Laya banished all questions of love from her mind as she swept across the terrace. She skipped down the stairs two steps at a time⁠—Eti, thankfully, was not there to trip over⁠—then barreled toward the eastern wing. For a long time, she had avoided looking in that direction, given the shame it brought her. Laya hadn’t meant to destroy it, and she promised her mother she would do better. Still, the queen would never let her forget that accursed day. It was shortly after Laya had shown Luntok the entrance to the tunnel. Bulan had confronted her, swearing she caught a glimpse of Luntok lurking about the gardens. Their argument exploded into a whirlwind of insults and accusations. The blood of Mulayri surged in Laya’s veins, clouding every last scrap of sense. In the throes of anger, the threads spun from Laya’s grip, and the wind roared in her ears like a wrathful god. It was her power, not Laya, who’d won that battle. Her fingers still itched from the desperate desire to wrangle back control.

The accident had been years earlier. Since then, the eastern wing had stood empty⁠—until now. Curiosity prompted her to march up to the doors of the eastern wing, where one of Ojas’s men stood guard. “I request an audience with our guest,” she said curtly.

Surprise flickered on the guard’s face, but he did not deny her. “Shall I bring him to the main building, Dayang?” he asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “If you let me in, I shall call upon him myself.”

Wordlessly, the guard moved. Laya was pleased, for it meant the guard hadn’t received orders to forbid them from visiting the Orfelian. She swept past him and mounted the steps to the sparse apartments on the upper floor, taking note as she did so of the dusty shadows striping the floors. The eastern wing was darker inside than a tomb. Someone should have thought to open a few of the windows, given the sweltering heat. But the window screens lining the entry hall stayed stubbornly shut, as if the eastern wing were devoid of occupants. Laya’s face brightened with the spark of triumph. She was right; the king and queen did not want to call attention to their Orfelian guest.

She made her way to the study at the far end of the hall. To her delight, the Orfelian was nowhere to be seen. Perfect. Laya’s gaze fell on the writing desk at the center of the study. Its surface was littered with empty inkwells and handwritten notes. She leaned over the desk to read them, when footsteps echoed from one of the adjoining rooms. No time⁠—Laya snatched the first sheet from the pile that looked like correspondence rather than formulae and stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt. The door beside the writing desk opened a second later.