As the seamstress helped her into her sleeves, Laya turned to face her reflection. The ensemble had cost a hefty sum, but it was worth every coin. Luntok would not be able to keep his eyes off her now.

The seamstress frowned as she added a pin to Laya’s waistline. “You’ve lost weight, Dayang. We’ll have to take this in.”

“You wouldn’t know with all the yam cakes she eats,” a voice chimed from the hall.

Laya looked over her shoulder. Bulan was leaning against the doorframe, garbed in a threadbare tunic and a pair of trousers, which hung loosely from her hips. Her curly hair sat in a sweaty pile atop her head. Judging by her disheveled appearance, she had been training since daybreak.

“What are you doing here?” Laya asked with a grimace. Her sister was in desperate need of a bath.

“Maiza is looking for Eti. She’s hopelessly late for her lesson. Have you seen her?” Bulan took in the sight of Laya in her feast clothes, envy flickering in her expression. “Pretty dress,” she added.

Laya glanced pointedly at the shifting pile of silk in the corner of the dressing room. Eti was small and light-footed, with a talent for hiding in plain sight. Yet she’d revealed herself with a muffled sneeze about a quarter of an hour before. Laya had pretended not to notice.

Bulan followed Laya’s gaze. They exchanged a tiny smile. Bulan turned back to the hallway and called, “Maiza! I think we’ve found her.”

Uneven thuds echoed from the hall, and High Shaman Maiza appeared at Bulan’s shoulder. “Come along, child. We’ve wasted enough of the day as it is,” Maiza said. Her voice was scratchy and stern, but her eyes glimmered with affection.

At last, Eti peered out from beneath the sheet of amethyst silk that made up Laya’s midnight feast dress. “No fair,” she said, pouting. “Laya always gets the loveliest clothes.”

The high shaman trudged into the dressing room, leaning heavily on her walking stick. Although hard to tell by Maiza’s simple clothes, she was one of the highest-ranked members of the court. She was the guardian of Maynaran traditions as well as the bridge to the spirits. Like the lower shamans who served beneath her, she dealt primarily in healing incantations and blessings⁠—petty sorcery compared to the Gatdulas’ might. Maiza had been a close friend of the royal family since before Eti was even born, and she had always appeared as ancient as Maynara’s sacred texts. She would never die, the old crone.

“Very lovely, indeed,” Maiza said, gazing at Laya with a rare shade of tenderness. “You are the spitting image of Hara Duja on the day of her wedding ceremony.”

Laya met Maiza’s eyes in the mirror. “You will officiate my own wedding soon if the rumors are to be believed.”