It hadn’t occurred to me what my palace would look like to a girl who’d spent her life in the Tallows. The gilding that felt bright, warm, and homelike to me must convey unfathomable excess. The fine paintings and lush fabrics, the luminaries and protective wards—everything she saw must seem the extreme pinnacle of decadence.

She probably thought I’d invited her here to flaunt my wealth. A flush burned my neck and crept up my cheeks.

Zaira shook her head. “I could steal enough trinkets to feed half the Tallows for a year, and you’d never notice they were gone.”

My maid, Rica, saved me from the alarming prospect of finding an answer to that by arriving with Zaira’s crimson gown. She laid out all the layers of petticoats, corsetry, skirts, underskirts, and hose, eyeing Zaira all the while as if calculating how to make everything fit on her smaller frame. Zaira regarded the formidable array with trepidation.

“When will she leave so I can get dressed?” she whispered, jerking her chin at Rica.

I coughed. “She won’t. She’s here to help us.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help getting dressed.”

“Forgive me,” I said, “but with this gown, you do. It’s impossible to get into on your own.”

She stared at me in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you. Good Graces. What is this idiocy? The Empire is literally run by a bunch of imbeciles who can’t even get dressed by themselves?”

“There’s a reason I prefer breeches.” I looked with some foreboding at the second gown Rica now laid out for me, an extravagant affair in shades of champagne and bronze.

“Solid-gold breeches, no doubt. Grace of Mercy. No wonder you’re so useless.” The contempt in Zaira’s voice seared the air between us. “You don’t know what the world is like. You’ve never even seen it.”

“Fair enough,” I said wearily. “Do you want to wear the gown, or not?”

She stared at the rich piles of silk and velvet, and a bitter longing touched her dark eyes. “I might as well wear it. Even prisoners need a bit of fun now and then.”

Rica helped me with my gown first, all business, then turned to fuss over Zaira with obvious relish; she clearly planned to enjoy this transformation. Zaira suffered through being dressed, though she kept trying to do things herself, getting in Rica’s way. I settled in a great cloud of champagne skirts on the edge of my bed to watch.

“Do I get a dagger?” Zaira asked. “She has a dagger.” She pointed at the jeweled sheath at my hip.

Rica glanced at me. “My lady?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. Do you usually carry a dagger?”

Zaira snorted. “Every Tallows brat carries a knife if they want to live to see Sunday. Your lieutenant wouldn’t give me one, though.”