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left, leaving his daughter behind. She had not spoken for the entire meeting; indeed she had not said much to Conor since the accident. But today, some of the old light was back in her brown eyes. “Sirrrrr Conor,” she said, rolling the title around in her mouth like a hard sweet. “It’s going to be more difficult to have you hanged now.”
    “Thank you, Isabella.”
    The princess leaned in to knock on his cast. “No, Sir Conor Broekhart. Thank you.”
    Someone else came to see Conor that day, late in the evening when the nurse had shooed his mother home. The infirmary was deserted save for the night nurse, who sat at her station at the end of the corridor. She drew a curtain around Conor’s bed and left a light on so that he could read his book.
    Conor leafed through George Cayley’s On Navigation , which theorized that a fixed-wing aircraft with some form of engine and a ruddered tail could possibly carry a man through the air.
    Heavy reading for a nine-year-old. In truth Conor skipped more words than he knew, but with each pass he understood more. Engine and tail, he thought. Better than a flying flag, at any rate. And he fell asleep dreaming of a shining sword wrapped in a flag, sinking in St. George’s Channel.
    He awoke to the sound of a boot heel scraping on stone, and the heavy sigh of a large man. A sigh so guttural that it was almost a growl. This was a sound to make a boy decide to pretend that he was still asleep. Conor opened his eyes the merest slit, careful to keep his breathing deep and regular.
    There was a man in his bedside chair, his massive frame swathed in shadows. By the red cross on his breast, it was one of the Holy Cross Guard—Marshall Bonvilain himself.
    Conor’s breath hitched, and he covered it with a small moan, as though plagued by night terrors. What could Bonvilain want here? At this hour?
    Sir Hugo was the direct descendant of Percy Bonvilain, who had served under the first Trudeau king seven centuries before. Historically, the Bonvilains were high commanders of the Saltee army and also were given leave to assemble their own Holy Cross Guard, which at one time were used to conduct raids to the mainland or hired out to European kings as professional soldiers. The current Bonvilain was the last in the line and the most powerful. In fact, Sir Hugo would have been declared prime minister some years earlier when King Hector died, had not a genealogist discovered Nicholas Trudeau eking out a living as an aeronaut in the United States.
    Sir Hugo was an unusual combination of warrior and wit. He had the bulk of a lifelong soldier, but also the ability to present devastating arguments in a surprisingly mellow voice. If that Saltee fellow don’t cut you one way, he does it t’other, Benjamin Disraeli had reportedly said of the marshall.
    Conor had once heard his father say that Bonvilain’s only weakness was his burning distrust of other nations, especially France. The marshall had once heard a rumor of the existence of a French army of spies, La Légion Noire, whose mission was to gather intelligence on Saltee defenses. Bonvilain spent thousands of guineas hunting members of the fictitious group.
    Bonvilain’s breath was deep and regular as though he were resting. Only a gloved finger tapping his knee betrayed that Sir Hugo was awake. “Asleep, boy?” he said suddenly, his voice all honey and menace. “Or maybe awake, feigning sleep?”
    Conor held his silence, shutting his eyes tight. Suddenly, without reason, he was terrified.
    Bonvilain hunched forward on his chair. “I never really took notice of you before now, little Broekhart. The first time, you were a baby. But this time, this time it could fairly be said that you . . . saved someone who should be dead. Broekharts. Always Broekharts.”
    Conor heard leather stretch and creak as Hugo Bonvilain clenched a gloved fist. “So I wanted to see you. I like to know the faces of my . . . of my king’s friends.”
    Conor could