Rhusana’s claws went still, digging into her silk-clad thigh.

At the count of ten, the queen’s servant was sent running. By the count of seventy, he was back, thrusting a heavy brocade bag into Fie’s hands.

If the heft didn’t give the contents away, the quiet, echoing hum of magic in her bones did. Every family in Sabor saved their teeth for the day they might call on Crows empty-handed. Each tooth was near good as gold, if only for the Crows who heard their whispers. Some were worth more, a scrap of Pigeon luck or Sparrow refuge when a Crow called for it.

No royal had paid a viatik in centuries. But tonight, Fie had come to collect.

A rare harvest of teeth clicked and rattled inside that brocade bag, entire Phoenix dynasties of teeth, thousands of milk teeth and even teeth pulled from the dead.

And now her band of Crows owned each and every last, priceless one.

A smile sharper than steel cut beneath Fie’s mask. There was a reason they called it the Money Dance.

Razor-thin lines had appeared at the corners of Rhusana’s perfect, thin-pressed mouth, and Fie took that as a personal victory. She gave a mummer’s grand sweep of a bow, stepped back, and handed the bag to Pa.

He raised his fist. The dance stopped; the courtyard rang with aching silence. Ropes were collected, feet reshuffled into a march, and a sigh swept through the crowd as the cart at last began to roll toward the gate.

Fie paused, then doubled back.

The queen whirled, eyes flashing.

“What more do you want?” Rhusana flicked her hand at the guards. Every Hawk snapped to attention, spears at the ready.

One of the queen’s bangles caught Fie’s eye as it flashed in the torchlight: a clever work of silver and pearl, crafted to look like a string of white oleander blossoms.

For a moment, Fie felt like those diamond claws had wrapped around her throat.

She sucked a breath down and let the mint settle her bones. Anyone could wear oleanders. It didn’t have to mean aught, not on a queen. And if it did … well, the Crows were already on their way out of the palace. Fie’d just make sure they left faster.

She plucked the cat from the steward’s arms. “I’ll have this, too.”

The cat didn’t fight as Fie scurried back to the cart, only burrowed its face into the crook of her elbow with a grumble. By the time they cleared the gates, it had begun to purr.

Fie decided she liked the cat. Anything happy to leave the royal palace had good taste.