Matron Shashyl stood with her hands folded behind her back, her lips pursed as she oversaw Dart’s preparation for her first bloodletting.

Lord Chrism merely sat upon a chair, his face turned toward the open window of his chamber. He smelled of hay and freshly turned soil. His hair was oiled and combed straight back, making his green eyes seem larger, shining brighter than the afternoon sunlight.

With trembling fingers, Dart opened the small wyrmwood box. Lord Chrism’s sigil was inlaid in gold on the lid. Inside, brown velvet protected the contents: a line of silver instruments, a ribbon of tightly braided silk, and a fresh repostilary. The crystal receptacle had been blown by the glass artisans only two days previous. Dart had toured the Guild’s shops across the courtyard and watched this very repostilary being crafted.

Her first.

“This will be a full draw,” Matron Shashyl said. “So which lancet will you choose?”

It was not a difficult question. Shashyl had schooled her vigorously over the past two days.

Dart reached and pointed to the leaf-shaped lancet. To create a flow rich enough to fill an empty repostilary to the brim, she would need the largest of the silver blades. It was filigreed with gold inlay, again the sigil of Chrism. Dart knew it was an ancient instrument, dating back to the second millennia following the Sundering. Yet the tool was maintained in such delicate fashion that the silver shone without a single pox of tarnish. Its honed edge looked sharp enough to slice through darkness itself, its tipped point so fine it was hard to discern the end of the lancet without squinting.

“Very good,” the matron said. “Let us not keep our Lord of the loam waiting any longer.”

Chrism sighed with a ghost of a smile, his attention drawn back upon student and teacher. “Mayhap, dear matron, you should leave my Hand and I alone for this first bleeding.”

“But, my Lord, she is—”

The garrulous old woman was silenced with the lifting of a single finger. “She’ll do fine,” Chrism said in consolation. “This is a private time between god and Hand.”

Matron Shashyl quickly bowed, then retreated toward the exit to Lord Chrism’s chambers.

Dart kept her eyes upon the floor, upon the spread of her tools. She found it hard to breathe, as if the air had gone suddenly too thick. Pupp lay on the stones, his stumped tail wagging slowly. His fiery eyes were fixed upon the tools, like a dog eyeing a soupbone. She had warned him off with a firm gesture when she first knelt down.

Chrism stirred in his chair by the window. “As much as the good matron may press upon you the import and weight of your duty, it is truly a matter of no great concern.”

Dart glanced up at him. His eyes shone with emerald Grace, framed in soft brown curls, a slight stubble of beard shadowed his cheeks and chin. She found comfort in the warmth of his soft smile. She remembered his tears on the night of Willym’s murder, shed without collection, a treasure spent in memory of the god’s former servant.

“Every man bleeds,” Chrism said. “A god is no different. I can’t count the times this past winter alone that I’ve pricked a finger while working out in the Eldergarden.”

Dart found such a concept impossible to imagine, but she recalled her first encounter with Chrism among the gardens, mistaking him for some common groundskeep. Looking at him now, she could not fathom how she made such a mistake.

“While my blood may have value in trade and stock, it flows from me like any other man’s. Be not afraid. Master Willym and I were beyond ceremony.”

Chrism rolled back the sleeve and exposed his arm. His skin was tanned the color of red loam, while soft hairs, bleached blond by the same sun that tanned his skin, curled up the length of his forearm. He turned his arm to expose his wrist. Here the skin shone paler, appearing tender, as smooth as a woman’s cheek.

“You must simply stab deep and quick. My beating heart will do the rest of the work.”

Dart nodded. She took up the length of braided silk. Pupp lifted his head, tail wagging more vigorously. She waved him down with her free hand. She did not want him interfering—especially not when blood was involved.

Pupp lowered his head but maintained his vigil.

Dart knelt by Chrism’s chair and tied the ribbon above the god’s elbow. She worked rapidly, having practiced all night. She snugged it, careful not to touch his flesh.

