“Lark,” she said casually. “Did you just throw a cherry at me?”

  He glanced back, as if noticing her for the first time.

  “What? No. Of course not.” Her friend was many things—a good actor had never been one of them. He feigned shock, pointedly ignoring the weapon as he looked up at the branches overhead. “Must have fallen from one of the trees.”

  Kosika followed his gaze up, confirming what she already knew. “There are no cherry trees in this orchard.”

  “Huh.” He shifted his weight as he said it, inching away from the bowl.

  “That really is an oversight,” said Nasi. “Can’t have a good orchard without a cherry tree.”

  Kosika looked down at the blade in her hand. “You’re right,” she said, with a wicked smile that made her friends—rightfully—more nervous than the knife did. She turned the blade, and made a quick, clean slice across her thumb. Then she took up the offending cherry, its skin the color of a deep bruise, and popped it into her mouth, savoring the brief, bright sweetness before she spit the pit back into her palm, and pushed it down into the soil.

  She knew the words she wanted now.

  “As Athera.”

  The world shivered, like a plucked string, and beneath the dirt, she felt the pit split open, felt the line of magic plunging down into the soil, becoming roots as the first green growth sprang up between her fingers. In seconds it was a sapling, the earth mottling under her palm as the tree spread, and the trunk rose and the branches twisted overhead, and blossomed, and bore fruit.

  Her friends stared up at the tree, their faces lit with awe, and Kosika didn’t blame them.

  It was one thing to light a hearth, or conjure a breeze. It was another to push a bloodstained pit into the ground and grow it into a tree in seconds, its limbs heavy with a hundred ripened cherries.

  Nasi smiled in childish delight, and Lark opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak, Kosika flicked her fingers, and every cherry on the tree came raining down onto their heads.

  VIII

  RED LONDON

  It turned out that the quickest way to escape a warded cell was simply to be let out.

  “Come,” the queen had said to the girl in the dungeon, “I want to show you something.”

  Something turned out to be the grandest workshop Tes had ever seen.

  Chambers connected by high stone archways, every room full of tables and counters and every surface covered in a dazzling array of magic. Spells laid bare like bodies, their skin peeled back, their inner workings open to the light. She would have been tempted to reach out, run her fingers over the magic, but her wrists were still bound.

  The queen stood across from her, appraising, and Tes knew that she should do something to show her deference, but the truth was, in that moment, she wasn’t feeling very deferential. And she was hungry.

  At the thought of food, her stomach growled again, and the queen turned to the two soldiers who’d escorted Tes.

  “I was so lost in work,” she said, “I forgot to eat. Please go and fetch me something.”

  Only one of the soldiers turned to go. She nodded at the other. “Go with him.”

  “Mas res,” said the soldier, “surely I should stay and guard the prisoner.”

  The queen looked at Tes, bedraggled, manacled, stained with blood though she was no longer bleeding.

  “Somehow,” she said, “I think we’ll manage.”

  Tes should have felt insulted. She would have, but the queen had not said I, but we, as if they were conspiring.

  When the soldier still hesitated, the queen straightened, her eyes going sharp.

  “Don’t mistake my tone,” she said. “It wasn’t a request.”

  At that, the soldier bowed deeper, and withdrew.

  The queen waited until they were alone, then lifted the dead owl to the light, and studied it as if it were a precious jewel.

  “Few people in this world would appreciate how elegant this magic is,” she said. “Fewer still could create it.” She held Vares out, but when Tes reached out her shackled hands, the queen pulled back. “Tell me, what is your name?”

  When Tes hesitated, the queen laughed. “Is it so hard to give?”

  “It is,” said Tes, “when you don’t have many things to call your own.”

  The queen considered. She offered the owl again, and this time let her take it. “There. Now you have more.”

  She returned Vares to her coat. Then said, “It’s Tes, Your Majesty.”

  The soldier reappeared, carrying a tray. The queen pointed to a metal table, one of the few with space, and the soldier deposited his burden. This time, there was no protest. He melted away, leaving them alone again.

  The queen gestured to a stool. “Sit,” she said. And then, softening the command, “Please.”

