She told him the next morning.
Not immediately — first there was training, which Sigrid completed with the focused efficiency of someone who had slept well and thought clearly and arrived at a decision before dawn. Then there was breakfast, which she ate properly, seated, at a designated time, because some habits died slowly and this one she didn't particularly mind.
Then she sent a note to Beramund.
He arrived within the hour, which meant he had either been nearby or had come very quickly. Sigrid suspected the latter but didn't ask.
She handed him the paper without preamble.
He read it. His expression didn't change, which told her more than if it had.
"Where did you find this?" he asked.
"Under my door. Last night, around nine."
"Did you hear anyone?"
"A footstep in the corridor. One. Then nothing." She paused. "Whoever it was, they knew the house. They moved quietly enough that I almost didn't hear them at all, and I'm a light sleeper."
Beramund folded the paper along its original crease and held it between two fingers, looking at it.
"The chrysanthemum banquet," he said.
"Yes."
"You've never been invited before."
"No."
He was quiet for a moment. Sigrid watched his face — the careful stillness of it, the way he was working through something behind those different-colored eyes.
"Someone wants you inside the palace," he said finally.
"Yes."
"Someone who knew where you were sleeping last night, and how to get into this house, and who has reason to believe you'll receive an invitation." He looked up at her. "That's a short list of people."
"I know."
"Do you have any idea—"
"No." She said it plainly. "I've been thinking about it since last night. I can't narrow it down. Someone in the Emperor's circle who wants something disrupted. Someone in your circle who didn't come to you directly, for reasons I can't determine. Someone operating independently of both." She folded her hands. "The handwriting tells me nothing. The phrasing tells me they're careful. The fact that they came to me and not to you—"
"Tells you they think you're more useful right now," Beramund finished. "Or more trustworthy. Or more accessible." He set the paper down on the table between them. "Or they don't know about us."
Sigrid absorbed this.
"Do many people know?" she asked. "About — us."
The word felt slightly strange in her mouth. Not unpleasant. Just new.
"A few," Beramund said. "Marie-Chez. My secretary, who arranged the carriage. The servants at the park." He paused. "The man who yelled at us for galloping."
Despite everything, Sigrid felt the corner of her mouth move.
"He seemed very upset," she said.
"We were going quite fast."
"We were."
A beat. Then they were both looking at the paper again.
"What do you want to do?" Beramund asked.
Sigrid had already decided. She had decided before she sent the note.
"Accept the invitation," she said. "When it comes."
"It could be a trap."
"Yes."
"Whoever sent this could be working for the Emperor. Testing whether you'll move independently of official channels."
"Also yes." She met his gaze. "But if someone inside the palace is trying to communicate with me, I need to know who and why. And the banquet is a controlled environment. Public. The Emperor won't do anything overt in front of that many witnesses."
"He doesn't need to do things overtly to cause harm."
"I know." She paused. "I won't go unprepared."
Beramund looked at her for a long moment.
She had learned, over the past weeks, to hold his gaze during these moments — the ones where he was assessing something, weighing something, coming to a conclusion she couldn't yet read. It had taken practice. Her instinct was still to look away, the old reflex of someone who had spent years making herself unremarkable.
She didn't look away.
"Alright," he said.
"You're not going to argue?"
"Would it change your mind?"
"No."
"Then there's no point." He picked up the paper again. "I'll look into the handwriting. And I'll find out who's on the invitation list this year — that might narrow things down." He glanced at her. "You'll need to prepare."
"I know how to conduct myself at a formal Imperial event."
"I didn't mean that." He set the paper in his inner coat pocket. "I meant you'll need to prepare for whatever they want from you. Whoever sent this didn't do it out of goodwill. They need something. You need to go in knowing what you're willing to give."
Sigrid thought of the carriage. The question she had asked him.
What do you want?
And the answer she had given herself, lying in the dark.
"I'm aware," she said quietly.
Beramund nodded once. Then, as if the subject were concluded, he leaned back slightly in his chair and said:
"Your arms. Are they still sore?"
Sigrid blinked at the shift.
"A little," she admitted. "The rowing worked muscles I don't usually isolate."
"I thought so. You were compensating on your left side during training this morning."
"You watched my training?"
"I arrived early." He said it without apology. "You should stretch the lateral muscles more before swordsmanship. If they're tight it'll affect your draw."
Sigrid considered this. He wasn't wrong — she had felt a slight pull on the left when she extended.
"Fine," she said.
"I can show you the stretches if—"
"I know the stretches."
"Do you actually do them?"
Sigrid did not answer immediately.
Beramund's expression was entirely too satisfied.
"I'll do them," she said, with dignity.
"Good."
She stood, and he stood with her, and for a moment they were simply facing each other across the table with the morning light coming through the windows and a piece of paper containing an unknown threat tucked into his coat pocket.
Normal, Sigrid thought. This feels almost normal.
She wasn't sure when that had happened.
"Beramund," she said.
"Yes?"
She hesitated for only a moment.
"Be careful," she said. "When you look into this. Whoever sent that note — they're careful too. I don't want you to—" She stopped. Searched for the right word. "I don't want complications."
Beramund was very still for a moment.
Then he smiled — not the easy public smile, but the quieter one. The real one.
"Noted," he said.
He picked up his cane from where it rested against the chair and moved toward the door. At the threshold he paused, half-turning.
"Sigrid."
"Yes?"
"The invitation will come within a week. I'm nearly certain of it." His differently-colored eyes were steady on hers. "When it does — we'll face it together. Whatever it is."
She held his gaze.
"Together," she said.
He left.
Sigrid stood for a moment in the empty room, the morning light stretching across the floor in long pale rectangles, the clock on the mantle ticking quietly in the silence he had left behind.
Then she went to find the Count's secretary to ask about the chrysanthemum banquet's guest list from last year.
If she was going to walk into something, she intended to know the terrain first.
Old habits, after all, weren't entirely useless.