“An Eastern girl,” Zofi said. “Red hair, on the tall side, quiet… She said you helped her curse her abusive father.”

Mother’s frown remained. “I did help a girl who fits that description. My first commission in a long time. But anyone would’ve done it. You only had to take one look at her bruises to feel for her.”

Zofi searched her mother’s expression. “So you didn’t know, then, who she really was.”

“Zofi, what are you talking about? How did you come to meet this girl?”

“She’s Andros’s daughter,” Zofi replied. “My half sister.”

For a moment, Mother didn’t react. Then her face crumpled, as the realization struck. “Sands,” she groaned under her breath. “That’s why—”

“Why Father summoned us bastards, yes,” Zofi interrupted. “He’s dying. Akeylah was raised like me—ignorant of her background. She thought she was cursing her abuser.”

Mother shut her eyes. “That poor girl. And Andros, gods, what have I done? A death like that, there’s so much pain.…”

Zofi sat forward. “Help me, Mother. There has to be some way to fix this. A countercurse.”

“Not one you could perform,” Mother said. “Because you did not work the initial curse. But Akeylah can. It takes a great deal of the Arts, and it may be too late—”

“Just write down how it’s done.” Zofi dug through Mother’s trunk until she found writing supplies. Tossed a quill in her direction. “If there’s any chance of saving him, Akeylah will take it.”

Mother hesitated. Then she flashed Zofi another look, expression unreadable.

“What?” Zofi asked as she flung some paper and an inkwell her mother’s way.

“I just can’t believe you’re home.”

A strange sensation flooded her, as she watched her mother write the instructions.

Being back here didn’t feel unusual. Everything remained the same—the people, this tent. Even Mother, with her countless secrets, was the same person she’d always been.

But Zofi wasn’t.

And much as she wanted it to, the word home no longer quite described this place.

15

Akeylah

Rozalind can’t be the heir. She recited the refrain over and over as she strode through the Keep, until it became a sort rhythmic prayer. She can’t.

The Vulgar Arts left scars. Akeylah would have seen them on Rozalind’s body.

But it had been dark, the night they’d finally lain together. And while she’d seen plenty of the queen, she hadn’t exactly studied every inch. How noticeable had her own scar been that night? She didn’t remember.

Other memories chased that one. Rozalind arguing to keep Zofi imprisoned. Wanting to put Ren on trial. Rozalind’s reaction when Akeylah admitted she’d cursed Andros—the queen had seemed surprised, but had she been that shocked, given what Akeylah confessed?