Labyrinth's Heart

Book 3: Rook & Rose

by M.A. Carrick

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

"Lush, engrossing and full of mystery and dark magic" (BookPage), Labyrinth's Heart is the thrilling conclusion to M. A. Carrick's Rook & Rose trilogy, in which a con artist, a vigilante, and a crime lord become reluctant allies in the quest to save their city from a dangerous ancient magic.

May you see the face and not the mask.

Ren came to Nadežra with a plan. She would pose as the long-lost daughter of the noble house Traementis. She would secure a fortune for herself and her sister. And she would vanish without a backward glance. She ought to have known that in the city of dreams, nothing is ever so simple.

Now, she is Ren, con-artist and thief. But she is also Renata, the celebrated Traementis heir. She is Arenza, the mysterious pattern-reader and political rebel. And she is the Black Rose, a vigilante who fights alongside the legendary Rook.

Even with the help of Grey Serrado and Derossi Vargo, it is too many masks for one person to wear. And as the dark magic the three of them helped unleash builds to storm that could tear the very fabric of the city apart, it's only a matter of time before one of the masks slips-and everything comes crashing down around them.

'The Mask of Mirrors is exactly the fantasy adventure novel you're craving: an escape into a vast, enchanting world of danger, secret identities, and glittering prose'
Tasha Suri, author of The Jasmine Throne

'The Mask of Mirrors kept me up reading way past my bedtime. A web of intrigue, magic, and the art of the con this novel will catch hold of your dreams and keep you from sleeping'
Mary Robinette Kowal, author of The Calculating Stars

'The Mask of Mirrors ushers you into the fascinating city of Nadezra, replete with complex politics, intricate magic, and mysteries that readers will be racing to unravel. Wonderfully immersive--I was unable to put it down'
Andrea Stewart, author of The Bone Shard Daughter

'An intricate, compelling dream of a book that kept me turning pages, with a world and characters that felt deeply real and plenty of riveting twists and turns. I loved it!'
Melissa Caruso, author of The Obsidian Tower

'For those who like their revenge plots served with the intrigue of The Goblin Emperor, the colonial conflict of The City of Brass, the panache of Swordspoint, and the richly detailed settings of Guy Gavriel Kay'
Booklist (starred review)

'Utterly captivating. Carrick spins an exciting web of mystery, magic, and political treachery in a richly drawn and innovative world.'
S. A. Chakraborty, author of The City of Brass

Release date: August 15, 2023

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 688

Sample

The world held three kinds of fear. There was the kind too strong to fight; if you were smart, you ran, hid until it passed you by. There was the kind you stood up and faced, because if you didn’t, then you’d spend your whole life hiding.

And there was the kind you lived with. Because once it seeped into your bones, it never truly went away.

Grey knew he was supposed to enjoy the Festival of Veiled Waters. It was a time of celebration, from the Upper Bank to the Lower, when fog shrouded the city for a solid week, and everyone ran around in masks. There were singers and jugglers and plays about the fall of the Tyrant, and most people looked forward to it all winter.

But the week of unrelenting fog made him feel like someone might step out of it without warning, like he might vanish into it and never be seen again. His grandmother was Kiraly born and wed, but in Grey’s mind she was as crafty as a Varadi spider, her influence and power stretching out like a sticky, entangling web. “We’re safe,” Kolya always said, when Grey shared that thought. “Two years we’ve been here; if she and Dodač were coming after us, they’d have done it by now.”

Kolya didn’t understand how deep the fear ran. He did everything he could to ease it, though, treating every trouble his little brother brought to their door with patient kindness—as when he returned to their Kingfisher lodging house on the first day of Veiled Waters and found Grey spattered with walnut dye, more of it seemingly on his hands than in Leato’s once-golden hair. “When Eret Traementis sees you—” he groaned.

“It’s a disguise!” Grey said, sticking his guilty hands behind his back. “So Leato can with us go around the Lower Bank.”

“I want to see the performing monkeys,” Leato said. “And the peddlers and the puppet shows and drink spiced chocolate and—”

Grey and Kolya couldn’t afford half those things. Although House Traementis had given Kolya steady work, that only covered their lodgings and other necessities, not extravagances. The lift of Kolya’s brow asked, Is it Leato you invited, or his purse?

