“Lady Fione Himintell,” the announcer standing by the door crows. My whole body freezes, and every noble watches the stairs to see her descend. Varia’s strong magic no doubt brought me back to consciousness quickly, so it’s been only a day, two at most, but it feels like I haven’t seen her in years as she walks down the steps in a pearlescent silver gown, her mousey ringlets done up in a cascade. She looks amazing, and yet her face is tense. She clutches her white valkerax-headed cane with equally white knuckles as she moves through the crowd, the whispers coiling around her like snakes.

“Archduke Gavik killed by witches—”

“—she’s now the youngest and wealthiest of us by far, and she’ll soon be named an archduchess by the Minister of the Blood—”

“Not even married—”

“Only the most suitable man for Her Grace is required, then—”

Man? I’d forgotten how obsessed this court was with pairing children off to sire more. I gnaw my lip. I hadn’t even thought about a marriage for Fione, but I’m sure that’s all that must be on her mind now. That and the fact I’m a Heartless who lied to her.

Vetrisian society doesn’t condemn homosexual relationships, but the court is another matter. All they care about is carrying on their bloodlines. Two women are sometimes more than capable of creating children—but Fione is expected to marry someone who could provide her with heirs, no matter what. Not for love but for cold, unfeeling procreation.

My unheart aches for her, but she turns, and for a moment our eyes meet through the crowd. We’re just close enough that she could strike a conversation with me, if she so chose. And she has to choose, because I’m a much lower rank than her. I always have been, but now with the mantle of archduchess hanging over her, it’s more obvious. Her eyes are so blue—cornflowers at high noon, impassive, and mine, I’m sure, are tired discs of gray. I force a smile.

If she hates me for what I’ve done, what I am, I’d understand. But I don’t want her to. Gods, I don’t want her to.

Gods, I want to talk to her. To talk with her about the stifling court, about their eye roll–worthy expectations and prejudices, would lessen the pressure on my own shoulders. I want to walk around the room with her, arm in arm, like true friends might, like we did in the gardens days ago.

I could. I could bypass decorum and speak to her first, but that’s acceptable only if she accepts it, if she still sees me as a friend. She turns in the crowd, so close to me, and I seize the moment.