She yanked the covers over herself again. She didn’t want to see those colors, didn’t want to see this gown that must have belonged to her mother. “People change,” she said. “It’s no reason to hide the truth.”

Gretchya offered no reaction, but she was close enough now for Iseult to spot splotchy skin and swollen eyes.

She had been crying. How strange. How laughable. How much, much too late.

“Corlant did not simply change, Iseult. He went from a simple Nomatsi man to a Cursewitch overnight. From a man who would have loved you—whom I would have told you of with pride—to a demon who hurt others for pleasure.”

“Oh?” Iseult asked without interest. She didn’t care, and she didn’t believe anything her mother said anyway.

She lifted her hands and stared at her bandages. Pain dissolved downward as blood drained. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Where we were before. In the Solfatarra.” Gretchya glanced toward the tent’s lone flap. No light pilfered in. “Some of the Nomatsis got away. Most did not.”

Iseult supposed she should blame herself for that. She didn’t.

“Alma?”

A headshake. “She is imprisoned with the others. But she is a good leader. She will keep them calm and give them guidance.”

Of course she would. Even now, Alma was the perfect apprentice. Even now, with a confession the size of the Sleeping Giant to scowl between them, Gretchya couldn’t help but compliment the other girl.

Though Iseult supposed it was only fair. After all, Alma’s father wasn’t a monster.

“Hundreds of Purists gather outside,” Gretchya went on. “And more come from across the Witchlands. There are settlements everywhere, tucked away where no one else wants to reside. And there are always new converts too. Corlant has always been … persuasive.”

“Persuasive” was not the word Iseult would have chosen, but if it made her mother hate herself less, then she could have it. Iseult truly did not care.

She looked again at her bound hands. They ached. She’d left the diary with Owl. Her salvation. Her right as the new Puppeteer.

As if reading her mind, Gretchya said, “Do not go to Praga.”

“Why? The soldiers cannot hurt me.”

“I know why you go there. What you intend to do. But you will regret it.”

Iseult’s lips pursed. “Regret saving my Threadsister?”

“Regret the lives you take to do so.”

Iseult snorted, a harsh un-Threadwitch sound. If her mother truly cared for her soul, then she should never have joined with Corlant. Should never have had a child by him.

She sucked in a long breath and let her eyes shutter. Blessed darkness took hold. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. She sent her mind outward, searching for Owl. She sensed nothing and opened her eyes. “Have you seen Owl? Or Dirdra, as you know her?”

“Corlant just sent the Bloodwitch to find her.”