I watch as the carriage door closes, and the servant at the back straps on the final trunk. The driver shakes the reins and the carriage trundles forward, rattling over the uneven cobbles. I watch the carriage as it lumbers out the great wooden gates, pulled open for it; watch as the sentries slowly shove the gates shut, and even after that I stand, staring at their dark form, my ears straining for the faint sound of the carriage’s passage.

There is no undoing what I did today. And perhaps I don’t want to undo it, but oh how I wish it had happened differently. I grasp the edges of my cloak and wrap my arms around myself, as if I could warm myself with wool and solitude alone.

Inside, I drift down the halls. I do not want to go back to my room, to the elderly servant who took me under her wing after my father died—I do not want to discover what she thinks of me now, if she judges me as harshly as my family does. So, instead, I find myself treading the stairs again, up to the hallway where Valka stood, brooch in hand. I stand, staring at the hallway, dimly lit by lamps set in sconces along the wall. Our luminae stones, as my brother is so aware, light only my mother’s room. Here, there are shadows and the occasional flicker of flame, and a sense of darkness. More foolishness, I suppose, for there is darkness everywhere, just as there is light.

Still, I wrap my cloak tighter about myself, even though it is warmer in here, warm enough that my palms are sweaty in their layers of wool.

“Alyrra.”

I turn to find Maralinde coming toward me. She watches me and I watch her in return. Surely she, at least, is still my friend? But then why does she seem so distant?

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” she says when she is even with me.

I nod.

“Father isn’t going to ask your mother for anything. Not after that.”

No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare ask for a concession when my mother’s greatest concern will be placating Daerilin, the man whose family has been disgraced through his. Even if it was Valka who did wrong and not Emmanika. Even if it was my words that brought Valka down, and not really Maralinde’s family at all.

“I’m sorry,” Maralinde says quietly, “but I don’t think I’ll be writing to you this summer.”

I grip my cloak tighter. “You think I’ll turn on you?”

“I think my father can’t afford Daerilin’s hatred. Right now, this is about you and Valka, the way the court’s talking about it. That’s how it has to stay.”