“No, this absolutely will not do.” Safi’s Threads, calm and focused, clash with a fake frustration as she flexes and fists her fingers. She and Iseult are under constant watch. Right now, two sets of Threads hover within the walls, one set in the ceilings, and another four on the balconies across the garden.

The endless observation has made studying the diary impossible for Iseult, and meeting with Esme even more so.

“I will tighten this,” Safi declares, twirling away from the mirror.

“You mean the tailors will.” Lev points toward the hall.

“No.” Safi bobs her head imperiously. “I mean I will.”

Lev’s Threads flutter with tan confusion. A hint of suspicion too. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired of being poked,” Safi snaps. “I’m tired of having people parade me wherever they want me to go. I’m tired of being prodded and nudged and seated on stiff thrones. I’m tired of being watched”—she glares toward the ceiling—“and being told constantly that other people will do things for me. What if I want to do something myself?”

As Safi rants, she flings up her hands and paces. Like before, her behavior doesn’t match the easy calm of her Threads. It never does when she’s performing.

“Fine, fine,” Lev interrupts. She drops advances on Safi. “Hell-flames, I didn’t need the lecture.”

Safi has the grace to blush. A real one.

“I’ll have sewing materials sent to your room,” the Hell-Bard adds. “I have to admit, though…” She bounces her eyebrows conspiratorially at Iseult. “I’m surprised you know how to sew.”

Safi sniffs. Iseult attempts a grin. Then, with a nonchalance she has never been very good at, Iseult says, “Tell me about being a Hell-Bard.” She shuffles toward Lev. “Your gold chain looks so like the one that Purists wear.”

While she asks this question, Safi leans against a different table. One covered in scraps of silk, and asks: “Don’t Purists claim to have made the Hell-Bards or something?” She is much better at this than Iseult is.

Lev rolls her eyes, and in the ceiling and walls, Threads shift to green curiosity. The spies are briefly focused on Lev instead of Safi.

“Yes, yes,” Lev answers. “The Purists claim they made us because they think Midne could erase magic. But they have it backwards.”

“Midne?” Iseult presses, and she locks eyes with Safi. Now is their moment, and with a quick swipe of Safi’s hand, a silk scrap vanishes from the table. It will make a very good pocket later on. Just the right size for holding a delicate golden chain.

“The first Hell-Bard,” Lev explains. Then she cracks her knuckles, her Threads twisting with discomfort. She doesn’t like talking about this. “But Midne didn’t steal magic. She had it stolen from her. Just like…” She swallows and doesn’t finish the sentence.