Safi feels him try to connect eyes with her, but she dares not look. She must think, think, think like Iseult. If Henrick is going into Praga, he will likely take a carriage. That means he will go right at the gardens while Safi goes left to reach her quarters.

She has perhaps two hundred paces to make a plan.

Or to make her move.

And there is no other choice, is there? It’s now or it’s never. She can bide her time and hope for another opportunity—another moment of half solitude as they’d shared in the marble room filled with golden chains. But what if such a moment never comes?

Gods below, why can’t Iseult be beside her right now? Safi is going to ruin this. She knows she’s going to ruin this, and yet she sees no other course before her. Uncle Eron’s life depends on her. Iseult’s too, and little Owl’s tucked away in the servants’ wing.

All the Hell-Bards as well. She is Empress now, and she is the only one who can make a difference for so many people.

She will have to act fast. She will have to use every tool in her arsenal. The garden path will be dark, lit only by atmospheric lanterns, and presumably Henrick will pause briefly to take his leave of Safi. That will have to be her moment. She will have to make it count.

They reach the door that leads to the gardens. Footmen heave it wide, silent and unseen. Cold air billows in—welcome against all the sweat gathering on Safi’s skin. Her heart thuds against her eardrums. The world is fast sharpening, as it always does during a heist. Ten steps and they are in the covered walkway. Evergreen ivy glistens in Firewitched light. Beyond, snow trickles down. So gentle, so at odds with what Safi is about to do.

Henrick slows to a stop to release her, and Safi slows beside him. “I will expect you at court tomorrow,” he begins. “We begin at the tenth chimes—”

Safi kisses him. Directly on the lips and before he can pull away. Her free hand is already in her bodice, already in the secret pocket. She has the fingers of a thief, a nimbleness honed for almost a decade.

Before Henrick can react to her lips, she has the noose from her pocket. Then she snakes her arms around his neck and tries to deepen the kiss. Distantly, she is aware of how thick his lips are—and wet too. And distantly, she’s aware of surprising muscles under his shoulders and along his back.

Then her hands are behind his neck and the noose is fastening into place.

Except that it’s not.

Nothing happens when she tries to press the chain closed. It remains open, unattached, a useless piece of gold.