Temple dedicates stood to either side of the great double doors of the cathedral. They pulled them ajar as Raisa and her entourage approached.

Raisa halted in the doorway, scanning the room. The cathedral was packed, every seat on either side of the aisle occupied. The hall thundered with the sound of feet hitting the floor as the congregation rose to greet the princess heir.

Raisa walked down the aisle, head held high, Han and Amon falling back a bit so that she was visible to everyone. At the front of the temple, Speaker Jemson waited in the ceremonial robes that speakers had worn for every coronation since Hanalea.

Good thing they’re one size fits all, Raisa thought—just like mine.

Again, the cacophony of noise and color reminded Raisa of her name day ceremony. But this time, the Gray Wolf throne sat empty on the dais, twined with rowan and roses instead of her mother’s white gardenias, a symbol that times had changed. Still, Raisa couldn’t help thinking of it as her mother’s throne.

Below, at floor level, and to either side, were the less elaborate chairs occupied by representatives of the Spirit clans, the Wizard Council, and the Council of Nobles. Her grandmother Elena took her place next to the clan seat, and Gavan Bayar and Lassiter Hakkam came forward and stood for the wizards and the Vale nobility.

Events seemed to slow to a crawl as Raisa’s mind raced faster, collecting images, sounds, body language, expressions, and reactions.

Raisa halted just in front of the dais, turning to face the room. Her attendants fanned out to either side. Again, Han conjured a canopy of glittering magic—wolves and roses and the unlidded eye—the symbol of her father’s clan.

The Gray Wolves lined up against the wall, rigidly at attention. Han and Amon stood on either side of the dais, an honor guard of sorts. Mellony, Missy, and Averill took seats in the front row, Averill slipping his arm around Mellony’s shoulders.

Just behind them, Magret sat very erect, her nose pink, dabbing at her eyes.

Mellony leaned forward, looking across the aisle to where Micah and Fiona sat in the front row, clad in their usual black and white, looking straight ahead. Their faces were like fine porcelain—white and hard and yet somehow brittle.

Raisa saw a spot of red out of the corner of her eye. It was Cat Tyburn standing in the shadows of a side corridor, wearing her satin dress from the ball. She seemed to have taken a fancy to it. Cat stood, head cocked, surveying the crowd for trouble.