The Red Hall rose ahead of us, its jewels glittering as the sun eased toward the west. We pulled into a long drive, lined with springy grass and bright dragon flowers, until we reached a grand stair that led up to the south face of the building. Daminan-style columns stood sentinel around a huge patio, and windows—dozens of them—glittered in the hot glare of the sun.

Our driver stopped behind private carriages and other horsecarres, and Aaru reached for the door. I held up a hand. He hesitated, but a moment later, the driver came around and opened my door for me.

I slid out. Aaru slid out. A blue-jacketed porter strode toward us, his palm up as he asked for our invitations and papers. Aaru produced both from within his jacket pocket, then hid his shaking hands behind his back while the porter studied everything as though the high magistrate were watching.

When he looked at my paper, then my face, my heart pounded painfully. The drawing had my scar, but not the false tattoos. There was just a box checked—facial markings—and nothing more.

“You look familiar.” He glanced at the drawing again—I looked more like me there—and frowned.

“You would be surprised by how many people think they know me.” Not a lie, but then I had to say the next part to solidify the story. “They always say I look like—”

“Mira Minkoba,” he finished. Hearing my name sent spikes of fear down my spine, but the porter was nodding, grinning. “Yes, I can see the similarities now. Maybe you’re distantly related to her.”

I forced a smile. “Perhaps.”

Finally, the porter handed the papers back to Aaru. “Follow the signs to the memorial. There will be attendants along the way in case you get lost.”

What he really meant was: Don’t wander because we will be watching you.

As Aaru and I followed a line of Anaheran elite up the stairway, my heart began to slow to a normal speed. The others had coached me on how to deflect that sort of attention, but I hadn’t thought I’d need it right away. With the porter, of all people. This promised to be a very long evening.

Cool air enveloped us as we stepped inside the entry hall. It was just as I remembered, lavishly decorated with art from all over Anahera: paintings of dragons in flight, intricately woven rugs made from talopus down, and wooden baskets filled with obsidian knapped to look like dragon eggs. I’d always liked those eggs, especially the ones that had been cut from the inside, too: the black glass was shaved so thin that a small noorestone placed inside made them glow like dark lamps.

Every time Mother visited, she left with new ideas for how to redecorate our entire home—until Father talked her out of it. I wondered what she thought of the Red Hall’s beauty and elegance now that she was a captive.

A small sign pointed toward the stairs. True to the porter’s word, several servants were stationed around the entrance hall, some offering glasses of wine as they greeted guests, while others watched us with judgment plain on their faces. All of them were dressed in the same flame-blue livery, almost like they were guards, and as one shifted his weight, I caught the bulge of a dagger hilt under his jacket.