Imonie heard us coming, long before I even laid a hand on our gate. She heard me and the tread of unfamiliar boots in my wake, and she threw open the door with a murderous look on her face.

“You’re late, Clementine.”

I came to a stop on the stoop, narrowing my eyes at her. “Yes, well, I ran into these two magicians on the street.”

She scrutinized them over my shoulder. A long, uncomfortable moment passed. “I see that.” She brought her eyes back to mine and said, “Go and tell your father we have company.”

I did just as she bade, and found my father still in bed, flushed from fever.

“Who did you bring home?” he croaked at me.

I stood in the center of his chamber and stared at him, realizing he was worse than before.

Dread unfurled within me, and I set the book of nightmares back on his desk.

“I found two magicians wandering the town, seeking you. I brought them here, so they’re off the streets tonight.”

“You what?” He was suddenly ripping the quilts away, stumbling to his feet. I reached out to steady him, because he looked like he was a breath from fainting, his eyes unfocused until they found me. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know their names yet.”

“Are they from the Luminous Society?”

“No, they’re not.”

Papa stared at me, but he was not seeing me. His gaze was very distant, and he was suddenly shaking.

“You need to lie down . . .” I tried to direct him back to bed, but he broke from my grip, lumbering to his wardrobe and drawing out fresh clothes. A long-sleeved linen shirt, a green waistcoat with golden embroidery, a white cravat, a black jacket . . .

“Papa.”

“Go and change, Clementine, and then return to me here,” he said, pausing to lean on the wardrobe. “We both must look our best tonight.”

He must sense it, then. He was being challenged by upstarts for his town, for our home.

I left his chamber and shut the door, tarrying in the upper hallway, listening. Imonie was setting two more places at the table; she set the china down with clinking intensity. The magicians were quiet, but I heard them walking in the room beneath me, the floor protesting their elegant steps.

I slipped into my bedroom.

A few candelabras were lit, casting uneven shadows on the walls. My window was closed and shuttered tonight, because of the new moon. The desk before it was messy, crowded with my journals of spells and illustrations, a tray of pastels and charcoal and half-drawn imaginings. Imonie had already laid out clothes: my favorite black-and-white striped skirt with pockets, my weapon belt, a stark white chemise with billowy sleeves, a velvet bodice that laced up the front.