  Tes did, sinking gratefully onto the perch. She watched as the queen lifted a frosted glass cover to reveal an array of sliced meat, a fine cheese, and wafer-thin pieces of toast, along with two cups and a steaming pot of tea. Tes’s mouth began to water, but when the queen said, “Help yourself,” Tes shook her head and laced her fingers to keep from reaching for the food. The manacles clinked in her lap.

  “Apologies, Your Majesty,” she said. “I am running short on trust today.”

  The queen surprised her with a smile. “I hardly blame you.” She considered the spread, and began assembling a small sandwich.

  “Ever since the Hand,” she said, cutting it in two, “I have worried about poison.” She took a bite of one half, and chewed thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s just their name, but I swear I dream of fingers reaching for me in the dark.” She set the food down. “Half the spells I devise these days are to keep my family safe.”

  As she said this, she touched a pendant at her neck, but when her hand dropped, Tes saw it was actually a gold ring, and a spelled one at that, though the spellwork was so small and delicate, she would have had to hold it to her eye to see the pattern.

  The queen poured the tea—it was black, and blissfully strong, Tes could tell by the scent when she brought it to her nose. Still, she waited for the queen to take a drink first.

  “Rest assured, I have no desire to poison or drug you, or do anything to dull your senses.” She took a sip from her own cup, then offered it to Tes. “I want them sharp.”

  Tes took it and drank, her head filling with spice and heady warmth. She sighed, feeling more herself than she had in days. She reached for the other half of the sandwich, cuffs dragging on the metal table. The first bite was relief. The second, pleasure. The third, and she felt tears threaten to spill down her cheeks.

  As she ate, her attention drifted again, dancing over the many workshop surfaces, the room bright with so much magic. Tes couldn’t help but marvel at it all, her fingers itching to reach the magic in the threads.

  On one, a mirror faced a scrying board. On another, a spell was drawn in what looked like iron filings. Against one wall a column of water ran in a constant cycle, though no magician held it up. There were other things too, their purpose hidden from her. She longed to take them up, take them apart.

  She had heard stories about the queen of Arnes. No one could decide if she was a prisoner or a recluse, a brilliant mind or raving mad. Truth be told, Tes had never taken much interest in royal gossip. What she did know was that before the queen became a Maresh, she was a Loreni. And the Loreni were known for their inventions.

  “I suppose we are both tinkerers,” observed the queen, following her gaze. “Though I do not have your gift.”

  Tes flinched at the mention, wishing she had never told Delilah Bard about her power, and wondering how word had spread so fast. The queen seemed to read the question in her face.

  “Places this large tend to echo.” As she spoke, she crossed to a nearby counter. “To lay hands on the very fabric of the world.” She lifted a closed black box, returning with it. “What I would do,” she said, opening the box, “with a gift like yours…”

  She trailed off as she looked down. So did Tes. The box was empty. A shadow crossed the queen’s face, and Tes swore she heard a name cross the queen’s lips, little more than a whispered oath—Alucard—before she snapped it shut.

  “Tell me, Tes. Do you create, as well as repair?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. Then, “I like to improve things. Make good magic better.”

  The queen nodded in understanding. “And tell me,” she went on. “How did you come to serve the Hand?”

  The food went tasteless in her mouth. She fought to swallow. “I swear, I didn’t know. I would never have taken on the job.”

  “They did not recruit you, then?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “A man came to my shop. He was sick, I think. Or wounded. He brought me something broken, and wanted it fixed. I didn’t know what it was. And now it’s gone. They can’t use it against you.”

  “A fact for which I’m very grateful,” said the queen. “You have protected my family, Tes. For that, I owe you a debt. Still,” she added, sipped her tea, “it is a shame, that it was lost.”

  “Your Majesty?” she said, confused.

  “We are creators. It is always a pity, is it not? To destroy a piece of work.”

  Tes nodded, though in truth, she was glad to see it gone. The persalis had cost her the shop she loved, and the life she’d built in London. She’d been threatened, taken hostage, stabbed—twice—and thrown in prison. All because she’d done her job.

  “Would you show me, how you do it?”

  Tes blinked. She hadn’t noticed the queen rising, but she had stepped away and returned, carrying a small box. She cleared a space, and set it on the metal table.

