She was smiling. A small, thin smile. The smile of a woman who has been offered something interesting and who has decided to accept the offer, not because she needs it but because she is curious.
"You have this much confidence in this man?" she said. She looked at Raven. At his face. At his black eyes.
At the way he stood—unbothered, unhurried, a man who had just been told his head was on the line and who had not flinched.
"I do, Your Majesty," Old Tomas said.
The Queen's smile deepened. A fraction. The porcelain cracked a fraction more.
"Very well," she said. She stood.
