The beneather rolls his eyes and shoves Lucien away, and Lucien’s laugh is nice to hear. It’s nice, to see them playing around. To see Lucien being carefree, even when it’s hardest for him to be. Even if his heart is heavy. It’s nice, to walk beside him up the ramp, the stars gleaming down on us and Fione and Malachite walking with us, arguing over something small and probably etiquette related.

“You can’t put your feet on the table.” Fione sighs.

“Why not? We’re not in Vetris anymore! No more stuffy rules—”

“There are still rules,” Fione quips. “You’re the prince of Cavanos’s bodyguard. So start acting like it.”

“Spirits. You’re no fun anymore.” Malachite sighs. “I liked you way better when Varia was—”

He stops himself. Fione’s back goes straight, and Lucien and I exchange a glance.

“Sorry,” the beneather says quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Here we are.” Fione strides ahead of us, stopping before the south-facing door and tapping on it with her cane.

“Fione,” I start.

“No.” The archduchess interrupts me, her every word laced with steel. “We’re not here to dwell on the past, Zera. All of you. We’re here to change the future.”

“It’s all right to talk about these things, though—” Lucien starts, but she slices him off at the knees with her gaze. The starlight glimmers off her mousy hair, the periwinkle in her eyes turning to ice as she reminds us of the sober reality.

“As long as Varia d’Malvane has the Bone Tree, I don’t want to talk. I want to do.”

10

10

THE REPRIEVE

Y’shennria greets us at her door dressed in delicate black knit lace and a ruby-dotted net in her hair. If she notices the awkward atmosphere among the four of us, she doesn’t remark on it, showing us elegantly into the larger apartments. It’s lit up by witchfire—though by which witch, I’m not sure. More importantly, it’s decorated with all her old furniture, or most of it anyway, and my heart perks up seeing the familiar loveseat, the embroidered chaise lounge, the black leather couch on which I spent so much time bleeding and training to become a lady. The amazing bookshelves are here, replete with her whole library and the iron and glass orbs of varying spikiness I used on my shoulders to agonizingly train my posture. Even the grandfather sandclock is here, ticking out the halves in slow seconds.

Even Reginall is here, dressed in a smart suit and his manicured mustache and offering us tangerine cordials on a tray.

“Regi—” His name gets stuck in my throat, but he’s much calmer. He puts the tray down on the table and holds out his wrinkled hands to me. I dash to him, reaching, and he clasps me close, kind eyes twinkling.