The tiny shake of Grey’s head answered that question. His friend might be a wealthy Liganti altan—not that he looked very rich or noble, with walnut dye staining head, hands, and half his borrowed clothes—but Grey wasn’t hoping to sail a river of gold tonight.

He wanted someone with him, to chase away the fear brought by the fog. And he didn’t want Kolya to carry that burden all night.

And Kolya nodded. Because even if he didn’t understand, he never questioned. He just protected Grey, against any threat that might come.

With Leato at his side in a spare panel coat and paper mask, Grey could relax and enjoy the flash of bright clothes sweeping through swirls of mysterious fog, the real world seeming like a dream even in the off years when Ažerais’s wellspring slumbered. Leato wanted to try everything: They feasted on toasted foxnuts, fried honey cakes, roasted crickets that crunched like embers and burned like fire. They shared a cup of spiced chocolate while watching a juggler catch and throw torches that burned away wisps of fog. That polished off, Grey dragged Leato into a Vraszenian dance, all stamps and claps, jostling shoulders and friendly mockery.

“Ugh, we’ve lost Kolya,” Grey said once the dance shook them loose and they sat on the fringes, drinking great gulps of air and sweetened citron water. His brother leaned against a nearby barrel of millet beer, talking to an upriver girl. “Yesterday he met that one—Alinya, Gulinka, something like that—and an hour I had to stand there, listening to them flirt. Badly.”

“Could be entertaining,” Leato mused, laughing when Grey slumped as though he’d been run through by that betrayal. “But that’s a show we can watch any day. Let’s go get our patterns read.”

“No.”

Grey didn’t even realize how cold and sharp it came out until Leato recoiled. With effort, he eased his voice. “At festivals like this, most likely they are frauds. Better ways there are to spend your money.”

He could see Leato wanting to ask but swallowing it down. “Then what now?”

The bells rang third earth. Grey grimaced and said, “I would not have you in trouble with your family.”

Leato tugged at his dyed hair. “I’ll get a smack from Father no matter what time I get home. Might as well have all the fun I can first.”

He said it so casually, as if a smack were nothing to fear. Pushing back his envy, Grey said, “Coster’s Walk. You will like this, I think.”

The embankment itself was full of slumming cuffs, but a troupe of Stretsko performed sword dances in Horizon Plaza every hour. To get there in time, Grey took back ways, dragging Leato through narrow alleys and across half-hidden bridges.

He went too fast, and the fog was too thick. Near the plaza, someone staggered backward out of an ostretta, directly into him.

“Watch it!” the other snarled, shoving Grey back. The light spilling from inside shone on an older Liganti boy, still in the gawky phase of growth, with straw-colored hair impeccably groomed behind his starred mask.

The boy’s gaze flicked over Grey’s panel coat and dark hair, and his lip bent in a sneer. “Oh, look. I stepped on a gnat.”

Bow and apologize, Kolya always said. It isn’t worth the fight. But it stuck in Grey’s craw, when these cheese-eaters came to his side of the river. “Into me you ran,” he said coldly. “On the Upper Bank are there no manners, that you apologize not?”

“What was that?” The boy cupped one hand to his ear, as two others followed him out of the ostretta. “All I heard was some buzzing.”

Three of them together tipped the odds straight over to bad. When Grey tried to slip past, though, the boy shoved him back. “Where do you think you’re going? Kneel and apologize.”

Grey’s heart drummed faster. He should have known better than to enjoy Veiled Waters. His grandmother wasn’t the only threat hiding in the fog. And his brother—older, bigger—wasn’t there.

“If anyone apologizes, it should be you.” Leato stepped up to Grey’s side, sounding every bit like the cuff he was.

The other boy only laughed. “A second one! Gnats always come in swarms. Shall we swat them?”

Pulling off his mask, Leato said, “Mezzan Indestor. It’s me, Leato Traementis.”

Grey’s blood congealed in his veins. He knew that name. House Indestor held the Cinquerat’s military seat: the foot inside the boot that kicked Vraszenians to the ground.

