She turned to Lynette.
– Tell the steward of the Winter Wing that I want to initiate an archive inspection. Don't give a specific time. No noise. No extra faces.– As you command, Your Majesty, – Lynette replied quietly.
Beatrice knew: she had to find the root of the rumors. She had to show her people that she wouldn't fold at the first attack. And most importantly, she had to do it in such a way that none of the snakes realized they'd already been spotted.
The morning was damp and gloomy. Outside the palace windows, light rain streamed down the glass, turning the garden into a smudge of gray shadows.
Beatrice stood by the table where the latest reports from the treasury were spread out. She didn't sit, didn't delve into reading, just skimmed over the lines quickly, mechanically. She stopped at the third scroll. The numbers looked correct, neat. But they didn't match what she remembered.
Before the reassessment, customs duties in the southern lands had been lower. Afterward, they were supposed to increase. But here, everything remained unchanged, as if time and recalculation had never happened.
Beatrice picked up the scroll between her fingers and held it up to the light. In the places where corrections had been made, the ink shimmered faintly. Rewritten recently. But when mistakes begin to be hidden so carefully, it's no longer negligence. It's an attempt to hide the truth.
Beatrice set down her quill and rose.
– Lynette, – she called quietly. Lynette immediately stepped closer, eyes attentive. – I need the latest summaries from the archives. No intermediate edits. With the magistrates' signatures.
Lynette nodded.
– Yes, Your Majesty. I also learned... – she hesitated, carefully choosing her words, – that Archivist Gorm recently complained to the steward that someone had been rifling through state scrolls at night without permission.Beatrice wasn't surprised.In her former life in corporations, it had been the same: when documents started moving outside the schedule, it meant someone was hiding something.
They descended into the archives closer to noon.
The room was dark, cool, filled with the heavy scent of parchment, wax, and damp stonework. The silence was so deep it seemed you could hear the old scrolls whispering to each other.
Archivist Gorm, a stooped elderly man, met them at the door. His smile was nervous, fingers twitching along the seams of his robe.
– Your Majesty... An honor for us...
Beatrice nodded, not giving time for pleasantries.
– I need to see the latest registers on taxes and cargo deliveries. Complete scrolls. No extracts.
Gorm swallowed, nodded, and hurried into the hall, between the rows of shelves. But Beatrice noticed a shadow dart away in one of the far alcoves—a young scribe, clearly trying to slip away with a stack of papers.
She silently nodded to Lynette. The maid quickly exited by another route to intercept him.
The documents Gorm brought back a few minutes later were almost perfect. Almost.
Beatrice, flipping through the scrolls with a practiced hand, suddenly noticed: the ink on some signatures was fresher than the rest of the text. A little lighter, more finicky on the aged parchment. She didn't let it show. She merely rolled up the scroll slowly and looked at Gorm.
– Who rewrote the registers?
The old man hesitated.
– B-by your order, Your Majesty, to update... to...
His words faded into the silence.
Beatrice looked at him calmly.
– I gave no order to alter archive scrolls.
Gorm turned pale.
At that moment Lynette returned, leading the young scribe by the hand, trembling with fear. He still clutched the stack of stolen scrolls.
Beatrice gestured for them to be laid on the table. One glance was enough: part of the documents had been altered. Favoring the old families. The very ones who had fiercely opposed her initiative at the Council session.
– Who ordered it?
The old man lowered his eyes.
– I... I cannot say...
Beatrice stepped closer.
– But you will.
Gorm was trembling. Sweat glistened on his brow.
From deep in the corridor came the sound of quick footsteps. Someone was leaving. Someone afraid their name would be spoken aloud. Beatrice looked calmly into the darkening hallway. She didn't move. Didn't order a chase. Didn't cry out for capture. Too soon.
Gorm hunched his shoulders and shuffled papers hastily, trying to hide his anxiety. The scribe trembled beside him, clutching the stolen scrolls.
Beatrice gave them a cold look.
– The archive will remain closed for inspection. Inform everyone that it's sealed by my order. – She paused briefly. – And that nighttime visits will now be treated as treason against the crown.
Gorm gave a faint gasp.
Beatrice turned to Lynette:
– Two guards at the door. Rotation every four hours. No entry without written permission.
Lynette nodded, already rushing to carry out the order.
That evening, when the palace sank into damp, dark twilight, Beatrice returned to the archive. This time – alone. She didn't light any torches. Walked in the dimness, guided only by memory of the corridors. By the wall, in the shadow of a large arch, she positioned herself so she could see the archive door but remain hidden.
The night stretched on. The guards rotated quietly, without words. Somewhere far away, shutters banged, rats rustled in the corners.
An hour passed. Then another. And finally she saw.
A slender figure slipped through the corridor. A man in a long dark cloak, face hidden under a hood. He paused at the door, cast a quick glance over his shoulder, and pretended to just be walking by.
Half an hour later, another arrived. Older, with the stiff gait of a scribe. He carried a scroll under his arm and stopped twice, as if admiring the carvings on the door, but in fact, he was scanning for guards.
Beatrice did not move.
The third was a servant in palace livery, someone she had seen before in the corridors—the one who bowed too eagerly to Lady Marianne.
All three, one after another, lingered near the archive door.
No one tried to break in. No one showed visible haste.They were waiting. Testing. Looking for a chance to take or erase something before it was too late.
Beatrice memorized their faces.
When the last footsteps faded and the night turned empty again, Beatrice straightened, wiping her cold fingers on the fabric of her skirt.
Their names—that would be her future trump card. Not for revenge. But for the right wager at the right moment.
In the first few days after the "quiet ambush", Beatrice made no sudden moves.Outwardly, she behaved as always: calm, composed, busy with the everyday matters of a Queen. But behind the curtain, she was already weaving a new web.
The lords began to notice changes. They were used to seeing Beatrice as an ornament on the throne: beautiful, silent, obedient.But now, behind the smile, there was cold calculation. Her voice grew firmer. Her orders moved faster. And they no longer asked—they commanded.
Within the palace, the rumors didn't stop.
The old nobility whispered about "the Queen's excessive activity." Someone accused her of meddling "where a woman has no place." But these murmurs grew quieter.
Because now a new rumor had begun to spread,carefully seeded by Beatrice's loyal people:
"The Queen knows more than she lets on. And she knows how to wait."
Marianne was the first to sense the shift. Shrewd and calculating, she quickly realized that the old Beatrice, the one who caught her every word, who obeyed glances, was gone.
In her place now stood a woman who looked at the world through different eyes. Cold. Clear. Grown.
Autumn was nearing its end.
The sky darkened earlier. The wind carried the scent of dampness and early frost through the castle walls. And with each passing day, Beatrice grew quieter. More composed.