“Prince Rasmus, how can I be of service?”

The prince’s brow arched. “You can begin with a bow, Demidov. You’re not a king yet.”

Demidov’s cheeks flushed. His resemblance to Ravka’s exiled king was uncanny. “My most sincere apologies, Your Highness.” He bowed deeply, almost comically. “I have no wish to offend, only to offer gratitude for all your family has done for me and for my country.”

Nina had a profound urge to kick him in the teeth, but she beamed happily, as if she could imagine no greater joy than meeting this pretender.

Rasmus propped his head on his hand, weary as a student about to endure an hours-long lecture. “May I introduce you to Hanne Brum, daughter of Jarl Brum?”

Hanne curtsied. “It is an honor.”

“Ah,” said Demidov, bowing over Hanne’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “The honor is mine. Your father is a great man.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“I hope it isn’t rude, but … I must inquire about your extraordinary haircut. Is it the new fashion?”

Hanne touched her hand to the short stubble of her hair. “No. I shaved my head to show fealty to Djel.”

“Hanne and her companion are very devout,” said Prince Rasmus.

“I should have known it had something to do with their barbarian religion,” the Apparat murmured in Ravkan.

“She looks like more of a soldier than her father’s silken-haired troops,” Demidov replied, his smile still in place.

Nina narrowed her eyes. His Ravkan was impeccable, but that wasn’t necessarily meaningful.

“If you will allow me,” Hanne ventured, “may I introduce my companion, Mila Jandersdat.”

Demidov smiled, but no warmth reached his eyes. “Charmed.”

He clearly found conversation with a mere servant beneath him but was attempting to hide it. Nina took her chance, ignoring the Apparat’s piercing stare.

“What a great delight to meet you, Your Majesty!” she gushed, giving him the honorific that Prince Rasmus would not. A little flattery never hurt. “Prince Rasmus told us you grew up in the country. How lovely that must have been.”

“I have always preferred the country to the city,” Demidov said unconvincingly. “The fresh air and … such. But I will be glad to be in Os Alta again.”

“Was it a very beautiful house?” Hanne inquired.

“One of those lovely dachas in the lake district I’ve seen illustrated?” said Nina. “They have the most extraordinary views.”

“Just as you say. It had a rustic elegance one cannot find in the halls of grand palaces.”

Demidov’s eyes darted left, then right. He licked his lips. He was lying, but not about growing up in a dacha. He had that very particular embarrassment of genteel poverty. Exactly as a poor Lantsov relation might. Nina’s heart sank.

“But you will grow used to the luxuries of Os Alta,” said the Apparat in heavily accented Fjerdan. “Just as you will grow to be a fair and pious king.”

“And a biddable one,” Prince Rasmus said beneath his breath. Nina saw a muscle in Demidov’s jaw twitch. “Is there any wine to be had, Joran? Or maybe you’d like some of that filthy kvas Ravkans love so much?”

Demidov opened his mouth, but the Apparat spoke first. “Our king follows in the path of the Saints. He does not partake of spirits.”

Prince Rasmus gestured to the servant who had scurried forward to pour. “Isn’t Sankt Emerens the patron saint of brewers?”

“You are familiar with the Saints?” the Apparat asked with some surprise.

“I’ve had plenty of opportunity for reading. I always liked that wonderfully bloody book, the one with all the illustrations of martyrdoms. Better than stories of witches and merfolk.”

“They are meant for education, not entertainment,” the Apparat said stiffly.

“Besides, there’s a new Saint every week now,” Rasmus continued, clearly enjoying baiting the priest. “Sankta Zoya, Sankta Alina, the Starless One.”

“Heresy,” the Apparat snarled. “The followers of the so-called Starless Saint are nothing but a cult of fools dedicated to destabilizing Ravka.”

“I hear their membership grows daily.”

Demidov laid a comforting hand on the priest’s sleeve. “My first act when we return to Ravka will be to root out the members of this Starless cult and stop their heresy from infecting our country.”

“Then let us all pray to Djel that you’re back in your homeland soon,” Prince Rasmus said.

A frown pinched Demidov’s brow. He knew he’d been insulted, he just wasn’t sure how.

The Apparat turned to Demidov. “Let us walk, Your Majesty,” he said indignantly.

But Demidov knew they couldn’t simply turn their backs on a prince. “With your permission?”

Prince Rasmus waved them off, and Demidov departed with the priest.

“I don’t think they like you,” said Hanne.

“Should I be worried?” Prince Rasmus asked cheerily.

Nina thought so. Demidov had none of Nikolai’s charm, but he’d been both pleasant and diplomatic. And unless he was an extraordinary actor, she didn’t think he was lying about his Lantsov blood. He was certainly Ravkan. She’d seen his reaction when Rasmus had suggested Demidov would rule as a Fjerdan puppet. He didn’t like that at all. He had a nobleman’s pride. But was it Lantsov pride?

Nina turned to Prince Rasmus and bit her lip. “Do you really believe Ravka has a bastard sitting the throne?” she asked in scandalized tones.

“You saw Demidov. He’s said to be the spitting image of the deposed king. If that’s true, I’m not surprised his wife strayed.”

Nina decided to try a different approach. “Perhaps she was wise to. I’ve heard Nikolai Lantsov is quite the leader, beloved by rich and poor alike.”

“Oh yes,” said Hanne, catching on. “He fought in the wars himself. As infantry, not an officer! And word has it he’s also an engineer—”

“He’s a coarse fool without a drop of Lantsov blood in him,” Rasmus snapped.

“Hard to prove, though,” said Nina.

“But we have his whore mother’s letters.”