The flicker of surprise said Mezzan recognized Leato. But all too soon, the boy’s sneer returned. “Dirty hair, dirty skin—no, you look like just another gnat. Don’t you know it’s illegal to impersonate nobility? I could take you to the Aerie right now. Wouldn’t even have to bother Eret Traementis with this crime against his name.” He grinned at his friends. “Assuming old Gianco could be dragged from the gambling tables long enough to care.”

Grey recognized Leato’s flinch all too well, the hurt of a bruise that never went away. Seeing it in his friend balled his hands into fists. “Leave him alone!”

Mezzan ignored him. Clamping one hand on Leato’s shoulder in a gesture that looked friendly but bent Leato with pain, he said, “You should be more careful, Traementis. Don’t want to court disease, keeping vermin around—your family’s had enough bad luck already.”

Bad luck. Words Grey had heard over and over again, for as long as he could remember, until they stuck like a splinter under scarred skin. The fear that his grandmother was right: that he was a curse, that he brought ill luck to everyone around him.

Snarling, Grey charged headfirst into Mezzan’s stomach, ramming him against the wall. Leato tried to follow, but one of the other boys got him in a lock, pinning his arms. The third grabbed Grey—or tried to. Grey was weedy and fast and he didn’t care if it hurt when he squirmed free, not if it meant he could plant his muddy shoe in Mezzan’s pearls.

The third boy cursed. And unlike the others, he wore a sword.

Run, a voice in Grey’s head said: Kolya, or his common sense. They sounded a lot alike.

But that would leave Leato at their mercy. Leato, who had stepped up to defend him like a brother.

As Mezzan curled on the ground, hands cupping his crotch, the third boy drew his blade and lunged. Grey retreated, skidding on the muddy cobblestones. Then again. But there was no room to keep withdrawing; he hit a stack of crates, rattling with empty bottles. Grinning, the boy circled his point in the air. “I think I’ll carve a piece off you, to teach you a lesson.”

Grey shucked out of his panel coat while the other boy was talking. When the lunge came, he whirled the cloth like a Ghusai veil-dancer to snag the sword.

It took the boy by surprise, yanking the weapon free of his grip. As it clattered to the ground, Grey thought, Grab it—but this was Nadežra. Here, the likes of him wasn’t allowed a sword.

No laws against kicking it away, though. But before he could, a loop of rope fell, caught the boy around the middle, and hoisted him into the air.

Like a counterweight on a crane, a mass of fluttering black dropped into the street. Silver flashed, followed by two sharp smacks and two cries of pain. Leato stumbled free of his captor—then fell on his ass when he saw his rescuer. “Oh shit,” he whispered.

Leaping forward, Grey planted himself in front of his friend, glaring up a length of steel into shadows without a face.

The Rook.

He felt none of the awe he’d heard in the voices of other kids on the street. Until he came to Nadežra, Grey hadn’t even heard of the Rook. The outlaw wasn’t a campfire tale, not like Constant Ivan and Clever Natalya.

But one thing he’d learned in the last two years: the Rook hated the nobility.

“Leave him alone,” Grey said, flapping a hand behind his back. A futile gesture; Leato wouldn’t run any more than Grey had.

“What do you think I’d do to him, little gutter cat? I came fishing for carp, not guppies.” Stepping back, the Rook used the flat of his blade to herd the three larger boys into a clump. “The worst I might do is toss him into the river to grow some more. They don’t all turn out poisoned.” The glance the Rook gave Leato made Grey shiver.

Leato scrambled to his feet. “If you must do something to me, so be it. But let my friend go first.”

“Such a pair you make,” the Rook mused, eyeing them. “Almost a matched set—mismatched as you are.”

“Better with a mismatched friend to stand than alone.” Grey waited, tense and ready. Some fears you ran from, and some you faced. The Rook didn’t scare him half so much as his grandmother, or his own cursed fate.

A smile glimmered inside that depthless hood. “You’ve got courage… but a lamentable lack of skill. With a proper teacher, you might do well.”

Leato made a sudden, thoughtful noise. When Grey risked a glance, Leato whispered, “My teacher could train you. There’s nobody better than Oksana Ryvček.”

