Gwenivar hadn’t been prepared for the literal box of rejected requests she’d been given. She had been in the financial office looking into laws that might give her a tax credit for Molton. They’d been having trouble with an increased number of monsters attacking villages and travelers on the roads. Gwenivar short term solution had been to hire the Hunter’s Guild and Baron Owen’s knights to patrol the roads and nearby settlements. However, the endeavor to keep people safe and trade flowing was getting more expensive by the day.

She was coming down to her last, and least liked, option; shipping around the northern coast to Brinkston and carting everything from there. This wasn’t much of an option since Brinkston was in Archduke Harthford’s territory, and she already knew that the fees he charged for use of his roads were high. She didn’t want to know what his port fees would be.

Money-grubbing bastard, she thought as she set the box down on a table. Gripping the edge of the box, she sighed at the contents. Picking out the topmost packet, she found them out of order, but they’d been the ones Sir Davis had hastily picked up off the floor. She was met with continuation page after page of references to previously rejected requests with dates and the amount requested.

She found the last page with Sir Owen’s bird-scratch handwriting adding that the roof had collapsed and recommending that the building be torn down and rebuilt. He didn’t bother putting a cost estimate on this statement.

She spent a moment on his signature; R. Smith, written in Ingvanic. “Odd…”

However, that wasn’t the mystery she was here to solve. The thick stack of papers indicated an ongoing problem with the Western Barracks. Calling the roof falling in a “health hazard” was an understatement. It was a danger to the knights who lived there and anyone else who visited. A line caught her attention on the indexed report.

“Mold remediation in bathroom,” was preceded by “Floor rotting out in bathroom.” She traced back to the root cause of “Major plumbing leak in bathroom,” six months prior. This had happened six years ago.

Gwenivar left the box on the table, knowing that no one would be visiting the library today. Everyone was too busy getting ready for dinner.

Returning to the finance office, she entered to find the four office clerks giggling to each other as they hovered around a piece of paper they were taking turns to write on. Passing their desk, Gwenivar went to the drawers marked Palace Affairs.

Opening the drawer for the Western Barracks, she sorted the file headers and grabbed the folder she wanted. Closing the drawer, she left.

The box was untouched when she returned, as she’d expected. Dropping the thick folder onto the table, she opened it to start sorting. The papers within were not in order, but they were surprising. They were mostly repair requests and pay receipts signed by Sir Owen. Not only were the repair requests stamped APPROVED, but they were for wildly different costs and reasons.

Just to be sure, Gwenivar flipped through the pile of Approved requests to make sure that it was just the last six months she was looking at. She pulled a centimeter stack from the box and began matching them up.

A grim picture was emerging.

“That’s a lot of papers,” Yale said cheerfully, pulling a chair out across from her.

“Yes, I'd appreciate it if you’d help me with them. I want to match these up.” Gwenivar tucked her hair behind her ear and looked up at him.

Taking one of the rejected requests, he frowned. “What kind of bird wrote this?”

“A redheaded one,” Gwenivar said.

Yale looked at her with a lifted brow. “Why are you getting involved in that?”

“Because,” Gwenivar handed over her matched papers. “I think there’s some embezzlement going on at the expense of the Palace Guard.”

Yale took the two papers. “A request for a new mural in the Western Barracks? That… is an obscene proposed price. There’s no painter worth that much, and they approved this? What was Sir Owen thinking asking for that?”

“He didn’t. Look at the second page.”

Yale frowned. “Request to replace the floor in the kitchen for a reasonable amount.” He looked between the papers. He lowered them to look at Gwenivar. “Is this really a tree you want to shake? You might not like what falls out.”

Gwenivar looked down at the pages she held. “They’re making profit off the misfortune of someone else. They’re misusing government funds. As someone intending to wear the crown, I think that is my business.” She pushed the piles toward Yale. “I want you to find out how much money has been stolen. Who took it.”

“I heard that they got an inspection this morning and failed it,” Yale said, looking at the rejected pile again.

Gwenivar pushed over the indexed version of the requests. “The roof fell in.”

Yale went pale. “They’re going to hang him. This will save his life if that’s the case. But is he worth it?”

