So you placed the value of one woman above the Queen’s own justice?” she asked, seemingly oblivious to the murmur that ran through the already whispering crowd. The Torquills have always been well-loved in San Francisco, and from the sound of things, I had more support in the crowd than the Queen thought.

“Yes, I did,” I said, raising my head. “I was half-dead from iron poisoning when I was pulled out of your jail, and I could barely stand, but yes, I chose not to return. I placed the lives of Luna Torquill and the subjects of Shadowed Hills above your justice. And if I had it to do over again, I still wouldn’t come back to be lit like some sort of birthday candle.” I shook my head. “You say I placed Luna’s life over your justice; I say you’re wrong, because whatever sentenced me to die here, it wasn’t justice.”

She stared. I looked back as calmly as I could, daring her to speak. For a long moment, all was silent. Then she leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and said, “Very well. For your crimes against this Kingdom, again I sentence you, October Daye, to burn—”

“Excuse me?” Sylvester’s voice was mild and almost unobtrusive.

The Queen’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “It isn’t your turn to speak, Torquill. Your trial is next.”

“I believe,” he said, still, mild, “that as a subject of this kingdom, I have the right to ask why this charming young lady—a friend of my fiefdom, and a knight in my service—is going to be burned. It seems rather a waste of a good knight, if you ask me.”

“I don’t believe anyone did,” she said, between gritted teeth.

“Even so, I’d like to hear the charges, since I believe it’s been established that she killed neither the Lady of the Tea Gardens nor my charming—and quite living—wife.”

The Queen’s eyes swept the crowd, finding no support. Sharply, she said, “She stands accused of the murder of Blind Michael, Firstborn of Oberon and Maeve.” She couldn’t accuse me of Oleander’s death. No one who wasn’t there to see what happened knew the truth about how Oleander de Merelands met her end.

“Oh, yes! Yes, she killed my father-in-law. There’s just one problem, Highness.”

“What’s that?” she asked, voice dropping to a dangerously low register.

“She’s been pardoned for the crime.” Sylvester snapped his fingers. Quentin stepped out of the crowd, a scroll in his hands. If that kid’s grin had been any bigger, it would’ve split his face in two. “Permission for my page to approach the throne?”

“Granted,” hissed the Queen. Quentin crossed the space between Sylvester and the Queen in about eight steps, pressing the scroll into her hands before he bowed and stepped away. She looked at him suspiciously, breaking the wax seal on the parchment.

A deep, melodic voice filled the room. “By the order of King Aethlin Sollys and Queen Maida Sollys, rulers of the Western Lands, Countess October Christine Daye, daughter of Amandine, is granted full pardon for her role in the death of the Firstborn known as Blind Michael. We have examined the events leading to his death and determined that what fault exists is upon Blind Michael himself. We thank the Countess Daye for acting as our executioner in this matter. By our hands, King Aethlin and Queen Maida Sollys of the Western Lands.”

The crowd erupted into cheers as the proclamation finished. Not everyone was cheering—some were silent out of shock, I was sure, and some because they’d wanted to see me burn. Sylvester was quiet, watching the Queen with the mild expression I recognized as a sign of intense concentration. He wanted to see how she reacted.

So did I. My first trial wasn’t a trial; it was an excuse to condemn me. This one would have been the same, but Sylvester changed the rules. He and I were going to have words about that pardon later. I knew it was genuine. He wasn’t dumb enough to forge a message from the King of the Westlands. She didn’t have an excuse to send me to my death this time. She couldn’t even prosecute me for the jailbreak, because the King had made the crime she imprisoned me for irrelevant. So what was she going to do?

The cheering faded, and the crowd waited to hear what she’d say. The Queen stared at the scroll with narrowed eyes, like she could will the words to change. Then she lifted her head, looking at me.

“A pardon,” she said, as lightly as if she were requesting a cup of tea.

“Apparently so, Highness,” Sylvester said.

“From King Sollys, no less. Fascinating. I didn’t know he kept such close tabs on what goes on in our little Kingdom.” This time her gaze was for Sylvester, moonmad eyes filled with suspicion. He met that look without flinching. Maybe he cheated by requesting that pardon, his look said, but she’d cheated first by requiring it.

“Apparently so, Highness,” he said again.

Her eyes came back to me, and I could see the hatred there. I just kept screwing up her plans. “Fine,” she said, throwing the pardon aside. It hit the floor and rolled closed, the wax seal turning deep blue as it melted back together. “It seems we have no crimes to charge you with. Oleander de Merelands killed Lily and was killed in turn by Rayseline Torquill; you’ve been pardoned for the death of Blind Michael. Your luck has held.”

“Does that mean I’m free to go, Your Highness?”

She glared at me even as she nodded. “Yes, you are.”

I paused. It probably wasn’t worth it, but. . . “Your Highness?”

“What is it?” she snapped. Great. Trust me to push my luck with an angry, half-crazy queen.

“My knives, Your Highness.”

She stared at me, then clapped her hands and disappeared. My scabbard appeared in front of me, hitting the floor before I had a chance to catch it. I stooped to pick it up, checking to see that both knives were where they belonged. They were. I could feel the iron knife, even through the leather of the scabbard. That was going to be a problem.

And then May and Quentin were there, swinging me into an embrace that was half joy, half relief. Quentin was laughing, and May was grinning through her tears. I barked a laugh that was almost a sob and hugged them back.