“Tighter,” Chrism said. “You can cinch it more firmly.”

Dart swallowed hard and did as he instructed. The silk pressed deeply into his flesh. For some reason, she had thought a god’s flesh would be more unyielding, more like stone.

“Very good.”

Dart sat back and gently lifted the silver lancet from the scarf. Now came the hard part. To stab the god she served.

“Can you see the vein at the edge of my wrist?” Chrism asked. “Willym preferred that one for a deep bleeding.”

Dart reached up and cradled Chrism’s wrist. His skin was warm, almost hot to the touch.

“A quick jab is all it takes.”

She hesitated.

“Be not afraid.” His voice purred with patience and concern.

Dart bit her lip and drove the point into his flesh and out again. A ruby drop of blood immediately welled upon his pale flesh, a jewel more precious than any mined from the heart of Myrillia. Here was a treasure mined from the heart of a god.

“The glass . . .” Chrism said with a smile.

Dart stumbled back, realizing she had frozen in place, mesmerized. She reached blindly for the repostilary, knocked it over with her fingertips; its crystal stopper rolled free of the scarf, tinkling on the stones. She grabbed the tiny decanter.

“Calm yourself. There is no hurry.”

Blood welled on the god’s wrist into a pool. Dart held forth the repostilary, needing both hands to hold it steady. Still the crystal receptacle tremored with each beat of her own heart.

Chrism leaned forward and tilted his wrist with a skill honed over millennia. The pool of blood became a channel, rushing from his flesh into a thick stream. The repostilary caught the flow as it poured forth.

Dart kept her gaze focused on keeping the wide mouth of the receptacle positioned to accept the god’s gift. Her trembling continued to bobble the jar a bit, but not a drop was spilled. The repostilary filled.

Chrism studied the flow. “That should do nicely, Dart.” She flicked a gaze in his direction. His lids lowered slightly. A glow bloomed softly on his wrist, moonlight through a break in clouds. Chrism had cast a blessing upon himself. The blood stopped flowing, dripping away, healed.

“The bit of linen, please,” Chrism said.

Dart let go of the repostilary with one hand and reached for a folded slip of green Kashmiri linen. She snatched it up and held it out.

Chrism turned his wrist toward her. She dabbed the blood from his skin. No sign of her stabbing wound remained.

Clutching the repostilary, Dart finished her ministrations, wiping the last drops away. The bit of linen would be burned upon the brazier outside the chamber, a fire continually stoked for this very purpose. The residual Grace in the scrap of cloth was too capricious, dangerous, unpredictable, apt to be used in dark rites by black alchemists. Such items had to be purged regularly, including Chrism’s daily garments after the slightest soiling by sweat or bile, the same with his bedsheets. Even forks and spoons were cleansed in fire to burn off any residual saliva.

Her focus on Dark Graces brought her back to the afternoon in the gardens, to the murder of the woman named Jacinta, turned to ash. She pictured the cursed black blade—and the man who had wielded it, a lord she knew by name now after inquiring discreetly.

Yaellin de Mar. Another of Chrism’s Hands.

Dart knew nothing else about the man, avoiding him at every turn. The man oversaw the aspect of black bile, the solids passed by Chrism into a crystal chamber pot, twinned with another pot that collected the god’s yellow bile each morning and night.

Dart had gone over the murder in the gardens . . . and Jacinta’s final words. Myrillia will be free! What did that mean?

Dart had her own secrets, too many already. She wanted no others. So she had spoken to no one about it, not even Laurelle. What could she say? How could Dart accuse or slander a Hand who had been in service to Chrism for going on his second decade?

Distracted by these black thoughts, Dart missed the roll of a drop of blood from Chrism’s wrist. It fell toward the stones. Wincing, she watched the ruby jewel splatter—not against the floor, but upon a bronze nose. Pupp had darted forward, catching the drop in midair.

