The ribbons on Lyric’s nightgown were Royalist blue. And Claire had promised Kleo to leave her little sister out of this. It was better for Lyric not to know. Safer. Yet Claire’s lies were becoming tangled, and each new one sat angrily on her chest, as if to say, You’ve created us—what do you want to do with us? She was so tired of them. And she missed having a sister nearby.

And so she decided to tell Lyric the truth.

Kind of.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Claire admitted. “But,” she hurried to add, “I know that I want magic to return to Arden. That unicorns should run free. And that I am your friend.”

Claire watched as Lyric took in this information. She could practically see the strands of a narrative weaving in front of her, and Claire wondered what kind of stories Lyric might write down one day. Kleo wanted to be a historian, to record fact, but Claire suspected that maybe Lyric would be a novelist, spinning stories that contained the kind of truths that could be seen only in glimpses.

Suddenly, Claire felt arms wrap around her waist, and she glanced down to see the mermaid-like braids and twists of Lyric’s hair. “Thanks for my shoes,” Lyric said softly. And then, so quietly that Claire could barely hear: “Thanks for saving me.”

And then she was gone.

It was easy to slip quietly through the hallway of the Wefts’ home. The thick carpets muffled even the heaviest of footsteps.

Seeing, however, was another matter.

“Ow!” Claire let out a gasp of pain as she ran into the edge of a table. She clapped her hands over her mouth as tears pricked her eyes. Had anyone heard her? One second passed, then another. There was no creak of an upstairs door or a concerned call from Mistress Weft. Her breath slowly returned to normal.

Picking up the pace, Claire moved forward, keeping her hand outstretched and careful not to rustle the Hollow Pack. Ten feet … five feet … Her hand grasped the doorknob, and then she was out in the fresh air, always slightly tinged with salt.

Though the hour was late, a few Spinners still strolled the streets, admiring the Starfell ribbons and enjoying cups of warm nectar as they ambled by, arm in arm. And while one or two Spinners kept an eye on the shadowy patches, most of them moved loosely, taking their time to stop and stare up at the moon without fear of a wraith’s attack. With the queen’s promise of protection, it seemed many of them wanted to explore the night.

None seemed to take notice of a girl quietly making her way toward the Historium. She would steal the tine and make it to the Weaver’s Bridge with enough time to meet Kleo and safely escape.

Or she’d fail, and …

No, she couldn’t think about that possibility.