He had glanced at me, and I waited, hoping he would talk. That we could settle this rift between us. Of course I didn’t truly know why he had stormed home and destroyed the library that evening weeks ago, but I could imagine that was the day his mother had told him who she was, who he was—the son of a wraith—and that she was gathering up her erstwhile companions with the intention to return to the mountain.

“Perhaps,” he had said before walking away. “But I don’t want to talk about it with you, Anna.”

His words still stung when I recalled them, but I also couldn’t fault him for being angry at me. I swallowed that memory and watched the first star break the dusk as I returned to the camp. Tents were pitched in a ring with a fire in the center. Olivette and Nura were currently struggling with their tent, until Nura gave up and enchanted it to rise. My parents and Imonie were already camped as well, Imonie beginning to cook dinner over the flames. And then there was the tent for Mazarine, who everyone gave a respectful berth, and the duke’s.

I drifted to a log beside Nura as she began to chop carrots for a stew. I helped by peeling a mealy potato, and I waited until Olivette, who was tending the fire, rose to fetch more sticks.

“Have you figured out who is who?” I whispered to Nura.

She knew I spoke of the mountain court—the seven wraiths—and was quiet for a breath, but her eyes darted around the bustle of the camp. Some of the wraiths were obvious; others, I was still trying to identify.

“I believe so,” she began in a low tone. “Mazarine is the spymistress, obviously. The countess is the heiress. I think the woman called Imonie once served the countess as her lady-in-waiting.” She paused to dump her carrot rounds into a cast-iron pot. “I think Olivette’s father is the advisor.”

I held my tongue. I believed that was my father’s former position, but I was still uncertain.

“And what about the duke?” I whispered.

“The master of coin,” Nura said without hesitation, and I nodded.

“But what I’m wondering,” I began, lowering my voice a shade more as one of the Vespers’ servants tossed a split log on the fire, “is how the master of coin was able to worm his way into being Duke of Bardyllis. If he can’t age, and wasn’t born into the Deryn family, then how did he manage it . . . ?”

“It’s a mystery,” Nura agreed, “and I think there is some old magic at play here. The duke is obviously disguised, as Mazarine is. Maybe she fashioned a glamour for him to appear just like the real duke, so the master of coin could seamlessly take his place without anyone realizing there had been a swap.”