“She is perfect for the prison master. Well,” erupting in the laugh people do when ruminating on a joke’s punch line, “perfect for both of them. Irion has really taken a liking to her.”

This Morlia, the object of Irion’s affection, had been Somyellia and I’s third-lover many times in the earlier days. She’d stiffened me the first night I’d met the two of them as a teen in Templeton. Though I may have been overestimating Somyellia’s sensitivity, I kept to myself my understanding of why men were so wrapped around Morlia’s finger.

“The charm spell wasn’t necessary,” I said, trying to make it sound like a question.

“Hadn’t seen Cousin Irion in ages,” Somyellia said, perhaps wanting to shift the course of our conversation, “since playing in our family’s gardens as children. Then there he is, rapping at the doors. Right after Maecidion died, actually. Funny how a death in the family can change people. Irion acted quite differently, the way he moved and even how he spoke. A lot like Maecidion used to, in fact.”

“That’s fantastic—so listen, if he’s so low in your branches or what have you, why the servant-girl role whenever he graces our stoop?”

“When you talk like that sometimes it makes me think I really should have entertained Morfil’s advances,” she said, successfully irritating me. I watched her as she pulled out what she’d been looking for: her dark robe covered in family regalia. She wore it only when practicing the type of witchcraft that demanded her utmost.

It didn’t take living with a witch to know her work was outlawed. Along with the parchment plague of new maxims about labor class virtue nailed everywhere, many false witches had been rounded up in plazas and burned to kick off the Years of Peace. Now all that remained seemed to be the real ones. Although there were those practicing black magic who stalked the periphery, Somyellia’s House had, according to her, earned the trust of the evil gods. Such trust bestowed on the Ordrids the secrets of their trickery. But it came with a heavy price. When her family called, she said she had to listen. Noticing I was still waiting for an answer, she only said, “Tersiona weeps for a reason.”

“I’ll remember that. Who penned that lofty explanation for all life’s quandaries, you or Vandahl?”

“We’ve been over this,” she sighed. Somyellia knew I didn’t care for Irion. He lived somewhere in the Bustle, so it was rare he appeared at our door. But even during such rarities, I always found a reason to slink on over to Snier’s side.