And I recognize it, in that instant. The wind whips my hair and I remember where I’ve felt this before—my dream. That dream of two tree pendants, of that awful feeling of what would happen if I didn’t bring them together. That dream of the Hall of Time and the stained glass shattering, that lonely tree wearing the shards like armor and then teeth, all pointed at me. So incredibly lonely.

But how can a tree be lonely? How can the same feeling appear in a dream and out of a dream? Varia showed me the glass shard inside my heart bag, and she told me it’s what kept me alive.

Is it what keeps those High Witches alive, too?

Is it…the Glass Tree?

“Zera.”

Lucien’s voice. I turn to see him leaning against the doorway, a decided weariness in his eyes.

“Hey.” I smile. But he doesn’t.

“We should go,” he says. “To Y’shennria’s dinner she invited us to.”

“Right.” I calm the swell in my heart at seeing her again, at seeing Crav and Peligli. “Got anything nice to wear?”

“They left us some things.” He motions inside the guest apartment. “Come choose, before Malachite steals all the pretty ones.”

I pause. But we’re thinking the same thing, because he says, “If they won’t help us, Zera, we’ll do it ourselves. No matter what.” He grins. “Didn’t you promise Fione? You’ll get Varia back alive. No matter what.”

I laugh, too small to even be a real one, and nod, following him inside.

The chaos of getting dressed is a welcome change from the somber mood. Fione has to help us all—clearly the inner workings of overlay back-clasps and double-thread-Avellish knots elude all but the archduchess.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this stuff, Luc,” Malachite grumbles, trying to force his paper-pale, slender leg through some fabric.

“That’s a tunic, Malachite, not pants.” Fione sighs, snatching it from him and righting it.

“Oh.” Malachite pulls it over his head with a muffled “Cheers.”

“Fione.” Lucien motions hopelessly to a complex braiding pattern in vine-green silk down his chest. Fione looks up at me as she fixes my own braid pattern on my shirt.

“Just do what I did for him, would you? I have to help Mal before he rips everything in two.”

“Horseshit.” Malachite’s voice resounds over the sound of tearing seams, and I chuckle and make my way to Lucien. The guest apartment is entirely fueled in light and heat by his witchfire—the purple-black of the fire blazing in braziers glancing over his chest. I try not to look at him or acknowledge the fact he’s totally bare beneath his complicated shirt.

“You’ve done this before, then.” His voice rumbles as my fingers clumsily fix the first braid.