Iseult’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. If Aeduan had agreed to search for Owl, then that meant he had not admitted to already seeing the child. It also meant Corlant hadn’t noticed Aeduan helping Iseult in the fight. He was truly her ally now, and that made her smile. Inwardly, though, only inwardly. Outside, she was stasis forever.

Purple Threads skittered into Iseult’s awareness. Corlant approached, new magic writhing within his Threads. Yellow for a Windwitch, orange for Fire. He swept inside the tent, no warning—and no more stiff, blinded movements either. Only one eye was covered now. The one Iseult had removed.

“What a beautiful family.” He crossed the small tent in two long strides and stared down at Iseult. His remaining eye was a mess, the iris almost invisible in all the bloodshot red. The bruising around it was as dark as his Threads. He could clearly see, though, for the eye roved across Iseult.

Then it leaped to Gretchya. “Your mother has done well, standing guard.”

Gretchya bowed her head. “Thank you, Priest Corlant.”

“Leave us.” He flipped a hand toward the exit. “I wish to speak to my daughter alone.”

Daughter, my daughter.

“She is not dressed,” Gretchya replied. “If you would give us a moment of privacy, I will help her.”

The lines on Corlant’s forehead sliced inward; mild surprise washed in turquoise. But he strode back outside, leaving winter air to kick in behind him. The flap shut, and as Gretchya scooted in close to Iseult, it was all so familiar. A different lie in a different settlement—It’s my moon cycle. I need new blood wrappings—told to keep Corlant away. For, of course, Iseult was dressed. All she lacked were her boots and acid-eaten cloak.

“You must not do as he says,” Gretchya whispered, dropping to a kneel beside Iseult. She towed out boots from under the cot and without waiting for Iseult to acknowledge, she tore off Iseult’s covers and grabbed Iseult’s ankle. “He needs you. Whatever this … this magic you can do is, he needs it.”

“For what?” Iseult watched her mother lace up the boots just as she had watched her mother chop off all her hair two months ago. Back then, Gretchya had warned her that people might mistake her for the Puppeteer.

Now she warned her not to be one.

“I do not know.” Gretchya tugged the other boot onto Iseult’s foot. Outside the tent, Corlant’s Threads hovered and waited, impatience to mingle with the endless hunger.

“It is something to do with the Threadstones. You must not do as he asks, Iseult. You must not give in to him.”

“And how do you propose I do that, Mother? You were not a good teacher.”