He studied her, the lines on his face moving in ways that told her he was making a calculation. The idea of her walking the Wester Quarter under Colins would not please Orsic — it might even escalate an investigatory battle between K.P.P and the Postknights — but it would place the princess under the charge of officers who were both competent and, more importantly to him, trusted by him in that private way.
Finally King MacLinny nodded, slowly. "I will allow limited movements." He said, and the words were lighter than she had dared hope. "But on conditions. You will be accompanied by two leaders of the five units: one of your choosing and one I will appoint. You will have only the minimal retinue necessary; you will not deviate from the plan, and—" He hesitated, the hardest clause waiting like a stone, "—you will stay within ranges we can secure."
Lily felt something raw and bright loosen in her chest. "Two leaders?" she repeated. "Who would you have me choose?"
"Choose Seraphine or Colins for your side," he said, answering with the easy certainty of a man who had thought about the field for longer than anyone else. "I will appoint Commander Orsic as the second, though I warn you—"
"No." She interrupted, surprised at her own suddenness. "Not Orsic. Not when he holds the pistol of public opinion like a scepter. If you are appointing a commander, appoint someone who is not in his chain. Appoint Commander Elise or Ardin as neutral oversight. If we are to rebuild trust, the appearance of impartiality is as important as the task."
The king looked at her with a new admiration, and then with the familiar ache of the father who had watched his child grow teeth and then a crown. "You have learned the politics of perception well," he said, and it sounded both like praise and a warning.
"Then let me be taught how to wield perception," Lily said, quieter now, steady. "Let me know what the people need to see to trust us again."
He considered and then, to her relief and his private bargaining, he nodded. "Very well. I will allow the tours in a small, controlled way. We will prepare the plan. But understand this—" He stepped closer, putting his hands on her shoulders like the king and like the father who had not yet stopped worrying, "—if there is any sign that this places you in real peril, I will recall you. I will not allow you to be used as an instrument in anyone's political theatre."
"I will be careful," she promised. "I will not be used."
He sighed, a small sound that was older than both of them. "We have had three months of being reactive. We will be cautious now, but we will also be deliberate. The people need to see that we can move without endangering them. And you, my daughter, need to know how to move in the world as it now is."
They stood there in the quiet with the portrait watching as if the late queen were arranging her features into a pleased smile. For the first time in months there was a small plan in motion—something to be drawn in ink and practiced in steps. It would mean meetings and rituals and the relentless grind of safety checklists. It would also mean public eyes and the fragile art of not giving Orsic a rope to hang them all upon.
Lily slid a hand up to his and squeezed. "Then teach me how to navigate and manage things." she said simply.
He kissed the top of her hand in a sudden, private gesture that belonged to a world before crowns, before politics; it was not for the court. "I will." He said. "We will start it in the morning."
Outside, in the city, someone began to sing a low hymn. It was a priest's chant from the Chapel of Eloin, a sound threaded between the watchfires and the hush of the streets. The hymn did not end arguments, but it did what hymns do best: it gave people a steady, human sound to gather around.
They would plan. They would walk. The gap between father and daughter had not been sealed — it had been raw — and now it would be tended with the slow, careful hand of two people who had to learn to trust one another again. The kingdom would watch. Orsic would sharpen his knives of rhetoric and suspicion. But Lily had a plan, and King MacLinny had, for the first time in weeks, a small shift in the posture toward faith rather than fear.
In the days to come, that shift would set other things into motion: guarded outings, small tours of distribution points, a tapestry of public work that might rebuild a thread of trust. It would also give the enemy targets and the court a choice between vulnerability and courage.
Tonight, however, the room held two people who had argued and not lost each other — only bridged a dangerous distance with a compromise both sides could live with. It was small. It was fragile. It was, for them both, essential.