The Rook’s barked laugh startled them both. “You, young Traementis, should watch what promises you make for other people. Now off with you both, before more trouble finds you.”

With a flick of his blade, the Rook tossed Grey’s panel coat back to him, only a little sliced by the Liganti boy’s sword. Slinging a brotherly arm over his shoulders, Leato pulled him toward the light and sound of the plaza. In an awed whisper, he said, “What a night! I can’t believe I survived the Rook!”

“Nor I,” Grey said absently. His attention was all directed behind, at a figure shrouded in mystery, dragging three noble bullies to justice.

Ossiter’s, Eastbridge: Equilun 5

After so many years of desperation, misery, and loss, Donaia hardly knew what to do with happiness.

Or, for that matter, with dancing. “Rusty” did not begin to describe her skills: In the middle of a figure, she missed her cue to cast off and had to scramble out of the way of the pair of dancers hurtling up the set. Rather than find her place again, she ducked to the safety of the mingling crowd, chuckling at the thought of how Leato would tease her for abandoning her partner.

The laugh felt rusty, too. Memories of her lost son were everywhere, always… but she was trying to take joy in them instead of leaving her heart mired in sorrow. Giuna had come of age; guests had gathered at Ossiter’s to celebrate her elevation as heir of House Traementis.

Looking through the atrium, one would never guess that a bare year ago, their house had been on the brink of financial and familial collapse. The tables groaned under the weight of pastries filled with stone fruit jam, soft cheeses rolled in dill and caraway, orange-glazed duck and spit-roasted boar fragrant with spices from all along the Dawn and Dusk Roads. Red wines poured from silver ewers carried by smiling servers, while bottles of white nestled into buckets chilled with numinatria.

But it was the people Donaia marveled at the most. Six months before, the silence of the Tricatium had almost swallowed the bare scattering of friends at Renata’s adoption. Now that scattering had multiplied like silken scarves in a street performer’s hands. Many delta families and all the noble houses had sent guests; even Octale Contorio was there, recently released from the Dockwall Prison and regaling a small audience with the poetry he’d written during his captivity.

Almost all the noble houses, she amended. Not a single member of House Acrenix was present—Faella Coscanum had made it clear they were no longer welcome in polite society. Without a word of explanation as to why… but given that Ghiscolo Acrenix was dead; his putative heir, Sibiliat, was at the family’s bay villa “for her health”; and his adoptive mother, Carinci, had succeeded him as the head of their house, there was more than enough fodder for rumors. The most widespread held that Sibiliat had murdered her father—but if that were true, wouldn’t the Cinquerat have put her on trial?

From the swirling, silken crowd came Scaperto Quientis, one fluted glass in each hand. “I wasn’t certain if you would need fortification, or refreshment,” he said, holding them both out.

Brushing flyaway wisps of hair from her face, Donaia reached for the chilled lemon water. “No wine for me tonight; I wouldn’t want to put you through a repeat of our adoption ball. Nobody likes caring for a drunk.”

“I didn’t mind,” Scaperto said, sipping the one she’d refused.

Despite the cool glass in her hand, warmth spread through Donaia. At first she hadn’t been sure how to interpret Scaperto’s kindness. But the days she spent at his villa had not only lessened the weight on her heart; they had cleared the fog from her eyes. While she wasn’t quite ready for more than friendship, that shore was in sight. And she trusted that Scaperto would wait there until she arrived.

Meppe and Idaglio swung past, clumsy and laughing as the latter tried to teach his husband the steps. She was glad they were having fun. Tanaquis had fled as soon as etiquette allowed; lately she’d had her nose even deeper than usual in books and scrolls, pursuing some project she refused to discuss. Meanwhile, Nencoral looked none too pleased that the progression of the dance had forced her to join hands with Ucozzo Extaquium. Although his half sister Parma had retreated into mourning seclusion after Sureggio’s suicide, the rest of their house was ready to go on indulging themselves as usual. Another bit of meat for the rumor-mongers to chew on, given the close timing of Sureggio’s death and Ghiscolo’s.

