“Who are you?” she snarled, and I was briefly taken aback by her tone.

“Imonie,” I said, and took a step closer to her. “Imonie, it’s me.”

She recognized my voice. Her mouth fell open. The knife tumbled from her grip. She suddenly looked grieved, like she wanted to weep.

“Clementine?”

I didn’t respond, but I was satisfied. If the woman who had raised me had failed to identify me, then no one would.

The mountain wind rushed through the pines, tangling my hair.

And I smiled.

Part 2

Heart of Stone

12

I stood on the marble steps of the Luminous Society Museum, staring at the elegant colonnade. It was a quarter till noontide, and the sun was high in the cloudless sky above me. I had just returned to Endellion, and I was wearing my black-and-white striped skirt, my white chemise, my velvet bodice. The traditional clothes I once wore on new moon nights, when I had fought beside my father in the streets. It felt right to wear my old armor in this moment, even if the fit was slightly off now and the style was five years out of fashion by city standards.

I ascended the stairs to the heavy wooden doors, knowing I was almost out of time.

I had sent Imonie on to my mother’s town house. She was still upset by my disguise, and I made her swear not to say a word to my parents. The confrontation would soon come, but I would think about it later.

The museum greeted me with a wash of cool, musty air. My boots clicked on the floor as I walked to the receptionist, a young magician decked out in a top hat and a brown jacket with a daisy tucked into one of the buttonholes.

“I’m here to be interviewed by Phelan Vesper,” I said.

“You just missed him,” the receptionist replied, frowning down at the schedule spread before him. “He finished early for the day.”

“Did Mr. Vesper find a suitable partner, then?”

“On the contrary. He was woefully unimpressed.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear this. I remembered the way Phelan had first regarded me in the street of Hereswith, when he had narrowly avoided becoming Mazarine’s dinner. He had been underwhelmed by me, or so he had appeared to be. I had spent many hours thinking about how I would snare his attention in this interview, hours I had spent jostled in the stagecoach, suffering Imonie’s glares. And I knew his respect for me had not sparked until I had sunk his boat during the new moon challenge.

“Will you call him back?” I asked the receptionist. “The ad said he would be conducting interviews until noontide. And I’m here with minutes to spare. I think he will want to see me.”

“Well . . . I suppose I can send word to him. Can you pay for a runner?”