He pulled her to him and held her hands to his chest. “I know where Iseult is, Safiya. She is near the Solfatarra and your uncle. And I fear she is in great danger.”

Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed

Iseult never thought she would see her best friend marry.

And she certainly never thought she would see her best friend become an empress. They fled Dalmotti to avoid this; now they run headlong for it. At least this time they are following their own plan. Initiate, complete. A heist only they know of, only they can pull off.

Iseult stands on a private balcony, high above the crowded room as the first night of festivities begins below. It is a private place, meant for servants to observe their masters without interference. Invisible creatures that provide for every whim—or did, when that was the fashion centuries ago. Now it is a sign of status to have one’s servants in plain sight.

Which has left this balcony empty and perfect for the claiming.

Safi and Henrick will soon parade through the great hall. So dramatic, so public. Nothing like the braiding ceremony for Nomatsis. Then again, Cartorrans do not marry for love. There’s even a song about it. Something with robins and magpies.

When Iseult left the wedding earlier, surrounded by her usual escort of Hell-Bards, her last glimpse had been of the Emperor in pond-scum green. He had kept his face carefully neutral, carefully bored, throughout the ritual …

But his Threads had given him away, just as his Threads betray him now while he strides into the room with Safi at his side. She has changed into stunning gold, pure sunlight that makes her skin glow and smile radiant.

He still wears pond-scum green, and he moves with all the grace of the toad he seems to mimic. His Threads are alert, anxious, as if he waits for something. Safi’s are the same, though hers twine with brighter anxiety, and brief twinges of terror too.

“It will be all right,” Iseult whispers, her hand on her Threadstone. She knows Safi cannot hear—one of her hands is in Henrick’s, the other occupied by waving. Without her fingers also on the stone, Iseult’s words will fall on no one.

Still, Iseult likes to think the sentiment crosses their rubies. That some burst of strength now shivers into Safi’s bones.

Safi and the Emperor reach the dais. Safi curtsies, and the nobility clap—some with delight and enthusiasm, most with confused politeness. It is a churning pool of contradictory Threads. They know she is a Truthwitch; they know she is half of the Cahr Awen; they know she was betrothed to Henrick two months ago in Veñaza City.

What they don’t know is why Safi has returned. Why, after fleeing, she is still allowed to marry their emperor instead of living in chains.