At the temple, she’d often dreamed of returning, and she’d never expected it to be easy. But this? Her father was incapable of helping anyone, and the city was torn apart by the Justice and his mage hunt, ravaged by fear and grief. And now her journey would end in a prison cell—or worse. She clenched her fists, her left hand tight around her cane. No, it cannot end this way.

Then another voice emerged from the crowd. “I believe it’s illegal to leave the city, Lord Justice, but—though ill-advised—is it actually illegal to enter?” A tall, slender man dressed in bright indigo silk, his face swathed in scarves, pushed to the front.

“Lord Irvine,” said the Justice calmly, a thread of hatred running under his voice. “I believe that as Swordmaster, you don’t have a great deal to offer on points of law.”

Lord Irvine? Constance’s heart beat a tiny bit faster. She remembered him sparring against her in the gardens, the flash of their blades in the sunlight.

“Indeed.… Lord Veredith? Ah, there you are.” Irvine addressed an ancient man with tissue-paper skin, whom Constance vaguely recognized from her childhood. “You are an authority on such matters—can you clarify the point for the Justice?”

“Y-yes … ,” the old man stuttered, looking up at the Justice with a clear expression of terror. “Forgive me, but … I’m afraid … if my memory serves … that is—” He coughed. “I believe, alas, the Swordmaster is correct.” He raised his voice and began to recite, his voice warbling: “The Book of Law, section eighteen, point thirty—”

“Very well, my lord,” interrupted Irvine. “I think that settles it. My men and I will be happy to escort Lady Constance to her apartments and ensure she has everything she requires for this evening’s festivities.”

Constance glimpsed a number of men dressed in vivid sky-blue livery sliding from the crowd. At a glance, she guessed the Justice’s and Irvine’s retinues were about evenly matched. For a few moments, the two men locked eyes.

“For Mythris’s sake,” muttered Constance, as she shook free from the uncertain grip of the Justice’s man. “Stop this nonsense.” Irvine and the Justice blinked in apparent shock. “I’ll take my old apartments at the top of the south tower. Can someone be prevailed upon to bring me some hot bathwater? Thank you.” She took a deep breath, leaned forward, and kissed her weeping father on the cheek. “I will see you at the feast, Father. Please don’t cry.” She turned to Winton. “I am sorry about the Duchess, Brother. I really am.”

And with the tap-tap-tap of her cane sounding hard on the cobblestones, she walked through the parting crowd and into the square south tower.