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“There has never been such a plan,” Ephraine replies. “I have no idea how Dezeeves believes he could enact that.” His metal eye twitches over me, but his real eye remains settled. “These are incredibly serious allegations. Do you have any proof of what you’ve told me? As ‘Dezeeves told me’ and ‘I heard the conversation from across the hall’ just won’t cut it for The Assembly.”

Riss looks panicked.

But I’m calm.

“Yes,” I say. “I think we do have proof.” I look at Riss. “The radio messages that have been coming in from a Rhavnan frequency. They were for his ears, and his ears alone. That’s why we struggled to understand them.”

We go down a deck to Intelligence. Riss claps her hands at the intelligence analysts who are still working.

“Take a ten-minute break, everyone.” When they look at her confused, she barks, “I said, take a break. Or do you all want OTIs?”

They quickly drop pens, remove their radio bands and scarper from the room.

“Nicely done,” Ephraine says, gruffly.

Once everyone is out of the door, I approach the chalkboard, where the uncracked code still reads:

If the guests are ready, I am happy to serve dinner. Signed, Mother.

I pick up the piece of chalk tucked in the board. Start scribbling underneath the message.

I step backwards. Admire my work.

If the welcomed ones are ready, I am happy to open the cloche. Signed, the Queen.

“Cloche?” Riss asks. “Like, a dish with a lid?”

“I don’t see how this is evidence of anything,” Ephraine snarls. “You’ve hardly changed the message at all. I’m starting to believe you’re wasting my time⁠—”

“Just wait,” Riss urges. “Let her explain.”

I turn to the board. “The message doesn’t look much different, yes. But its meaning has changed. The original message was spoken in Hevallan. But it was clearly translated from Rhavnan.” I pause, stretching out my wrists. “Rhavnan doesn’t translate well into the Hevallan language. Our words mean very specific things – like, ‘the earth we tread on’, rather than just ‘earth’. And we have so many words – about twenty just for different types of love, for example.”

I turn back to the board. Underline the original message.

“When you take this sentence and convert it back into Rhavnan, it starts meaning different things. Like the word ‘guest.’ In Rhavna, guest translated is ‘someone you have welcomed.’ Guests are welcomed ones. Integrated ones.”

“The FIs,” Riss says, fully transfixed on the board.

“I believe so. And then, ‘serve dinner’.” I point to that part of the sentence. “We have lots of ways you can say that in Rhavnan. And one of those ways – probably the most common way – is to say you’re about to open the cloche. In fact, Riss, do you still have my letter I was writing for my family?”

She produces it from my Integration book.

I unfold it. Point to the exact sentence where I’d asked my brother if he was doing everything I asked.

“I’ve written this in Rhavnan. I’ve said planning every dinner to serve. But word for word, I’ve actually written every cloche to open. And traditionally, what shape is a cloche?”

“Okay, you’ve said the word cloche too many times now,” Riss says. “It’s hurting my head.”

“Yes,” Ephraine mutters. “And we’re still no wiser to how this gibberish proves Dezeeves is a traitor.”

“Answer the question,” I press. “What shape is a cloche?”

“A bell shape.”

“A dome shape.”

Riss’ mouth goes slack. “She’s telling Dezeeves she’s ready to open the dome? The dome over the Palace?”