The recipient’s name was redacted, but a signature remained at the bottom of the authorization.

It was not Rachel’s signature, nor was it my father’s.

It was an elegant, sweeping script that looked familiar.

“Who authorized this transfer?” I asked, showing it to Alaric.

Alaric stared at the signature, his face tightening.

“This is the official seal of the Royal Treasury Adviser,” Alaric said.

“Charles Whitmore,” Alexander said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“The man who vetted Rachel’s background,” I said. “The man who convinced you she was suitable for the throne.”

“He was helping her,” Alaric said. “Or she was helping him.”

Before we could discuss it further, a sharp knock sounded at the heavy double doors of the study.

The doors swung open, and a young security officer stood in the threshold, his face pale and sweating.

“Your Majesty,” the officer said, bowing quickly. “We have located the vehicle that left the physician’s quarters.”

“Where is it?” Alaric demanded.

“It is parked near the old chapel at the edge of the estate,” the officer said. “And we found something else.”