Rather than passing through her ghostly companion, the droplet found substance. With the touch of blood, Pupp grew momentarily solid. His bronze nails clicked on the stone floor. His molten form settled into ruddy plates and a mane of razored spikes. Dart felt the heat of his presence like a stoked fire.

She froze.

Chrism’s eyes had returned to the view out the window as Dart had finished her ministrations, but now he stirred in his seat. Pupp stared up at the seated god. His eyes flared brighter. His tongue, a lick of flame, lolled out.

As Chrism leaned forward, the droplet of blood sizzled on Pupp’s nose and burned away. A tiny dance of smoke marked its passage. And Pupp’s form turned just as smoky.

“What’s that scent?” Chrism asked. He withdrew his arm, placed his palm on the armrest, and shifted upward, staring around the room.

Dart waved a hand through the puff of blood smoke, clearing her throat. Pupp shook his head like a wet dog and trotted back across the room.

Chrism failed to note his passage, but his nose remained crinkled.

Dart quickly bowed her head. “One of the other Hands must be cleansing the utensils from your last meal, my Lord. In the grand brazier outside your doors.”

With a worried crinkle of brow, Chrism settled back to his seat, but not before glancing one more time around the room.

Keeping her head down, Dart carefully plugged the repostilary with its crystal stopper and returned it to the wyrmwood box. She then folded the scarf over the box, and though her knees threatened to betray her, she stood smoothly.

“You did very well, Dart.” Chrism returned to his watch on the flowing river below his window.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Take the repostilary to Matron Shashyl. She’ll instruct you from here.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Dart backed toward the door.

As her fingers touched the door’s latch, Chrism spoke again, only a mumble, still staring out the window. “We must be watchful . . . all of us.”

Dart closed the door behind her friend. Laurelle was dressed in a white cotton dress, belted with silver silk, a match to her slippers. Dart had changed out of her own finery and back into a more comfortable shift that fell about her like a sack. She found its plainness a comfort.

Laurelle fled to Dart’s bed and perched on its edge. Her eyes glowed in the last rays of the sun. Beyond her windows, the deeper bowers of the Eldergarden already shone with moonglobes and dancing fireflits.

Dart settled to a spot on the bed beside Laurelle. She took a pillow and hugged it to her belly.

Laurelle fell back to the crimson coverlet, arms flung out. “To see a god cry . . .” she murmured. “His tears shone like molten silver. I feared collecting them. How my hands shook! The tiny crystal spoon quavered in my grip.”

Dart listened as Laurelle related her own first collection of Chrism’s tears. It was a heady day for both of them. Dart still felt a twinge of unease. Pupp had almost been seen, made solid by the blood of the very god she served. It awakened her own fear of discovery . . . not only of her strange ghostly companion, but of her corruption.

Blood . . . why did she have to be chosen for blood?

“So tell me,” Laurelle finished, sitting back up. “Did his humour glow with Grace? Did you swoon? I’d heard back at the school that some Hands faint away when drawing their first blood.”

Dart glanced to her friend. “Truly?”

Laurelle’s eyes widened. She reached a hand to Dart. “Did you faint?”

Dart shook her head.

“Then what happened? You have a great look of worry upon you.”

Dart stared into her friend’s eyes. Perhaps she could tell all to Laurelle. About Pupp, about the murder in the gardens, about her own defilement. Instead she found herself relating the event in dry tones. She spoke of Chrism’s kindness and patience, of her own nervousness, of the successful draw. Laurelle listened to all with rapt attention.

Dart made no mention of Pupp . . . nor of Chrism’s final cryptic words. We must be watchful . . . all of us.

“It all went well, then,” Laurelle stated as Dart finished. “Why the long pout?”

Dart shook her head. “I . . . I’m just tired. It was trying. See . . . seeing the blood and all.”

Laurelle’s fingers squeezed hers. “But you didn’t faint. You should be proud.”

Dart offered a weak smile. It was all she could manage.

