I can barely breathe at the sight of her.
Not long after I arrived in Minkja, I nearly ran headlong into Joniza in the Obarmarkt, ducking behind a barrel of herring just in the nick of time to escape notice.
Then every day that week I came back, waited for her to pass, trailed her to a Sahalian restaurant in Trader’s Cross. I’d watch her get balls of sticky plantain dough and groundnut stew, and wash them down with a carafe that was more milk than coffee. She looked happier than she’d been in Castle Falbirg. Happy enough without me.
Eventually it hurt more to see her than to not, so I stopped. But now—it’s like we’re right back by the great hearth in Castle Falbirg, and she’s teaching me how she snuck spices into Yannec’s stews when he wasn’t looking, or humming a lively ballad as I practice unfurling silk flowers from thin air. Her black hair is in long, thin, gold-threaded braids now instead of loose curls, and she dresses finer than before, but it’s still her, the one person I trusted in Sovabin.
She sees me standing near the table and stops in her tracks, mouth dropping open.
“We have a guest,” Umayya says tightly.
Another figure bustles in behind Joniza, oblivious, in a cloak as stained and faded as Umayya’s dress. “Really? Who—”
Her hood falls back as she jerks to a halt. She’s sixteen, broad-shouldered and taller than me; her dark blond locks have been braided too tight to do her rough-hewn face any favors, and her gray eyes are granite-hard when they land on me.
“You.” Her voice is a blast of frost. The room goes silent.
She looks almost exactly like she did the last time I saw her, over a year ago, when I left her stranded and furious on the muddy riverbank.
“Hilde, do you know Princess Gisele?” Umayya asks, perplexed.
Is that what you’re calling yourself now?
“We need to talk,” I begin.
That’s a mistake. Cloudy misfortune begins to tumble through my sight.
Gisele-Berthilde Ludwila von Falbirg stares at me, bright red splotches blooming in her cheeks.
Then she lunges for me, screaming, “YOU LITTLE BITCH!”
I grab my chair and swing it between us, shouting over the shriek
ing children. “Stop—I’m trying—”“GIVE THEM BACK, YOU FILTHY LITTLE—”
I jab the chair legs at her like a busker with a performing bear. “I can’t—Stop, I’m here to help—” “LIAR!” Gisele rips the chair from my hands and tosses it aside. “You’re just a horrible little thief!”
“You’reNOT LISTENING!” I bolt around the table, Gisele on my heels. Fury rattles in my skull, spilling unbidden from my lips. “Youneverlistened,” I snarl, “you only ever cared”—I duck under her arm— “aboutusingme”—she swipes for me to no avail—“to get out ofyourmesses!”
“You stoleeverythingfrom me!” she half screams, lunging again. I kick the chair back into her path. “Why do you think I’m here, you damned clod?”
“You tell me! I have nothing left for you to take!” One look tells me everything I need to know: There’s a fire in her eyes, in her bared teeth, and it will not die easy.
I need to get out. I stumble toward the front door, only to trip on my hem and crash to the floorboards. Gisele is on me in an instant, hands scrabbling at my throat—she’s going to choke me—
No. Worse. She’s going for the pearls.
There’s an ungodly howl. A black cat—Ragne—squirms under Gisele’s arms, hissing and screeching until she jerks back. It’s enough for me to scuttle away and scramble to my feet.
I dive for the door and manage to shove it open before something seizes my cape and drags me back. I hear my footman shouting for guards.
Then two men in Wolfhünden uniforms barrel through the doorway. One shoves Gisele to the ground. The other helps me up.
“All right there, Princess Gisele?” he grunts.
I brace myself on the doorjamb to catch my breath. “Y-yes, thank you.”
The real Gisele is still glowering at me, nothing but rancid hate burning in her eyes.
