“I’m sorry, Mama,” Lyric said, sniffling a little bit. “I made a mistake—but I’m free now! Elaina saved me!” It seemed all of Lyric’s stories had gone out the window at the sight of her mother’s ruffled fury.

“Saved?” Mistress Weft’s eyebrows shot up, and she looked suspiciously at her daughter. “Saved from what?”

Lyric shifted guiltily, then reached into her cloak pocket to pull out a swab of web. Even seeing it sent a shiver of prickles across Claire as she remembered the sticky warmth wrapping around her ribs and coating her nose.

Mistress Weft gaped. “Did you go to the Spyden?”

Lyric cringed, but she nodded and didn’t run. Which was rather courageous, Claire thought, especially taking into consideration the rising color on Mistress Weft’s brown cheeks. For a moment, Claire thought the woman might actually explode. Instead, Mistress Weft took a deep breath, seeming to pull in her words like wool on a spindle, before she turned her attention to Claire. “And you saved her?”

Uncertain, Claire nodded. Suddenly, her world was a haze of pink frills as Mistress Weft gathered Claire and hugged her tight. “Thank you,” she said into Claire’s hair. Lyric’s mother smelled a bit of lavender, reminding Claire of her own mother, who liked to make sure there was at least one jar of lavender bubble bath in the closet.

“And what about your parents?” Mistress Weft asked. “Where are they?”

Claire threw a frantic look at Lyric, who quickly stepped in. “The Spyden Gathered all her thoughts, Mama. She doesn’t remember much of anything.”

“You poor dear!” Mistress Weft said, giving Claire one last squeeze before letting go. When she didn’t look like she might explode, her face was as open as a sunflower and just as pleasant. There was also something familiar about Lyric’s mother—something about the way her eyes crinkled or her nose—that made Claire wonder if she’d met Mistress Weft before. Lyric, too, for that matter, but Claire knew that was impossible.

“Come, you must be hungry,” Mistress Weft continued, “Let’s get you comfortable while we figure out which fleet you belong to—and a suitable punishment for Lyric.”

Lyric gulped.

Claire followed mother and daughter through the city. Bright townhouses edged the canals like lace on a collar. But though the colors were beautiful, Claire couldn’t help but notice the odd tilt of many of the buildings that maybe a Tiller could have helped straighten out, and the crumbling corners of the stone bridges that could do with a Gemmer’s touch. After a few more steps, three more bridges, and a turn or two, they at last arrived in front of a bright-yellow door of a stately home.