The maids who help Varia dress won’t stop chattering about the “dance” tonight, a Moonskemp dance in the grand ballroom. Apparently the nobles are intent on making this last holiday before the breakout of the war a decadent one.

Varia dons her dress—quiet the entire time—and leaves around sunset, dripping clear quartz jewels and leaving me to the empty apartments. I flit my fingers over her boudoir, where a strange bracelet and earrings lie—made entirely of ivory of some kind, carved with flowers and vines. Varia obviously chose the quartz gems over this pair.

Feelings aren’t jewelry. But neither are they scars. They aren’t fleeting, but neither are they permanent. I think of Y’shennria, of the scars on her neck, and then of her gentle smile at me.

Even scars can fade.

I still feel terrible about being so cruel to Fione, and Lucien’s anger toward his sister because of me pushes the guilt down my throat even more. They’re going to be at the dance—they have to be, as Firstblood nobles. As an Y’shennria, I suppose I should be there, too. I pull out the last dress left to me from Varia’s old things—a soft cream one of flax and lace. I catch my reflection in the boudoir mirror: thin dark circles, thinner lips. What does Lucien see in me? Is there anything in me worth more than standing against his beloved sister? Is there a light in the world strong enough to shine through the dark things I’ve done?

I don’t know. I wish I knew, but these questions just hang, invisible, with no answer.

you will never have an answer. The hunger laughs. all you have is me.

I touch the ivory jewelry, slowly pulling the bracelet on and clipping the earrings in.

Nobles meander the halls on their way to the ballroom, and a familiar gentle voice breaks through the sparse crowd. “Lady Zera!”

I turn to see Lady Tarroux running toward me, out of breath but dazzling in a cool pink dress with a layered skirt, the shape emulating a rosebud just opening. Nobles murmur as she passes—running won’t do for a lady. But now more than ever, she doesn’t seem to care.

“Lady Tarroux.” I make a bow. “You look as if a groundskeeper just picked you fresh from a bush!”

She blushes pink enough to match her dress and offers me her arm. “Thank you. Will you walk with me?”

It’s a gesture so reminiscent of Fione, of the way she and I walked in the garden, that it makes my unheart sing with longing. If only she were Fione. If only she knew what I really was, she would be so afraid of me, just like Fione. Softly, I take her arm, and together we make our way to the dance.