Her sour mood dulled the shine from Laurelle but failed to subdue her entirely. “Come,” she said, standing abruptly and drawing Dart up by the hand. “Matron Shashyl has promised us a special feast to celebrate our first day. It’s to be served in the common room. All the Hands will be there.”

Dart now felt a swoon threaten. All the Hands . . .

The sixth bell rang out in the courtyard. It was answered by a small chime sounding in the High Wing’s hall.

“We must get you dressed,” Laurelle said. “Matron Shashyl sent me in here to fetch you. She said you were suffering a headache and she didn’t want to disturb your rest until now.”

Dart glanced to the cold cup of willow bark tea, untouched. She had feigned illness to escape to her chambers after the bloodletting. Shashyl had seemed to understand, nodding and taking her under her thick arm. She must have suspected, like Laurelle, that Dart had been overcome, perhaps swooned.

A part of Dart felt a stab of irritation. She had performed the bloodletting without mishap. Did they all think so little of her ability? Had she not accomplished her studies with dutiful alacrity?

That bit of fire helped steady Dart’s legs. If she could stab a god, she could face the gathered Hands. Even the black-and-silver-haired Yaellin de Mar. He had given no indication that he recognized her from the gardens. And why should he? She had nothing to fear.

So she allowed Laurelle to tug free her shift, and together they searched her wardrobe for proper attire.

“Not too fine,” Laurelle said. “We mustn’t come off too pompous. But then again, we don’t want to appear as drab either.” Dart soon found herself in a ruffled white dress with a crimson sash. Though only of moderate splendor, it was far better than any of her clothes back at school. She felt like a mushroom masquerading as a flower.

Laurelle gave her one final look, fixing back a few loose curls. “Perfect.”

As if timed, a knock sounded at the door. Matron Shashyl called from the hall, “How are you faring in there? Dinner is being brought up to the commons. Master Pliny will not leave a quail’s wing to split between the two of you if you keep his ample appetite waiting.”

Laurelle hid a giggle behind her fingers. It was a common jest across the High Wing that Master Pliny, the Hand of Chrism’s Sweat, was more a servant of his belly than his god.

Dart and Laurelle crossed to the door. Laurelle took her hand. Dart found comfort in the familiarity and support. Laurelle leaned over and gave Dart a fast peck on the cheek. “As long as we’re together, we’ll always be fine.”

By the end, Dart’s head whirled amid the chatter and flows of wine.

Laurelle kept at her side, bolstering her up. Skilled with a charmed tongue, she had no trouble keeping up conversation. Dart was left mostly to watch, nibble, and sip.

All the Hands were in attendance. It had been many seasons since any new Hands had been brought into the fold. The six other men and women seemed more family than fellow servants. They squabbled, they pointed forks, they laughed, they taunted with jokes that originated in their shared pasts. Dart sensed it would take considerable time to blend in with this bunch.

But Laurelle tried her best. “And when all the illuminaria shattered, the looks on the other girls’ faces were shocked to the point of speechlessness. And Healer Paltry, I had never seen him so shook up.”

Dart had only been half-listening up to this point, having been caught up in a conversation between Master Pliny and Mistress Naff about the price of repostilaries. It seemed the flow of Grace between borders had been slowing of late, due to growing turmoil and odd behavior among some of the realms. Dart had listened intently, only to be drawn back to Laurelle at the sound of her own name.

“Dart looked the sickest of them all though. So green of face that you could barely note the mark of purity on her forehead.”

“I can only imagine Healer Paltry’s countenance,” Master Munchcryden mumbled. The diminutive man, the Hand of Yellow Bile, dabbed the corner of his lips with the edge of his sleeve. “How I would’ve liked to have been in that chamber to see that eternal smile of his break.”

Laurelle turned to Dart. “You know best. You should tell this story.”

Dart felt an icy finger of terror trace her spine. She knew Laurelle was only trying to include them in the table’s talk, to share anecdotes of their own shared past. Everyone knew Healer Paltry here, as he served as the High Wing’s healer and physik. To gently gibe him seemed to please the table.

