It didn’t hurt that Liam was younger and handsomer and more appealing than any other princeling she was likely to be matched with. She didn’t love him, but he was infinitely preferable to Gerard Montaigne, who sent shivers down her back.

She could do as her mother intended and marry Micah Bayar, which would precipitate a cascade of consequences, possibly including war with the clans. But she was stronger than her mother, more obstinate. The magical tethers put in place by the speakers might protect her. A union between the Gray Wolf line and the Wizard Council would be potent. The guard and the army would remain loyal to the queen. Probably.

She could marry clan royalty, as her mother had. That would please the clans and infuriate the Wizard Council. It would reinforce the third leg of Gray Wolf power. Reid Demonai was a possibility, and there were likely candidates at some of the other camps.

Hanalea hadn’t married for love. No one ever heard anything about the consort she’d married after the Breaking. She’d focused on saving her queendom. It was an example to follow.

Raisa was in such a fog of strategizing that she nearly ran smack into a brick wall. She looked around, realizing that the music had faded. She’d strayed into a labyrinth of brick alleys. She turned back the way she’d come, and found someone blocking her way.

“Well, look who’s wandering about alone on solstice eve,” he said. “No one to walk out with on the holiday?”

It was Henri Tourant, staggering drunk and stinking of ale, dressed in his usual garish fashion.

Raisa froze for a long moment, debating strategy. Finally, she nodded at him and said, “Proficient Tourant, happy New Year. May the sun come again.” She tried to brush past him to the street.

But he grabbed her arm, yanked her back toward him, and shoved her up against the wall, his arm pressed against her throat.

“Let me go!” Raisa tried to shout it, but the pressure against her windpipe made it difficult to generate much volume.

The alleyway swam with gray wolves, ruffs bristling at their necks. Their howls reverberated against the walls to either side.

“Perhaps you’d like to walk out with me,” Tourant slurred. “I am…available.”

Raisa pried at his arm with both hands. “Let go, I said.”

“You need to learn to keep your opinions to yourself,” he said. “You got me in trouble with Master Askell, and now I’m not teaching next term.”

“Perhaps,” Raisa gasped, made reckless by fury, “it could be a time for reflection on what a cretin you are.”

It was not the smartest move. Tourant’s arm pressed harder against her throat, as if to cut off the breath that powered those opinions. Her head began to spin.

What was it Amon always said? If someone grabs you in the street, hit hard and fast, because you may not get a second chance.