After that, I tune her out. She keeps the crowd’s breathless attention with occasional sparks at her fingertips as she gestures, and they cling to her every word.

I reach the side door, which is wide open so that the servants can come and go with their trays. Golden light spills from the house, along with the clattering of pots and the sound of people yelling at each other. I lean against the ivy-covered wall casually, and no one gives me a second glance, thanks to the same plain clothes that made me stick out so badly in the crowd.

A servant wanders outside, trying very hard to look like she’s working while she cranes her neck to see what’s going on in the packed circle of people. As she pauses, I snatch several miniature almond cakes off her tray and stuff them into the pocket of my apron. Then, since she’s still distracted, I take another handful, popping one into my mouth.

The cake is delicious, delicately sweet with a dusting of sugar clinging to the top that puffs up as I bite down. The sugar is going to make my pockets a mess, but there will be plenty of time to clean my apron later. Each bite dissolves in my mouth, leaving a faint, nutty aftertaste coating my tongue. I start mentally deconstructing the ingredients, wondering how they got it so fluffy without the richness of eggs in the batter. I’ve been baking with my father since I was old enough to hold a spoon, so I know a good cake when I taste it, and this is definitely—

“We need to go,” Isolde huffs into my ear. “Now.”

I startle, bashing my elbows into the stone behind me. My twin has materialized, as if out of nowhere. There’s still at least half an hour until we were supposed to meet back up. But before I can even think of questions to ask or respond to the breathless urgency of her tone, Isolde is already hauling me away.

“Sol—” I start, panic leaping up my throat. Was she caught? What went wrong? Then I realize she’s pulling me inside the house, instead of sprinting for the bridge. “Where are we going?”

She looks over her shoulder, grinning. “I found something.”

Wasn’t that kind of the point? I think, but I let myself get dragged along, ducking to avoid the chaos of the busy kitchen. The sounds and smells all clash in the air, making it impossible to pick out any details other than loud and delicious. At least all the servants are so focused on whatever they’re doing that they’re too busy to notice two nonuniformed girls slipping inside.

Isolde moves quickly, with the confidence of someone who’s taken this route a hundred times. The kitchens lead into more service areas, through twisting knots of hallways, until they eventually spill into the main house.

We slow as I trip, and Isolde hauls me back to my feet. It’s not my fault, though: my imagination failed me. My mind can’t even understand what I’m looking at as someone’s house. It’s impractical, with ceilings almost three times my height and not an inch of wall that isn’t covered in some kind of gilt adornment or tapestry or painting of golden-haired Wildline forebears. The hallway seems to go on for miles, intricately laid wooden floor covered in a plush rug with the design of a hedge of roses, lit by the even yellow glow of a ball of light like the one out in the street. It’s totally breathtaking.