In her nightgown, Thrace looked almost like the girl from Dahlgren, but there was something different about her—akin to sadness, yet lacking even the passion for that. Often she would sit and stare at nothing for hours, and when she spoke, her words were dull and emotionless. She never laughed, cried, or smiled. In this way, she appeared to have successfully transformed from a lively peasant girl into a true empress—serene and unflappable.

Yet at what cost?

“It was late like this,” Thrace said, looking out the window. Her voice sounded disconnected, as if she was in a trance. “I was having a dream, but a squeaking noise woke me. I came to the window and I saw them. They were in the courtyard below. Men with torches, as many as a dozen, wheeled in a sealed wagon. They were knights, dressed in black-and-scarlet armor, like those we saw in Dahlgren. They spoke of the man inside the box as if he were a monster, and even though he was hooded and chained, they were afraid. After they took him away, the wagon rolled back out of the courtyard.” Thrace turned to face her. “I thought it was a dream until just now. I have a lot of unpleasant dreams.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Three months, perhaps more.”

Shivering, Arista sat up. The fire had long since died and the stone walls did nothing to keep the chill out. The window was open again. Regardless of what time of day it was, or how cold the temperature, Thrace insisted. Not with words—she rarely spoke—but each time Arista closed the window, the girl opened it again.

“That would coincide with Gaunt’s disappearance. You never heard anything else about this prisoner?”

“No, and you would be surprised how much you hear when you’re very quiet.”

“Thrace, come—” The sudden tilt of Modina’s head and the curious look on her face stopped Arista.

“No one calls me that anymore.”

“A shame. I’ve always liked the name.”

“Me too.”

“Come back to bed. You’ll catch a cold.”

Thrace walked toward her, looking at where the mirror had once hung. “I’ll need to get a new mirror before Wintertide.”

Dawn brought breakfast and morning reports from Amilia and Thrace’s tutor. Nimbus was bright-eyed and cheery, bowing to both—a courtesy Amilia refused to extend to Arista. The chief imperial secretary looked haggard. The dark circles under her eyes grew deeper each day. Holding her jaw stiff and her fists clenched, she glared at Arista eating breakfast in Thrace’s bed. Despite Amilia’s obvious contempt, Arista could not help liking her. She recognized the same fierce protectiveness that Hilfred exhibited.

“They’ve stopped the search for the Witch of Melengar,” Amilia reported, looking coldly at Arista. “They think she’s headed to either Melengar or Ratibor. Patrols are still out, but no one really expects to find her.”