Dart found one set of eyes falling with studied intent upon her. No amusement shone in Master Yaellin’s dark eyes. He wore a silver shirt with an ebony surcoat over it, adorned with raven feathers stitched into it as shimmering accents. The reminder of ravens unsettled Dart further.

“What reason did Healer Paltry give for the shatter of the illuminaria?” Yaellin asked. The casual manner of his words did not match his eyes.

Dart found all attention upon her. Under such weight, she lowered her gaze, fixing her attention to her wine goblet. “He said such things sometimes happened. That ofttimes the illuminaria would flare brighter with certain testings.” She attempted to punctuate her disinterest with a shrug. She ended up bobbling her wineglass and spilling it across the white linen.

A maid quickly scurried forward and dabbed up the pool. The distraction helped divert attention. Other conversations started. Still, one set of eyes remained focused on her.

Yaellin de Mar’s.

“Are you all right?” Laurelle asked.

Dart pushed back her chair. “It’s just the wine. I’m not accustomed to such richness of fare. I think I should retire to my room.”

Laurelle stood, too. “I’ll go with you.”

Mistress Naff lifted her wineglass to them. She was lithe of form and generous of bosom, dressed in a gown of red and brown silks, matching the drape and braid of her hair. Though rich of cloth, it was also somewhat chaste, laced to the neck. Naff was the Hand to Chrism’s seed. It was whispered back at school that some such Hands would occasionally bed their gods to collect the vital humours, but these rumors were mostly told among the boys, amid snickers and rude comments. It was in fact not the manner. Once monthly, a god would spill his seed or her menstral bleeding into a crystal repostilary. Sometimes a Hand would attend, more often they would merely be called in to collect the crystal receptacle afterward. As such rare humours allowed Grace to be blessed upon a living person, they were second only to blood in importance.

Mistress Naff nodded to them. “Sleep well. And welcome to our small family.”

Dart gave a half curtsy. She recognized a certain sadness in Mistress Naff’s eyes. Did she see her own lost youth in their young faces? Mistress Naff had served Lord Chrism for only eight years, but already Grace had aged her countenance with early lines and sags. The humour she served was said to be the hardest burden to bear. Though handled only monthly, its Grace was attuned to living people, wearing its servant more than the others.

The other Hands acknowledged the departing girls with raised glasses, except for Master Pliny, who grunted and lifted a honeycake, dusting crumbs from his full belly.

Here was their new family.

Master Fairland and Mistress Tre stood up, too, and announced their departure. They were the most silent of the Hands, barely speaking, seldom smiling, a twin brother and sister, both chosen at the same time, representing the humours of saliva and phlegm respectively. They kept mostly to themselves, even shaving their dark heads to match, a custom among the steamy jungles of the Fourth Land. They were also the newest Hands, besides Dart and Laurelle, having been chosen three years ago.

The assembly continued to disperse in the wake of Dart and Laurelle’s departure. Dart heard the well wishes and good nights spreading among the others. She glanced over one shoulder as the twin Hands departed toward their neighboring rooms.

In the doorway to the commons, Yaellin de Mar stood, leaning on the frame, his face in shadows. But Dart knew those eyes were on her. Why? He had shown no interest in her before now.

Without a doubt, the damnable story of the illuminaria had piqued some curiosity in him. None of the other Hands had found the story anything but an amusement. Yet Yaellin’s attention pinned her like a crossbow’s bolt. This last thought drew a shiver. A crossbow’s bolt. The murder of Master Willym replayed in her head. It had been a murder meant for her . . . or rather the position she held, the new Hand of blood. But now Dart wondered. Had it been a more personal attack?

Without turning, she felt Yaellin’s eyes still upon her. What did the breaking of the illuminaria mean? Prior to this moment, she had never properly considered it, too caught up in terror and circumstance since that day. If it had garnered the attention of Yaellin, had it also attracted someone else’s eye, too? Someone with ill intent? She again pictured the blood pouring from Master Willym, his weight falling on her.

