At the bottom of the staircase, she opened the door into the courtyard, dabbed her throbbing cheek with her sleeve again, and hesitated on the threshold. She watched the storm cloud gleam and wheel close to the cobblestone ground. The houndmaster crossed the courtyard with a bucket full of dead rats, one hand nursing his head. A few seconds later, Constance heard the dogs fall on the meat, their howls fading to snarls as they fought for a bite.

She shut her eyes for a moment, allowing the world to disappear. When she focused like this, she could hear an echo of the storm spell, a thrum like the dying voice of a struck bell. It was strong. It might be mere days from starting its contractions. And when that happened … well, she might already be too late. She would have to work fast to gain the upper hand. She clenched her fists. Gods. She’d been training for this ever since she left—but was she ready? Did she really know what she was doing?

I have no choice.

The Witenagemot would begin in a few short hours. She touched her cheek gingerly, gazed down at her blood-spattered dress. A change of clothes, I think.

In her room, Constance checked the round mirror on her pendant again, expecting nothing. Instead, she found the glass misted. Her heart lurched. So this is it. She sat on the edge of the bed, tucked her hair behind her ears, then breathed on the glass herself, knowing she had misted the twinned mirror in the temple.

A shadow appeared behind the mist, and suddenly the glass cleared. Emris’s scarred face greeted her. His dark hair was scattered with silver, his eyes weary. He looked a decade older.

At last, he said, by way of greeting. Although his lips moved, his voice was heard in Constance’s mind—echoic, traveling over impossible distances. What the hell happened to your face?

She touched the cut, which had dried out but was tender under her fingers. She’d forgotten about it, somehow. She shrugged. “A fist happened.”

Why did you run from me? You must know, deep down, that you have to face the consequences of your actions.

She lowered her gaze. “No,” she said quietly.

Constance, you can’t do this.

She made her voice steady and true. “I am doing it, Emris. I tried to tell you—”