Her concern notches higher as Mii Vun lets out a shaky sigh and averts her eyes as if in careful deliberation. The elderly seamstress has been incredibly kind ever since Sparrow set foot in this huge, bustling city only a few weeks ago, taking Sparrow under her wing after seeing just a few samples of her embroidery and sketches of her designs. And the pay here, it’s created a sea change in Sparrow’s life. She’ll never forget the feel of that first coin purse Mii Vun placed into her palm. Enough to afford a small one-room apartment in Voloi’s First Tier artists’ district with a balcony overlooking the river. Enough money for good food and art and sewing supplies—silken thread of every color, fabric, a sewing machine, and some canvases along with a watercolor set and brushes.

But the Eastern Realm has meant more to Sparrow than just the blessing of a fair wage for hard work.

It’s meant freedom.

Freedom that Sparrow has no intention of ceding ever again. And that includes freedom to love who she loves.

Fyya Lo’s purple-glittering mouth has turned down in a tight, judgmental frown. “You’re going to spend Xishlon night with a Gardnerian,” she flatly states.

“Yes, Fyya Lo,” Sparrow evenly replies. “I’m spending it with a Gardnerian. And I’m going to ask him to be my Xishlon’vir.”

Mii Vun pulls in a tight breath as Fyya Lo narrows her amethyst-glittering gaze on Sparrow, her tone biting when it comes. “You will not attract a single benefactor if you are connected to a Crow and I cannot, in good conscience, remain your friend.”

Steel rises in Sparrow. She straightens and glares at Fyya Lo, no longer needing to pretend to be timid and demure. Not here. Sparrow has no intention of feigning intimidation ever again. “Don’t call him a Crow,” she firmly throws down.

“I agree,” Mii Vun says, and Sparrow’s head whips toward the elderly seamstress, astonished to find her giving Fyya Lo a look of censure.

“They shouldn’t be here!” Fyya Lo insists to them both as purple-clad Xishlon revelers stream past the shoppe’s open doors. “It’s a mistake to let them in.”

“Let who in?” Sparrow challenges, growing ever more incensed. “The refugees from the Western Realm? Like Effrey? Like me?”

“Heavens, no,” Fyya Lo cries, seeming honestly bewildered. “You belong here. And Effrey too. But the Gardnerians and the Alfsigr are our enemies. They’re not like us! And you make yourself an enemy too by falling in with them!”