Donaia savored the lemon water and tried to banish those thoughts. You’re looking for trouble. Can’t you just be happy?

But how, with the curse on her house still unexplained and Ghiscolo’s mysterious death hanging over them like Ninat’s sickle?

And where that latter was concerned… “Have you had any luck prying information out of Faella?” When Scaperto shook his head, Donaia sighed. “Of all the times for that squawking seagull to close her beak.”

“Era!” Scaperto feigned shock at her rudeness, but clinked his glass against hers. “Every time I try to draw her out, she just raises the question of who will fill the empty seat. If you won’t take it, perhaps another from your house? Nothing in the law says Cinquerat members have to be the heads of their houses.”

As if he meant any old relation, and not one in particular. A rush of amethyst silk and embroidered dragonflies swirled into view; the dance had brought her niece near. “Renata!”

Too late, she realized who Renata was partnered with. With a courtly bow, Derossi Vargo led her off the floor. The deep cobalt of his coat echoed the blue flash of Renata’s dragonflies, complementing without matching, and Donaia worried that they’d planned it that way. Lately it was as if their previous falling-out had never happened. And Renata had mentioned wanting to speak with her tonight about an important matter: a conversation Donaia had avoided so far, dreading the possibility of having her worst suspicions confirmed.

The two promenaded over to Donaia and Scaperto as if they were still dancing, and Renata dropped into a curtsy as she arrived. A year in Nadežra hadn’t softened her crisp Seterin accent, but her tone was playful as she said, “You called?”

Donaia gestured with her lemon water. “Scaperto wants to toss you into Ninat’s maw. Will you refuse him yourself, or shall I do so for you?”

That set him sputtering. “I meant no such thing! I only thought—”

“That two Caerulets have died in the past year, so why not recruit someone with incredible luck to replace them?”

The accusation carried an edge Donaia hadn’t intended. But after losing so much to the curse on House Traementis, it didn’t take much to make her worry. And she worried about Renata quite a lot.

Tanaquis wasn’t the only one whose thoughts seemed to be elsewhere these days. Renata hadn’t shirked her duties in the slightest, but she’d resisted Giuna’s repeated suggestion that she could remain heir awhile longer. The girl seemed to swing between nestling into the warmth of House Traementis and holding herself aloof, as if she herself wasn’t sure what she wanted. Or, perhaps, whether she could allow herself to have it.

By the sharpness of her laugh, Renata certainly didn’t want what Scaperto was offering. “I’m afraid I’d be very ill-suited for Caerulet. I know nothing of military matters.”

“Very few of us do,” Donaia said. “Indestor had that seat for generations, and they granted hardly any charters outside their own control.”

“House Coscanum holds one,” Vargo mused, his kohl-lined eyes narrowing.

Scaperto cleared his throat. “Not even Faella can convince her brother to claim the seat. And I hope you won’t take offense, Eret Vargo, that the Cinquerat is not considering you for it, either.”

Donaia had forgotten that Vargo administered that charter on Coscanum’s behalf. She expected a sharp reply, but he looked like he was suppressing a full-body shudder, one hand rising toward the hideous spider pin on his lapel. “That saves me having to find a polite way to say no.”

Renata touched the watered silk of his sleeve, and Vargo flashed her an expression that was more grimace than smile. It seemed that seat’s cursed reputation was enough to dampen even his ambition… for military power, at least. But Donaia didn’t like the closeness—unspoken words, unreadable gestures—developing between the two.

Before Donaia could say anything, a small commotion at the door drew her attention. She’d rented the entirety of Ossiter’s for tonight, only her guests permitted in, and one of the footmen was blocking a pair of people from entering.

“Excuse me,” Donaia said, and hurried across the atrium.

“—servants’ entrance, alongside the canal,” the footman was saying, but he stopped as Donaia approached.

Grey Serrado snapped her a bow, as crisp as if he were still a Vigil captain. He wore the split-sided coat favored by duelists, a sword belted to his hip. At his side, Alinka looked practically Liganti in a surcoat of palest green. Apple blossoms picked out in cream and pink fluttered down the front from shoulder to hem, like she’d just come in from a springtime walk—Tess’s work, and Donaia’s gift for this special occasion.

