My fingers curled into my silk skirts. Large candelabras were lit throughout the hall, where trays of sparkling glasses floated through the crowd on the fingers of servers dressed in white. The gala’s guests filled the room, encircling glass cases that were framed in brushed bronze. Inside the one nearest to us, a glimmer caught my eye.

I could feel the gemstone before I could see it. The deep reverberation of it woke in the center of my chest, my lips parting as I walked toward the case and leaned over the glass. It was a piece of red beryl almost as big as my hand.

“What the…” The words dissolved.

I’d never seen anything like it. The color was a pale red, its face cut into intricate facets so my reflection was broken into pieces on the stone. There was no telling what it was worth.

The hall was an exhibit of some kind, designed to showcase the expansive collection of gems. It looked like a museum.

“Find her,” Zola muttered, looking to Clove.

Clove met my eyes for a moment before he obeyed, shouldering through the people gathered between the next two cases.

Zola fell quiet, studying the room.

“You look nervous.” I folded my hands together behind my back, letting my head tip to one side.

He gave me a weak smile. “Do I?”

“Actually, you look terrified,” I said sweetly.

His jaw tightened as a silver tray appeared beside me. It was set with delicate etched glasses filled with a pale, bubbling liquid.

“Take one,” Zola said, plucking one up by the rim.

I untangled my fingers to reach up and take one of the drinks, giving it a sniff.

“It’s cava.” He grinned. “Saltbloods don’t drink rye.”

I took a sip, grimacing at the way it fizzed on my tongue. “When are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”

“We’re waiting for the woman of the hour.” Zola rocked back onto his heels. “Should be any minute now.” I watched him gulp down the glass and reach for another.

The light cast his skin in a warm brown that made his face almost handsome, and I couldn’t help but think he didn’t look like a monster. Maybe that was why Isolde stepped onto the Luna that day. I wondered how long it took her to find out she was wrong.

“I want to ask you a question,” I said, cupping my hands around the narrow glass.

“Then ask it.”

I watched him carefully. “What were you to my mother?”

A twinkle lit in his eyes as he surveyed me. “Ah. That depends on who you ask.” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “A helmsman. A savior.” He paused. “A villain. Which version of the story do you want to hear?”

I took another long drink and the cava burned in my throat. “Why did she leave the Luna?”