Tjäder just stared at me. She was in her mid-thirties, with thick blond hair and eyes like olive oil. Nick had always called this woman the Magpie—her reign of hell in Stockholm was notorious. I could tell she couldn’t stand to be near me: her pale lips were pulled tight over her teeth, as if she was about to bite. I wasn’t exactly relishing her presence, either.

“I don’t want her near me,” Tjäder said, confirming my suspicions.

“But would you not rather they were here, with us, than on your streets?” Nashira said. “They can do no harm here, Birgitta. We do not let them. Once Sheol III is established, you will never have to look at a clairvoyant again.”

A third penal colony? Did they have plans for Stockholm, too? I didn’t want to think about a Sheol III with the Magpie as its procurer.

Tjäder didn’t take her eyes off me. She had no aura, but I could read the loathing in every inch of her face.

“I can’t wait,” she said.

The pianist stopped playing, prompting a round of applause. The dancing couples separated. Nashira glanced up toward a large clock. “The hour draws near.”

Her voice was very soft. “Excuse me,” Tjäder said. She turned and marched back to the Swedes, leaving an open space between Warden and me. I didn’t dare meet his eyes.

“I must address the emissaries.” Nashira looked at the stage. “Arcturus, stay with 40. I will need her in due course.”

So she did plan to kill me in public. I looked between the two of them. Warden inclined his head. “Yes, my sovereign.” He took me roughly by the arm. “Come, 40.”

Before he could lead me away, Nashira’s head whipped around. She grabbed my wrist, pulling me back toward her.

“Did you hurt yourself, 40?”

The Steri-Strips on my cheek were long gone, but there was still a hairline scar from the broken glass. “I struck her.” Warden kept a tight grip on my arm. “She disobeyed me. I punished her.”

I stood like a rag doll, one arm in each of their hands. They looked at each other over my head. “Good,” Nashira said. “After all these years, you are learning what it means to be my consort.”

She turned her back on him and walked into the crowd, parting the emissaries.

The musician, whoever it was, began to play some well-chosen piano chords, accompanied by ghostly vocals. I was sure I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t place it. Warden led me to the side of the hall, to the long space underneath the gallery, and leaned down to look at me. “Is everything ready?”

I nodded.