Alinka’s expression didn’t match the carefree youth of her ensemble. She had one hand on her brother-in-law’s sleeve, ready to retreat, but released him to curtsy to Donaia.

Stepping around the footman, Donaia took Alinka’s arm in her own and gave the footman her most scathing look. “What do you think you’re doing, interfering with my invited guests?”

The footman’s bow was every bit as correct as Grey’s. “My apologies, era. It was a misunderstanding.”

As if he couldn’t see they weren’t dressed like servants. With a pointed sniff, Donaia led them past the footman and into the atrium. “I’m so glad you two could join us. Come, let’s see where my daughter has gotten to.”

She’d hardly spoken to Giuna all evening; with Sibiliat Acrenix and her dubious attentions removed from the field, quite a few prospective suitors were eager to parade themselves before the new heir. Donaia couldn’t find her now, until Alinka said softly, “There, by the planter.”

Giuna was off to the side rather than dancing, letting Tess re-pin her hair. An effort she promptly undid by pulling free without warning so she could hug Grey. “You came!”

He returned the hug, then stepped back and bowed. “Of course, alta. We couldn’t miss your celebration.”

At heart, Giuna was still the girl who’d spent most of her childhood mewed up in the manor of a dwindling family, with very few people to call friend. She swatted his arm. “Why so formal? If anybody takes offense at you skipping the courtesies, I’ll just have you duel them.”

Giving him a long-term contract as their house duelist had been Renata’s idea. They didn’t need one nearly as badly as they had in past years—when they couldn’t afford to hire one at all—but it was a kindness after he quit the Vigil. Donaia only wished she’d thought of it first. She still remembered the starveling boy who’d shown up on her doorstep with his older brother, begging for work. A nearly familial friendship had grown between him and Leato, despite the differences in their stations, and she felt more than a little affection for him herself.

Grey said mildly, “I’d prefer not to mar the night with swords. Good evening, Alta Renata.”

Donaia hadn’t noticed her niece approaching. Fortunately she’d rid herself of Vargo. Renata’s nod to Grey was friendly, but nothing more; Donaia had a feeling she’d embarrassed them both by drunkenly shoving them together at the adoption ball. To Giuna, Renata said, “Orrucio Amananto was looking for you.”

“Oh, please no,” Giuna moaned. “Nothing against Orrucio—but if I don’t rest, I’ll collapse!”

“If the alta would take her seat again,” Tess said, gesturing at an empty chair by the porcelain planter. “And stay there. Your hair still needs fixing; that should give you a moment to breathe.”

Giuna plunked herself into the chair with obvious relief.

“Do you need Tess to see to your dress?” Donaia asked Alinka when she noticed the young woman tugging at the bodice of her surcoat. The gift had been a surprise, and while Tess had claimed confidence that she could take Alinka’s measurements well enough from sight alone, Donaia still fretted.

“No, it’s fine. You were very kind to have sent it,” Alinka said in her soft, accented voice. “Only I’m… not accustomed to wearing such things.”

“Ah, yes. I remember when Giuna and Leato were Yvie and Jagyi’s age. I never had time for myself, either,” Donaia said. Alinka merely gave a wan smile and murmured her agreement.

Clearing his throat, Grey said to Alinka, “Let me get you some wine. Era, altas, would any of you like some?”

All three of them waved the offer away, so he bowed and departed. In his absence, Renata drew Donaia to the side. “When everything is done tonight, we do need to talk.”

So much for avoiding the news she feared. Donaia turned to watch the dancers, to mask the tightness of her smile. “It might need to wait until tomorrow, if this runs as late as it looks to. But you shouldn’t waste time with me when you’ve admirers waiting. Egliadas Fintenus was hoping to dance with you.”

Renata’s amusement looked strained as she said, “Matchmaking, are you?”

Trying to steer you anywhere other than Derossi Vargo. “It’s an old woman’s privilege and duty to try and pair the young off well. Especially since your mother isn’t here, and likely wouldn’t care even if she were.” Letilia would be too busy trying to draw every eye to herself, married or not.

