Svenja had been right: Safi should have worn her heavy cloak. But she had wanted to give the impression of a girl in love, and girls in love tended to favor fashion over practicality. So did men in love, for that matter, and all other genders too. As such, she’d donned a lighter, golden velvet cloak over her forest-green wool.

At least she’d had the sense to wear the ermine muff and matching hat, what little good they did. By the time she reached the Winter Garden, nestled between the evergreen maze and the Royal Greenhouses, her nose had gone numb and her ears were headed that way.

She strode, Hell-Bards in formation around her, through a lush archway designed for some empress almost a century ago. The paths and flowers were meticulously maintained year-round by an army of dedicated Plantwitches, and though there might be snow on the ground, there were also roses in bloom. Daffodils too, and crocuses and dahlias, hyacinth and tulips and hydrangeas with heads large as carriage wheels. There were varieties of flowers Safi had never seen before—much less blossoming in winter.

Like the stone paths, the stone benches had been cleared, and, of course, the flowers themselves had been carefully wiped, so that a thousand colors shone against the surrounding world of white.

Those poor, poor servants.

As Safi passed through a second archway, her eyes snagged on one bench in particular. Shaded by a blossoming lilac, it had lion paws for feet—and Safi knew those feet instantly. Just as she knew that lilac, though it had been smaller ten years before. A sapling newly added.

Henrick had spotted her playing here, her doll dressed in as many furs as she had been. The toy, newly acquired in a rare burst of generosity from Eron, had delighted her with its eyes of Hasstrel blue. Her uncle read on a separate bench nearby, already sipping from his flask though it was not yet noon.

He glimpsed Henrick right as Henrick glimpsed Safi, and in a move that now seemed much too graceful for a drunkard, Eron skated in front of the Emperor before he could address his niece. And Safi used that time to scrabble behind the bench, heart pounding.

“She looks so much like Laia,” Henrick murmured. Safi didn’t see his face, but she felt a frown bunching there. “Remarkable.”

“Yes,” Eron drawled, unscrewing his flask. It always squeaked. “Unfortunately, she lacks her mother’s wit. Or her refinement. Or”—he paused for a gulp—“her initiative. She is a candle to my sister’s bonfire. She ruins everything she touches. But come, my Imperial Majesty. Share a drink with me.”

At the time, those words had gouged. Fanged and serrated, each sentence had burrowed deep into Safi’s heart. Her eyes had burned; tears had fallen; and she’d scolded the doll again and again for being just a candle. For ruining all she touched.