It’s a fine dance, from that point forward. Phosyne is clearly in no position to simply slip out of the room as the party only grows once the king’s cuts have been carted off to the kitchens to be cooked up. Treila lets herself be swept up in it, if only to obliterate herself a little longer, so that no prying eyes might find her. It’s a sick echo of the first feast, with Treila playing the bewitched guest once more. Her knife burns in her fist.

She should be pleased that the king is dead. What Voyne said is, in the end, true: what was done to her was monstrous. Thrown out into an already starving countryside at the tail end of a brutal winter, with not even an understanding of why. Perhaps her father earned Voyne’s blade through his neck. Perhaps her father even earned his family’s disinheritance. But there were gentler ways. Kinder ways. Cardimir did not choose them.

And yet she can’t bring herself to feel vindication. He probably didn’t even notice when he was strung up.

She wishes she could have feasted on him five years ago, though.

The tide of the room has pushed her nearly to the door to the yard when Phosyne, at last, finds her. They see each other across a scrum of bodies, much the same way the Loving Saint had first caught Treila’s eye. Maybe that’s what makes her blood run cold, or maybe it is just rational fear of how much like them Phosyne has become. Her robes are finer than the last time Treila saw her. They are heavier with embroidery. They are dyed in soft and shifting colors. And Phosyne is clean, so very clean, no blood on her at all.

Treila turns and runs, throws herself back into the tide, lets herself be swept away, danced across the hall. She wants to lose herself, but she is tripping, staggering, something catching at her feet. She’s felt like this once before, near Phosyne’s rooms: it must be some manifestation of her power. Treila hisses a curse as she is steered back to the door, but when she looks up, Phosyne is not there. When she looks down, there are darting shadows. Not the flat painted things, but something else, something substantial but elusive.

And then she’s outside. Alone.

There’s heat around her legs, burning hot, and then it’s gone, too.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Phosyne murmurs from the shadows.

Treila jerks and whirls, body tightly strung. Her eyes dance around the courtyard. Nobody watches.

Treila hides the blade behind her back and hopes Phosyne hasn’t seen it.

“Stay back,” Treila whispers.

Phosyne, to her credit, does. She holds up both hands, empty. “Were you able to hide her?”

Her jaw clenches. “Yes.”

Phosyne’s shoulders dip the slightest bit. “Good. Good. I—negotiations are ongoing.”