She hadn’t even spoken the name. But like the tale of the sorcerer who appeared whenever someone said “Argolus,” the high vault of the atrium rang with a voice that twenty-four years were not enough to scrub from Donaia’s mind.

“My darling daughter! At last, we are reunited!”

Donaia went cold. A nightmare. We’ve all been pulled into that dream realm again, and my worst nightmare is coming true.

But no: She was awake. This was reality. Letilia Viraudacis—formerly Lecilla Traementis—was posed with arms wide in the grand entrance of Ossiter’s, in a gown so thick with multicolored embroidery that it strained the eye to follow.

A strangled sound came from Renata.

With a mouth gone dry in horror, Donaia whispered, “I think I need that wine.”

Ossiter’s, Eastbridge: Equilun 5

She’s supposed to be in Seteris.

For one mad instant, a laugh almost forced its way past Ren’s strangling horror. She’d told the lie so often, she’d started to believe it herself. But Letilia had never made it to Seteris after she ran away; she’d gotten stuck in Ganllech. Ren never dreamed that she might leave the comforts she’d arranged for herself there and come back to Nadežra.

Why is that Mask-damned woman here?

The musicians were still playing, but the dancers had straggled to a halt. Letilia swept past the footman trying to block her path as if the music were her fanfare and the dancers her audience. With a grand gesture, she spread the overly broad foreskirt of her surcoat: Seterin lines, but with a Ganllechyn flair tacked on. Literally. The multicolored embroidery, usually only hinted at on hidden plackets and underskirts, had been flipped to the outside instead. A menagerie of elongated hinds and hounds tangled down the front panel in an orgy of clashing colors. It drew every eye. It was impossible to look away.

Through the mental link that joined Alsius and Vargo, Ren heard Alsius’s awed whisper. ::I understand now why embroidery is outlawed in Ganllech.::

His comment snapped Ren back to her senses. Did Letilia recognize—

“You’ve been gone from Seteris for so long,” Letilia cried as she drew near. “With nary a letter to tell me how you were faring. I simply had to take ship to visit you, poppet.”

And then, before Ren could react in any way acceptable for Renata, Letilia was embracing her. But it was the kind of embrace Ondrakja used to give, the sort that was cover for fingers digging hard into her arms and a voice whispering venom in her ear. “Hello, Ren.”

As if it had stopped, Ren’s heart thudded painfully back into motion. Yes, Letilia knew exactly who she was.

“Letilia.” Donaia’s voice could have frozen the Dežera; her smile could have carved the ice into blocks. “Whatever are you doing in Nadežra? Having taken such pains to scrape our delta mud off your shoes, I can’t imagine why you would set foot here again—even for your beloved daughter.”

“The one you adopted out from under me, you mean?” Letilia didn’t let go, but she transitioned the hold so they were side by side, Renata clamped there with one arm. “Really, Donaia, how could you.”

“It was entirely Renata’s choice. You haven’t answered my question.”

Ren could read the threat in the hand tightening on her arm. Deal with this, or I will. “Aunt Donaia, please. Let’s not ruin Giuna’s night with bickering.”

“Giuna, yes! You’ve stolen away my daughter, Donaia. Perhaps I’ll steal away yours. Where is she?” Letilia’s gaze swept the nearby people, dismissing most of them without consideration. Tess had already ducked behind the planter, and the tension in Ren’s gut eased by half a hair. Her sister had never been part of Letilia’s household, but the woman might remember the Ganllechyn girl her maid used to spend so much time with.

Grey had stopped a short distance away, wineglass in hand. Ren met his gaze long enough to shake her head minutely: Don’t step in. He knew how much of a disaster this was… but in Letilia’s eyes, he would only be a filthy Vraszenian. Unless Donaia challenged Letilia to a duel, he had no grounds to intervene.

Giuna was Traementis in looks as well as name, easily spotted. Releasing Renata, Letilia dragged the frozen girl out of her chair and kissed both of her cheeks. “I’m your aunt Letilia, dear, though you’ve never met me.”

“‘Aunt’ is a term reserved for those in the register,” Donaia said, pulling Giuna under her arm much as Letilia had done with Renata. “And this party is reserved f