Lady Mara fusses with my hair. She doesn’t have to; she’s first lady-in-waiting to the empress and a secret lieutenant in the imperial web of spies, and she can do whatever she damn well pleases. When I tell her as much, she says, “Today, it pleases me to help you with your hair.”

“Well, in that case, thank you.”

“Red, are you sure you want to cover it up?” she asks, finishing off a braid that starts at my right temple and winds around to the back of my head. “I think your white streak is quite lovely.”

“I want it covered,” I assure her. “Black as night.”

She frowns, but she complies, reaching for the clay pot on the dressing table. The dye inside is made of crushed walnut shells and kohl, and it costs more than half my monthly allowance.

Most of my hair is still dark from the previous treatment, but my mark shows clearly at the roots above my left temple, a blot of shimmering brightness against my otherwise black hair. If I were to ever let it grow out, it would be a ribbon of white flowing all the way to my waist.

Mara works carefully, spreading the dye with a tiny paintbrush that allows her to avoid my scalp as much as possible. Too much dye on my skin will cause an itchy, burning rash, which is why I sometimes let the roots grow out a little.

“You know,” Mara says as she works, “I have a mark too. I know what it’s like.”

She’s referring to the obvious scar on her eyelid, received in a beating from her long-dead father. It pulls that eye downward at the outside corner, making her seem perpetually sad.

“It’s not the same,” I tell her. “No one sees your scar and thinks, Vile magic.”

The paintbrush freezes. “Who said that to you?”

Lady Malka whispered it to her husband once when I passed. It was a false whisper, loud enough for me to hear. And of course there are strange looks every single day, even from the servants. But I’ve learned the hard way that letting someone jump to my defense just makes life at court harder for me.

“No one,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

Mara glares at me. “You’re the worst liar I know. If you ever decide to tell me who it was, I’ll have their head.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Still frowning, Mara gets back to work. A breeze flutters the gauzy curtains of my open balcony. Birds chirrup from the lush flower garden below. The lavender scent of my morning bath lingers in the air. This used to be the queen’s suite, before Elisa became empress and moved herself and her husband into the larger monarch’s wing next door. I’ve occupied these rooms as the empress’s ward for seven years now, and still I can hardly believe that such luxury is mine.

The curtain separating the tiled bathing area from my bedroom is whisked aside. “Wed?” says a tiny voice.