Was there more meaning upon that attempt on her life?

She glanced over her shoulder. The doorway to the commons was empty.

Yaellin de Mar was gone.

She knew she would have to watch him more closely.

If she was ever to get any answers . . .

But sleep did finally come . . . and dreams.

Dart smelled the sea. She was being carried in a woman’s arms, a babe again, her bearer’s bosom pressed tight to her tiny head.

“We cannot wait the tide,” the woman said to another. “They almost caught us in the wood.”

The cloaked figure nodded and led the way down a tiny stone quay. He was dressed all in black, even his boots. As he turned to glance behind, she noted his face was masked.

A Shadowknight.

He crossed to a low skiff with black sails moored at the quay’s end.

The woman hurried after, bouncing Dart in her arms. Moonlight shone on her face: auburn hair tied in a single braid, green eyes crinkled with lines of middle years, her complexion bled of all color. Dart knew the woman from vague memories of her earliest years, but even more from the oiled paintings that hung in the Conclave. It was the former headmistress of the school, the woman who had rescued Dart from the hinterlands.

She reached the skiff and hopped into its bow. “We must be away.”

“What of the others?” the cloaked figure, a man from the timbre of his speech, asked while freeing the mooring lines.

“Gone . . . oh sweet gods above, all gone . . .”

He tossed the ropes into the stern and dropped beside the rudder. He yanked the black gloves from his hands and dropped them in the boat’s bottom.

A horrible howl erupted, sounding as near as a stone’s throw. It was all blood and bile.

“They’re here!”

“And we’re away.” The knight waved a hand at the sails, and they filled with winds. The skiff sped across the silver waters of a cove, aiming for the open waters.

The beastly howl chased after them.

The headmistress slunk to the floor of the skiff, cradling Dart in her lap. The swaddling fell open. Dart felt a small tug on her belly. Something fiery rose from the edge of her swaddling, where her navel lay. An ugly face of molten bronze, barely formed, only the pair of fiery eyes, glowing agate stones, were familiar.

Pupp . . .

He was no bigger than a kitten, curled on her belly. He lay nested around a blackened knot on her belly, the tied stump of her umbilicus. He attempted to suckle it like a nipple, seeking milk. Again she felt that tug at her belly . . . no, deeper . . . coming from beyond flesh and bone. Pupp’s form flared brighter. He then settled back to her belly, half-sunken in her flesh, ghostly.

The man spoke as they cleared the cove. “You can still drown the babe. Be done with the abomination.”

A shake of the head. “She is no abomination.”

Dart was collected back to the headmistress’s bosom, her swaddling secured. Neither seemed aware of the suckling Pupp.

“The Cabal wanted her blood,” the headmistress continued. “Rivenscryr must not be forged anew.”

The skiff reached the open waters, now riding smooth swells. Behind them, the howl echoed.

The Shadowknight guided the craft, one hand on the rudder, the other occasionally waved at the sails. Dart noted the black tips of his raised fingers, dark to the first knuckle. Dried blood. A blessing of air alchemies.

“There will be others,” the man intoned.

The woman clutched her tighter. “But they won’t have this one.”

A strong gust filled the sail with a snap of cloth and rope. The boat sped faster. The man glanced back to the receding cliffs of the shoreline, then forward again. “We’re clear. Even their naether-lenses won’t be able to track us.”

The headmistress relaxed, though her hands still trembled. Her next words were a mumble meant only for her own ears. “What have I done?”

The knight heard. “What you had to. You know that, Melinda.”

A sigh answered him. “But have we done the child any kindness?”

The man stared down at Dart, his eyes aglow with Grace above his masklin. “These are not kind times,” he said sadly. “And the worst is yet to come. If what we dread comes to pass . . .”

“I know . . . I know . . . but it seems such a large burden for one so small.”

