Before my first foray into the Challenges of Wit, I spent a considerable amount of time observing the matches. I wanted to familiarize myself with the format, the overseers and their peculiar manner of conducting proceedings, and the ways in which both nobles and commoners competed.

Because of how the Crown had chosen to conduct the Challenges, nobles and commoners were permitted to compete against one another. In the beginning, the matches were rather one-dimensional affairs.

Nobles would toss coins into the crowd to purchase favor, while some commoners chose to openly antagonize their aristocratic opponents. For a short time, both approaches proved remarkably successful.

The commoners delighted in watching their own verbally defile the upper classes without immediate recourse. Those who had suffered under cruel lords and ladies found particular satisfaction in these public humiliations. Meanwhile, the crowds were more than happy to collect coins from noble houses willing to purchase their way to the top.

However, neither approach proved sustainable.

Landowners who continually raised taxes upon their fiefdoms to maintain their positions in the rankings soon found themselves impoverishing their own people. In several cases, the common folk began to revolt.

As for the curs who made their reputations by cursing and humiliating their opponents, they discovered that protection during a match did not necessarily extend beyond it.

While some managed to keep themselves safe, many found themselves targeted by the very nobility they had publicly disgraced. Their homes were seized, their families driven into poverty, and some were left entirely homeless. A fortunate few survived through the generosity of their House supporters, but many others were not so lucky.

It was a rather brutal lesson in the difference between winning a match and surviving its consequences.

For nearly two months, I watched competitors rise and fall, studying not only their performances but also what became of them afterward. I paid particular attention to what worked, what failed, and, perhaps most importantly, what could be sustained.

Early on, I became a supporter of a wandering poet named Salazar.

He went only by that name, never revealing his family name to anyone. He was a clever young man, possessing a gentle charm that endeared him to the ladies while treating his male supporters with equal warmth and consideration.

During his matches, he maintained an even temperament. He neither groveled before the nobility nor antagonized them needlessly. His wit was measured, his performances engaging, and his manner agreeable.

He had performed at the Grey House once or twice, so we were already acquainted. I saw little reason not to join his House.

In return, Salazar was generous enough to explain certain matters that occurred behind the scenes, things that only House Masters were privy to.

I was grateful for the information.

Armed with what I had learned, I finally made my way to the Guildhall and registered myself as a competitor under the name Lady Blackwood.

I had barely begun contemplating my first match when a summons arrived from Her Royal Majesty, the Queen.

Naturally.

I had an inkling of what this would be about, and the moment I entered Her Majesty’s chambers, I knew the encounter would be unpleasant.

The Queen sat with a scowl upon her face, looking at me as though someone had placed something rotten beneath her nose.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the verbal assault that was undoubtedly coming.

“YOU INSOLENT INGRATE! HOW DARE YOU EMBARRASS THE CROWN BY JOINING THE CHALLENGES!”

She spat the words with enough venom to kill a horse.

“Good day, Your Majesty,” I replied calmly, almost aloof in my tone. “You mustn’t work yourself into such a state. It cannot be good for your health.”

“MY HEALTH?! YOU WORRY ABOUT MY HEALTH?! YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT YOUR HUSBAND’S FAILING HEALTH! WHY DO YOU THINK WE ALLOWED YOU TO MARRY INTO THE CROWN?!”

She practically roared the last sentence.

As though marrying into the Crown had done anything for me.

It had brought me neither land nor title. The Holy Church refused to recognize our union because of my husband’s two previous divorces. Despite being his lawful wife, I was denied the title of Archduchess.

What had I gained from this marriage?

A roof over my head, mounting debts, and a husband who was now practically bedridden with a wasting disease.

Even my dowry was nearly gone.

“Your Majesty, had I other options, I would have taken them. However, you are well aware of the state of your brother’s finances. Although my father has been generous enough to provide me with paid work at his tavern, my wages are insufficient to maintain the household.”

I paused, allowing my words to settle.

