Meanwhile Iseult had been with Owl for six weeks, protecting her and feeding her—giving up her own food just so the child could eat—and yet not once had Owl looked at her like that. Not once had she giggled at something Iseult said.

And she certainly had never willingly reached for Iseult’s hand as Owl was doing right now with Alma.

Alma laced her fingers in Owl’s and smiled even more brightly. The healer worked on in silence. And Iseult stayed rooted beside the tent’s flap. She could leave before anyone saw her. She could leave before this thick, oozing heat reawoke.

Leave, came a voice like the weasel. Leave the tent and leave the child. You do not need her. She slows you and attracts Hell-Bards. Think how much faster you could travel without her. We could be back to Praga in days.

Iseult didn’t deny this. She couldn’t. Now that she had the diary, there was nothing to keep her here. She could march right back across Cartorra and face the Hell-Bards, destroy Henrick, finish the plan she and Safi had first set in motion a month ago.

For some reason at that thought—the thought that had sustained Iseult for three weeks—Gretchya’s face filled her mind. The way she’d looked, expressionless though she might have been, when she’d spotted Iseult’s Void mark. The way she’d declared, cold as the Sleeping Lands, Threadwitches do not cause pain.

“No,” Iseult whispered. To herself, to the weasel, to Gretchya’s frozen face. “I won’t leave her.” Then she cleared her throat and walked fully into the lanterns’ glow.

Three heads turned. The healer’s Threads brightened with grassy curiosity. Owl’s sank with pale wariness and her adoring smile for Alma frosted into a scowl.

“Iseult,” Alma said, the same false happiness to lace her features and her voice. So convincing. Much better than Iseult had ever been at pretending to feel. She released Owl to quickly cross the space. The healer nodded a greeting and resumed slathering salve upon Owl’s wrist.

“Dirdra is such a good child,” Alma murmured once she was close enough for Iseult—and only Iseult—to hear. “How did you find her?”

A fresh round of bitter laughter burbled. A good child. She squashed it down and arched a razor-sharp eyebrow. “How do you know her name? I saw the look you and my mother shared.”

“Ah.” Alma’s fake smile smoothed away. “Corlant sought her. He expected her to be delivered, in fact, when we were in the Sirmayans. But someone killed the raiders who’d taken her. You, I suppose?”

It had not been Iseult, but Aeduan. Back in the Contested Lands, where death had razed like wildfire. Yet there was no point in explaining this—it was too complicated, too tiresome. Fortunately, Alma’s attention had already slid back to Owl.