Her thirteenth birthday was celebrated with exceptional vigor that year. Three weeks previously, the Duchess was teetering between life and death. Now she was up and about, and only the unsightly scar, hidden beneath her dress, was the only indicator that the attempt on her life had even happened.

The people of Feurn no longer called her the "little" Duchess. She had proven to them her growth as she attended the funerals for each man who had been killed, from the slain patrol to Ounay's son, Hudson. Ounay had witness her difficult recovery, and though he attempted to hide his own research into this Roderick Arceneau, she insisted to examine each sheet of notes that his spies returned.

It was only a matter of time before she joined him in her deceased father's study. He had been terrified at first, that such a young girl would be exposed to the dire secrets that the Duke and Duchess of Feurn had harbored, but she had displayed exeptional maturity to the point of being nearly indifferent. It was only the hard stare into empty space that reassured Ounay that she was prepared to accept the consequences of her parents' actions.

Her father's study was a crowd of boxes and sheafs of parchment, dusty old busts and glass paperweights. Early one December morning, as Ounay filled the ledger with the year's apple harvest, she was sorting through the useless heirlooms and inquired over a particularly odd balance she'd found. The box was stained cherry and lined with velvet; beside the gold-plated scale she found bronze weights and a jeweler's eyepiece.

Ounay sighed and inspected the balance. Everything was still intact.

"It was Her Grace's, the Duchess Ysana."

The girl's usually guarded expression became curious, blue eyes wide as she leaned over the precious set. "For what?"

"Ah, precious stones. Your mother was very interested in them."

"Liar," Ounay looked up, startled. The girl was grinning wryly. "Mother rarely wore jewelry. And there are no stones to be mined in Feurn. What did she use it for?"

Ounay swallowed and looked away from that unnerving smile. Her Grace was too sly.

As he looked around at his ledgers and coded tomes with a weary eye, he realized that it was as much her burden as his. As the Duchess, it was her responsibility. But it pained him to think that she would turn as sick as her mother had near the end of her life. If she had not been killed, it would have been the weakness that would have taken her life.

He eased the lid of the box shut. "It is true, there are no stones to be mined in Feurn hills."

He could feel her eyes burning into the back of his head as she waited.

"But there is silver, in the southern hills, and some iron. We have been mining that for the better part of the century, as you very well know. But in the mines they found something else, something very different and not found anywhere else in the Empire."

She had thrown the box open again and was poking at the edges where the velvet met the wood. Seizing a letter opener from its stand, she pried the box apart. Ounay winced.

Hidden beneath the scales and weights was a smaller box, made of glass, as long and as wide as the Duchess's little finger, and a little bit thicker. Inside the clear case was a lump of grey stone, heavy and unassuming, but there was no visible means of getting it open. She wrinkled her nose and looked very unimpressed.

"It is called uranium," Ounay said softly. "It doesn't look like much, but it is very powerful."

Her expression was doubtful. The steward cleared his throat and took it from her unresisting hand, studying it as he explained, "The Duchess Ysana recognized it for a valuable mineral. They only have a few deposits in Malchon, and one on the Ivengaard side of the mountains. Malchon alchemists have experimented with it for a very long time. They use it to stain glass and pottery." He replaced it in the box. "And their chemists realize it has enormous potential. I know nothing of it, other than what is hidden in our hills is much richer than any they have found in Malchon."

He stood and placed the box on a high shelf. The Duchess frowned.

"My father and mother died for that?"

Ounay let out a long-held breath. She'd come to the conclusion he'd feared to be true, but the more they learned of Arceneau from the past and their present spying, it seemed the most likely.

"Yes. Their Graces had arranged to sell what we found to Malchon and Ivengaard for their research. They did not believe His Majesty was deserving of the knowledge."

"So he killed them," Duchess Aselaine said softly, as quiet as a breath. "He had them killed for their treachery, selling valuable resources to other countries."

The steward nodded once. He heard her shuffling through the pile of boxes again. "What they--Their Graces had done was not illegal. Each territory is independent in their trade, but His Majesty knew how valuable this was."

"And still knows." Her tone was unusually cold. She returned to the small pool of candlelight by the desk again, another box in hand. This one was rather plain. "He dares not act. Not after the scandal. He won't expose his power games."

Ounay watched as she opened the box again. Her slim, pale hand--so much like her mother's--shook from the effort. Her left arm, twisted by that scar, was weak and sensitive from the damage. Her whole body had atrophied from weeks in bed.

In the box was a small suede bag and another box. Opening the smaller container, she showed him bullets, high caliber.

"Write to Father and Mother's contacts in Malchon and Ivengaard," she said quietly, but firmly. "Whomever we were selling to before. We will set up trade again."

She reached into the suede bag and pulled out a small pistol. Its mahogony handle was worn, metal barrel grimy from neglect, decorated with a leaf-scroll design. Ounay looked at her face, and was surprised at what he saw. Calculations, plots were beginning behind her eyes, the grim line of her mouth. She weighed the gun in her hand, and raised it up, squinting down the sights.

"Open both eyes," Ounay corrected. "Your Grace. I hardly believe it is worth attempting the same treason as your parents. The king would already prefer you dead, he proved as much--"

"I know." Duchess Aselaine's voice and hand were steady. "Write to them. I want copies of all of their research. I trust you could manage to come up with a decent price, if we're going to be risking our necks again..."

Ounay dipped his quill and jotted it down. He would have to sort through the ledgers again to find the names, and the rates that Their Graces had set before their deaths. He heard rather than saw the Duchess Aselaine pick up the box of ammunition and stride out, muttering, "And who will teach me to shoot?"