“We are now down to one cook and one porter. Are you quite certain you wish everyone to discover just how destitute your own brother’s household has become?”

The color drained from her face.

The Queen had always been excessively concerned with how she was perceived by high society. Even after securing her position upon the throne, her anxiety over the reputation of herself and her family had only worsened.

Unfortunately for her, she was in no position to provide her brother with the funds necessary to sustain the dying branch of House Luccio.

It had become apparent to me only after my marriage that I had been selected for two rather practical reasons.

First, I was a young bride with a substantial dowry, one that might potentially be replenished through my father’s successful business.

Second, I was young enough to care for the Archduke as he grew older and more infirm.

In essence, they had hoped to purchase their brother a nurse with a dowry, sacrificing my future to preserve his comfort.

The funds were meant to stabilize House Luccio and spare the Queen the embarrassment of watching her brother fall into ruin.

That he had been forced to marry the daughter of a tavern owner was humiliating enough for her.

The thought alone always made her blanch.

I continued.

“Your Majesty, unless the Crown intends to support my husband and me, I have little choice but to participate in the Challenges. From what I understand, the coins House Masters receive from their supporters can be quite substantial. With any luck, they may be enough to stabilize our household.”

I looked down at my dress.

“I haven’t even the funds to purchase new gowns for the season. I’ve had to make do by having my older dresses refreshed by talented seamstresses. Yet, if I am to raise money for the family, I must be seen in public. Eventually, people will notice just how far out of fashion my wardrobe has become.”

I raised my eyes to meet hers.

“I have managed to conceal our circumstances thus far, but I cannot continue doing so indefinitely.”

The Queen’s eyes traveled briefly over the seams of my gown, lingering upon the places where the fabric had been altered to disguise its age.

Her expression tightened.

She was furious.

Yet she said nothing.

I knew her weakness, and she knew that my reasoning was sound. Worse still, she understood that forbidding me from earning money would only hasten the very scandal she wished to avoid.

“FINE! DO YOUR MATCHES! BUT DON’T YOU DARE USE THE LUCCIO NAME OR THE TITLE OF ARCHDUCHESS!”

She spat the words as though granting me some tremendous concession.

“I registered under the name Lady Blackwood,” I replied, regarding her through heavily hooded, thoroughly uninterested eyes.

The Queen scoffed.

She looked away, then dismissed me with an impatient wave of her hand, as though shooing away an irritating insect.

I curtsied, backed away, and departed her chambers.

Only once I was safely beyond her doors did I finally release the breath I had been holding.

Unfortunately, my day was far from over.

Later that evening, I informed my husband of my intention to compete in the Challenges.

He, too, was furious.

Though for an entirely different reason.

“YOU WILL LEAVE ME! I KNOW IT! JUST LIKE FRANCES DID!”

Frances was his second wife.

“I am not Frances,” I replied dully.

“No, but she began attending balls and socializing, and after a while, she left me! You’ll do the same!”

I took a deep breath.

I seemed to be doing that rather frequently today.

“Giovanni, we need the money.”

“I’ll find a way!” he insisted.

“How?” I asked, my patience beginning to fray. “You can barely keep your head upright during the day because of your illness! You’ve all but stopped going out. Were it not for the occasional afternoon when people see you sunning yourself upon the balcony, half the court would think you dead!”

Giovanni looked indignant but offered no reply.

“The tavern’s income is no longer enough to cover your mounting healer’s fees. Winter will soon be upon us, and we need provisions. We’ve already dismissed nearly all the household staff, yet there are still repairs to be made to the house. We need enough money to ensure we’re not surviving on soup throughout the entire winter!”

“SHUT UP, WOMAN! WHAT DO YOU KNOW?! YOU HAVEN’T BEEN THE ONE SUSTAINING THIS HOUSE! I HAVE!”

He shouted so forcefully that the muscles on one side of his face began to droop from the strain.

He loved throwing that accusation in my face.

Yet he conveniently failed to acknowledge that without my constant financial contributions, he would have been in a far worse condition than he presently was.

