She’d been home for two days now, locked in a bedchamber in the North Tower as Isabel’s “honored guest.” Two days spent agonizing and worrying. Two days wasted. Although she fantasized about breaking down the door, about freeing Hal from his cell some stories above her, she was still no closer to a concrete plan to save him.

Una sat beside her in the silvery chill of a carriage. Although she was effectively her jailer, they hadn’t spoken since they had left Colwick Hall on the night of the ball. Whenever Wren glanced over at her, she could see the tense set of her jaw and the brutal tightness of her fists. A war raged within her eyes.

The carriage rattled to a halt, and Wren climbed out without a word.

As soon as she stepped into the rheumy winter air, the crowd’s energy changed. Their jeers melted away into a hush—and then, the shouting began anew, exultant and barely articulate. Through the overwhelming noise, through the blood roaring in her ears, she could make out a single word: hero.

It struck her like a stone.

“You look ill.” Una stood shoulder to shoulder with her. “You’d better hide it.”

Wren grimaced before forcing herself to wave at the crowds. As they passed the main gates, she numbly registered the featureless, cheering masses, the sparkle of sunlight and flash of camera bulbs. Colors swam in her vision. Once, she had dreamed of this.

Admiration. Her reputation restored. Her position secure.

It was all so hollow now.

Una—her head held high and her sleek braid swinging like a gallows rope—walked alongside Wren up the pristine white stairs of the royal palace. She led them through halls and up stairs to a balcony filled with the black-capped heads of the Guard. From her vantage point, Wren could see the throne room stretched before her like a theater. Terraces and boxes and tiered seats buzzed with courtiers and wealthy business owners. Isabel so rarely held court, everyone was dressed for the occasion in their finest: bold Cernosian-flag red in support of their new ally, elaborately beaded gowns, and expensive fur stoles draped over shoulders.

On a marble dais, Isabel, veiled and crowned, sat atop her throne. It was a monstrosity wrought in silver, its back twisting skyward like spires of ice. A canopy of lace, as delicate and liquid as poured water, concealed her from the direct view of her subjects. Isabel, as always, hurt to look at with her glass-sharp beauty, but Wren could only focus on Lowry.