Gwenivar straightened, pressing her hands to the table. “While Sir Owen is only Baron Owen’s adopted son, I feel obligated to assist for all the kindness the old man has shown me.”

Movement behind Yale caught her attention, and she looked up to see the queen’s maid approaching. “Most Honorable,” she greeted with a bow. She held a note out to Gwenivar.

Taking it, Gwenivar opened it to find the queen’s handwriting. “I’ll leave this to you, Yale,” she told the pudgy, dark-haired man. Standing, she followed the maid out of the library, through the old building, and to the east wing.

Royal Knights, wearing their black and gold uniforms, stood on either side of the queen’s drawing room. The one nearest bowed to her, then opened the door without more than a single knock. "Majesty," she greeted as she bowed and realized something was different. The balcony doors were open, letting in the afternoon sun and gentle breeze. The usual maids were there, but something was missing.

“Gwenivar!” Charlotte smiled broadly as she stood to embrace Gwenivar. “I missed seeing you yesterday.” She sounded strangely excited. Returning the queen’s embrace, Gwenivar took her usual seat. Then it struck her what was missing: Prince Solace.

His chair was usually parked at the table, having been hauled up the stairs by the knights. Solace didn’t weigh much, but it was probably inconvenient. Charlotte could hardly sit still. While she'd always been an energetic woman, this was odd.

Charlotte usually tried to spend every moment she could with her son on his birthday. Perhaps she was finally willing to let the empty husk go?

Gwenivar looked down at her hands. That was mean. She's suffering. How would I feel if I couldn't have children? But the situation wasn't the same. Gwenivar never intended to have children. She couldn't imagine having children with anyone other than him. But he was dead, so she would never marry and never need to care about children.

Unless I become Crown Princess, then I'll need to worry about fending off every slack-jawed power-hungry lout in the world. Then there’s that awful rule for the contest… I don’t know how I’m going to handle that. Lavender brushed it off, but she doesn’t understand.

"Gwenivar, what do you think of Solace's looks?" Charlotte asked once her ladies were done pouring tea.

"I think he is beautiful," Gwenivar said without hesitation. She caught Charlotte's smile before she hid it with her teacup.

"What if... he wasn't soulless?" Charlotte asked after swallowing her sip. "What would you think of him then?"

Gwenivar couldn't help but express concern. "Your Majesty..."

"Oh, don't mind me!" Charlotte laughed. "I do hope you'll find a husband soon."

"I'm only seventeen," Gwenivar said, knowing that in some people’s book, she was practically an old maid, and she should’ve been married off two years ago and on her second child.

"But you're so mature for your age," Charlotte said. "Already in charge of your father's house, Molton, and multiple charities in the city. I fear you running out of things to oversee if you don't become Crown Princess."

“I find things to do. I had a task to accomplish today, but I believe something more urgent came up.”

“And what might that be?” Charlotte asked.

“Embezzlement of Western Barracks funds. I happened to be in there when Barracks Captain Owen brought a repair request that was denied before he stepped across the threshold. After following him back to his office, I discovered that his requests for repairs to the barracks had been denied his whole tenure, and just this morning, the roof collapsed. Forgive the theft, but I took the accepted requests for the last six months from the filing cabinet and discovered someone has been making frivolous claims with inflated budgets in Sir Owen’s name.”

Charlotte set her teacup down with a hard click. She was livid.

“I’m sure there’s going to be a request to hang him for dereliction,” Gwenivar continued. “Could I request that it be delayed while my people look into it?”

“Yes. Of course.” Charlotte sighed, looking toward the balcony.

From here, they had a view of the Eastern Barracks. It was a stately building, kept pristine by an entire platoon of servants. Even now, there was a pair of men painting the outside wall. This happened every spring, of course. Gwenivar did not know what the Western Barracks looked like, but she suspected it was nothing like its brother.

“If there is embezzlement, I suspect Archduke Harthford has a hand in it. Be very careful, Gwenivar. I love you like a daughter, so the idea of you getting hurt sends my heart racing.” Charlotte reached across the table.

“If I wish to be serious about the competition, I will have to make him my enemy.”

“Hold off on your attack. At least until tomorrow,” Charlotte requested, squeezing Gwenivar’s hands.