“Look,” I said, struggling to maintain my composure, “we need the money. Your sister will not provide for us, and you are in no position to do so yourself. And despite what you may believe, I neither possess the talent nor the energy to serve as our cook, our porter, and the manager of my father’s tavern and inn, all while caring for you.”

He sulked for a moment before muttering, “You could still convince your father to sell the Grey House.”

Now it was my turn to become angry.

“YOU WANT ME TO ASK MY FATHER, WHO IS SUPPORTING HIS FOUR YOUNGER BROTHERS, TO SELL THEIR ONLY MEANS OF INCOME?!”

I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

“IT WAS ALREADY GENEROUS OF HIM TO OFFER ME PAID WORK TO HELP SUPPORT THIS HOUSEHOLD! AND NOW YOU EXPECT HIM TO SACRIFICE HIS FAMILY’S FINANCIAL SECURITY FOR A HANDFUL OF SHORT-TERM COINS?! HAVE YOU GONE MAD?!”

Giovanni gritted his teeth.

For once, I believe he heard the selfishness of his own suggestion.

“FINE! GO EARN YOUR COIN!” he cursed, the corner of his mouth drooping further.

I stared at him for a moment.

“Go to bed, my lord. Your stress is beginning to manifest.”

I summoned Peter, our porter, and instructed him to wheel my husband back to his bedchamber.

Once Giovanni had been taken away, I made my way to the kitchen.

There, I found Molly.

Molly was an older woman who had accompanied me when I married into the Archduke’s family. She had witnessed nearly everything I had endured since then and had always provided me with a place to unburden myself.

I sat heavily at the kitchen table.

She took one look at me.

“Do you want to hit something, or someone?” she asked with a knowing smile.

“I just want to sleep. I’m so tired.”

The weariness in my voice was matched only by the exhaustion in my body as I slumped forward over the table.

“I know, my sweetling.”

She placed a generous hunk of warm, crusty bread before me, along with a slab of butter.

I tore off a piece and spread a little butter upon it.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Molly broke the silence.

“For what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing is brave. And I think it’s the right thing to do.”

I looked up at her.

“They don’t appreciate you,” she continued. “And isn’t it peculiar? They’re so terribly concerned about you embarrassing the family, yet neither of them seems willing to do anything to support it.”

Something inside me finally gave way.

Tears began slipping down my cheeks.

“I hate it, Molly.”

My voice trembled.

“They keep telling me I have options, but every option they give me involves either selling my father’s estate or finding work myself. And the moment I find a way to earn money, they scream that I’m embarrassing the royal family!”

I shook my head.

“There’s simply no winning!”

Molly nodded, her expression softening.

Before she could respond, Peter entered the kitchen to inform me that the Archduke had been settled into his chambers.

I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.

“Molly, would you please ladle some soup into a bowl and place a little bread and butter upon a tray? Peter, would you be so kind as to take it to His Grace?”

“Ma’am,” Peter said hesitantly, “he won’t be pleased to see soup again.”

“I know.”

I looked down at the bread in my hands.

“But until our circumstances improve, this is all we have.”

Peter nodded in understanding. He waited while Molly prepared the tray, then carried it away.

I watched him leave before turning back to her.

“I don’t know if what I’m doing is the right thing,” I confessed quietly. “But it’s the only thing I can think of to keep us afloat.”

Molly regarded me with gentle eyes.

“We do what we must to survive, my sweetling. I’m just grateful I can be here to help you.”

“Thank you, Molly.”

My voice broke.

“I truly don’t know how I would have managed any of this without you and Peter.”

She came around the table and wrapped her arms around me.

And there, in the warmth of that little kitchen, with the smell of fresh bread lingering in the air, I finally allowed myself to cry.

I buried my face against her, my shoulders sagging beneath the weight of everything I had been carrying.

For once, I didn’t have to be the capable wife, the resourceful daughter, or the woman who somehow always found a way to keep everything from falling apart.

For a few precious moments, I could simply be tired.

And Molly let me.