The man grunted. “Sacrifices must be made by all. You saved her from the knife, now you must leave her hidden and unnoticed, a buried key.”

The woman rocked the baby. As Dart felt her dream self grow droopy, one tiny hand rose to nuzzle her thumb. She struggled to listen, to hold the threads of her dream.

They proved too fragile, more light than substance.

Words began to dissolve. Images, too. Her blood . . . the headmistress whispered as the boat and sea grew darker.

The knight’s words faded. It will take corruption to fight corruption.

Will she be strong enough . . . ?

She must be.

Oh, Ser Henri, what have we done?

There was no answer, only darkness and quiet as true sleep carried her deeper, both babe and girl, beyond dreams, beyond words.

She shoved her feet free of the bedclothes and stood unsteadily.

Pupp poked his bronze nose from under the bed, blinked at her, then retreated back into the darkness. He seemed no more pleased with the morning.

Dart crossed to the privy, unsure if her stomach would hold. Every joint ached as she pumped cold water into the carved marble basin. She soaked a cloth and pressed it to her face. The icy chill quickly cooled the slight fever to her skin, her head ached less, and her stomach settled.

Echoes of the night’s dream played in her head. A vague remembrance of a boat ride, the headmistress, and a Shadowknight. They had been talking about her, a babe. Any meaning had been clouded, snatches of a conversation, more inference than communication. Chrism’s words returned instead: We must be watchful . . . all of us.

She knew this to be true.

Dart stepped back to her room. In the light of morning, it was easier to set aside her disturbing dreams.

She crossed to her wardrobe and was struck by an odd odor. She had not noted it before; perhaps she had been too addled. The scent was as faint as a whisper and seemed to fade with every breath she took, making its source difficult to discern. It smelled of sweated horses and the tang of wintersnap.

Halting in the middle of the room, she turned slowly around.

Pupp remained hidden, but his eyes shone from the gloom under her bed. He must have sensed her sudden tension.

Dart moved slowly to one of the four iron braziers that dotted each corner of the room. Each was identical, shaped like a repostilary jar, covered by a tiny grate. She checked the two closest to the window first. Both were cold to the touch.

She moved to the one by the privy. Also cold.

Already the scent faded beyond her senses. Perhaps she had imagined it. Maybe it had been a miasma from her morning illness.

She crossed to the last brazier, by the door. Her fingers brushed its surface.

The iron warmed her cold fingertips. She placed her palm on its side. It was not hot to the touch, but it was not cold either. Whatever small fire had heated the metal had only recently been extinguished.

Bending down, she creaked open the grate and peered inside. The strange scent wafted stronger again, but the brazier was empty, cleaned, and wiped. Yet coals had been burned here. Recently.

Cold dread crept up her spine, drawing her upright.

Pupp slunk from his hiding place and belly crawled to her side.

Someone had been in her rooms last night.

Someone had lit her brazier.

Who . . . and why?

Perhaps it had only been Matron Shashyl. But she always knocked before entering, announcing herself, awaiting invitation. Though the elderly matron might have a sharp tongue for the newest of Chrism’s Hands, she had always respected their private spaces.

No, someone else had been in here.

Dart knew this with horrified certainty. She glanced around the room, fearful of discovering an extra shadow, a hand clutching a fold of drapery. She took a few shuddering breaths to calm herself. Whoever had been here had cleaned the brazier, covering their steps. They were surely gone again.

Still, Dart found her chest constricting. Whatever security and solace there had been behind the locked doors of her rooms was shattered. She had no safe place to call her own.

She trembled. Tears rose.

Someone had been in here, perhaps standing beside her bed, looking down on her. Why?

She remembered her disturbed slumber, the restless dreams, the morning queasiness. She could only imagine what dark alchemies had been burned on the brazier.

To what end? By whose hand? Or rather which Hand?

Dart pictured the dark eyes of the Hand of black bile, studying her over dinner, watching her. There could be no doubt.

Yaellin de Mar had been in her room.