By the time Constance woke, it was dusk. She felt like she could sleep for hours longer, but instead she pulled on one of the finest gowns in the chest—red velvet with a fur-lined collar and gold-leaf embroidery on the sleeves. Over the top, she rested her round pendant on its long chain, glinting in the firelight. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the catch and peered at the bright mirror inside: nothing but her own dark-blue eye gazing back at her curiously. She breathed on the glass until it misted, her finger hovering over it. She wanted to see him, wanted to speak to him. But what could she say? The breath-cloud faded and she snapped the mirror shut.

She was running late. She slipped the mask into its secret pocket in her purple cloak and threw the cloak around her shoulders. She took the cane and left her room—her mother’s room—locking the door behind her. Across the courtyard, her cane tapped loudly through the gloom, strange distorted echoes reflecting back as if others were walking, invisible, at her side. She’d nearly forgotten how it felt in Duke’s Forest, the constant awareness of the Ancestors beneath, watching, judging. She followed different gods now, but the sensation was as potent as ever.

They had never wanted her here.

Voices roared from the great hall, the oldest building in the castle, predating even the ancient east tower by hundreds of years. The hall had been swallowed up by the rest of the buildings, until now it stretched across nearly an entire wing between the south and west towers. Light spilled from its windows, watching the storm cloud like an ancient, many-eyed beast protecting its mountain hoard from a rival predator.

Constance climbed the steps to the entrance and pushed the door open. She slid inside, fixing a smile on her face at the sight within. But behind her eyes, she crumbled. When she’d left, six years ago, the hall could have been filled twice over by the inhabitants of the castle. Now it was barely half-full.