What I need is the full journal. But Poznin was still at least three weeks away. Probably closer to a month, even with horses. Which meant for another month, these eight pages were all Iseult would have to learn by.

“Dream-walking,” Iseult said, removing a single page. It was the one skill in these pages that Eridysi had been able to do herself. Iseult had done it before as well, when she’d had her Threadstone and Safi had had hers …

But Henrick had taken those stones, just as he had taken everything else from them. And although Eridysi wrote of ways to dream-walk and to find someone without a personal item of theirs, Iseult hadn’t been able to make it work. She hadn’t even been able to enter the Dreaming to search.

Perhaps tonight would be different, though.

Resting her palms upon her thighs, she took several long, relaxing breaths. She let her eyes rest on the lantern’s flame, vision unfocusing. In. Out. In. Out. Not so different from the way Aeduan had taught her to meditate.

Aeduan. Thinking of him sent her mind spiraling sideways and her pulse rising. She’d lost her silver taler somewhere at the Monastery, which meant Aeduan could not find her. Might never find her again …

“No,” she hissed. This was always what happened. If her mind didn’t veer off toward Aeduan, then it spun toward Safi. Or to Prince Leopold and the layers upon layers of secrets he hid beneath. Or sometimes to Evrane and the strange possession that had controlled her at the Monastery.

With a groan, Iseult pushed away from the table. She needed clarity. She needed a focus item, just as Eridysi explained—something that would give her guidance.

Then it hit her: a new angle she could try. A different approach that hadn’t occurred to her before. It was a long shot, but at this point, what more did she have to lose? Besides, Trickster or Wicked Cousin was watching over her today.

Maybe they still had some blessings yet to give.

Iseult stared down at the dead man. He had looked peaceful in his final moments, when resignation had swept in. If not for the blood and entrails, he might’ve been asleep.

It was midnight; the moon was high and full. A Threadwitching night, Iseult’s mother would’ve called it. When Moon Mother’s glow washes away all color, leaving only Threads. Leaving only our work.

Little good that had done Iseult. She had been no Threadwitch then, when she’d wanted it most, when her mother had wanted it most. And she certainly was no Threadwitch now. Even her Weaverwitchery was no use here. The man was too dead to reanimate (not that Iseult had tried that magic yet), and he lacked the Severed Threads of the Cleaved.

He was nothing more than a cold corpse who had something she wanted.