A girl at the window seat, bent over a book. Silhouetted against an early winter sunset, light spilling in around her, the sky on fire, consuming itself, blue burning away to reveal the softest pink. A girl looking up as if summoned. A jolt of fear in Ayla’s belly: Did I say her name aloud?

No, that was a memory. This was now. A country away.

“Think of it like this,” said Lady Dear, tapping one long finger on the piece of parchment where she’d written out the Zullan alphabet. “This is the language of storytelling. In Zullan, you write letters, you read books, you record thoughts and memories and messages. Ideas. Dreams, if you have them. You’re human—you dream. This is the language of the heart. And this . . .” She indicated one of the long strings of alchemic symbols. “This is the language of science. Of the mind. The language you use to work real magick. These symbols hold a different kind of power, girl. Put them in the right sequence, and you can breathe life into stone.”

Heartstone.

The eight-point star on Ayla’s necklace. The pendant that, when activated with a drop of blood, had sent Crier and Ayla tumbling into the memories of someone long dead. Siena. Ayla had watched her own grandmother, impossibly young, laughing in the arms of the boy who would later become Ayla’s grandfather Leo.

“I’d argue the storytelling language can breathe life into stone too,” said Ayla, and then winced. That was something Crier would say. Crier and her faerie stories.

“Clever,” said Lady Dear. “Now write out the first fifteen symbols. Fire through gold.”

Ayla wanted to groan. What was Queen Junn playing at, really? Aloud, she asked, “Who puts the Makers’ language in a letter?”

“Have you heard of the language of flowers, girl?”

“No. What’s that?”

“The idea that certain types of flowers carry specific meanings,” said Lady Dear. “Red poppies for pleasure; lilies for beauty and purity; camellias for longing. Marigolds for jealousy. White roses for secrecy. Oleander for caution. Combine different types of flowers, and you can construct entire messages. So it goes with the language of the Makers.” She leaned back, the stardust on her collarbone catching the lamplight. “And that’s why we have eyes and ears on the inside, girl.”

Oh—

A memory welled up inside Ayla.

You can be our eyes and ears on the inside, love. Stationed right at the heart of the spider’s nest, imagine that. Rowan, eyes lit up, smiling, proud of Ayla. Stars and skies, birdy.

Another memory: Rowan, pierced through with a sword. Rowan, crumpling to the ground. Rowan, dying painfully in the middle of a mob; Ayla, trapped inside a carriage, unable even to retrieve her body. Unable to mourn.

She didn’t realize she was crying until a teardrop hit the back of her hand.

A silk handkerchief was pressed into her hands.

Ayla looked up. Lady Dear was watching her, expressionless. Ayla took the handkerchief and wiped her face.