  “Perhaps there is a place for you here. A place for your gifts.” She gestured at the massive workshop. “I could use an apprentice. Particularly one as skilled as you.”

  Tes looked down. It was a music box, its cover gone, revealing the pattern of its insides. Tes’s fingers twitched automatically; she saw at once what was wrong with the magic, the place where a few of the threads had unraveled. The repair was so simple, she knew it was a test.

  “Oh, wait.”

  The queen touched something to the shackles, and the lock inside them turned. The weight of iron fell away, the cuffs landing open on the table. Tes rubbed at her wrists.

  “There,” said the queen. “Now show me.”

  Tes stared at the box, but didn’t move. Until Bex and Calin, no one had ever seen her work. She had been so careful, for so long, disguising every gesture, every movement. It was exhausting, to keep it secret. But there was a reason for it.

  “Show me,” said the queen again, but her voice was different now, the careful softness peeled back, revealing something cold and hungry. She stared at Tes, studying her, and the eyes were another color, a different shape, but the look in them was too familiar. It belonged to Serival. Serival, who looked at everything of worth like it was something to be used, or sold, or taken apart. It belonged to her father, who watched, arms crossed, inside his shop, for Tes to show him what she was worth.

  The vast workshop suddenly felt smaller than the cell.

  Run. The word raced through her blood, the way it had three years before, when she looked up and saw her oldest sister watching from the doorway, eyes trained on Tesali’s hands where they hovered over threads she could not see.

  Her gaze scraped over the metal table, the music box open on its surface, the unfastened cuffs halfway between Tes and the queen.

  “Show me,” pressed the queen, leaning forward, and so Tes did.

  She reached inside the broken music box, and took hold of a broken amber thread, a piece designed to amplify the sound. But instead of mending it, she rolled the thread between her fingers, then drew it long, tracing a loop around the wooden frame.

  The queen watched, as if entranced. So entranced that she leaned closer, and as she did, her elbow knocked the cup of tea, and sent it off the table’s edge. The queen jerked, turning as the cup fell and shattered on the workshop floor. She frowned.

  The crash had made no sound. Those piercing hazel eyes flew up to Tes.

  “What have you done?” she asked, or at least, that is what Tes guessed she said. Her mouth formed the words. But nothing came out. Every sound in the workshop had suddenly been doused.

  The queen’s gaze dropped to the music box on the table. She lunged for it, and as she did, Tes went for the cast-off manacles, grabbing them with one hand, the other pulling on the strings. The iron went soft as putty in her hands, and before the queen could reach the music box, Tes slammed the softened metal down over her wrists. The queen recoiled, but Tes had already let go, and the iron was iron again, fused to the metal surface.

  Tes scrambled back, away from the table and the queen’s shocked expression.

  “Solase,” she said, but the apology was nothing but a shape on her lips as she turned, and fled.

  * * *

  Tes ran, sound returning as she sprinted up the stairs. When the queen had come to fetch her, she’d been led up out of the prison, across a gallery, and down into another pillar. She’d seen two doors, the first, leading up into the palace above. The second, subtle as a crack in stone, and set into the pillar’s landing halfway up.

  She reached it, and pulled—but it was locked.

  Tes ran her hands over the iron. With time, she could have picked the lock, but she didn’t have time. Instead, she wrenched on the magic as hard as she could. The door crumpled, like paper, and tore free with a groan. Tes flung herself out, expecting to find steps, only to find nothing but air. She had just enough time to panic, to grasp that she was falling, about to plunge straight down into the river, before her boots landed on the soft earth a few feet below.

  She stumbled forward, hands sinking into wet grass, the blades tinted red by the Isle’s glow. The riverbank. The sun had gone down, the sky above darkening from blue to black, casting the southern bank in deep shadow. Tes scrambled up the slope, crested the rise to find the lanterns of the night market glowing in the distance, the paths full and the tents alive with people.

  Relief flooded through her.

  She pulled her coat close, and started forward, intending to slip into the crowd and disappear. But as she crossed the lawn, a shadow stepped into her path. Even in the dark, Tes could see the black braid that rose like a crest over the woman’s head, the metal wrapped around her forearm. Her blood went cold.

  “Well, hello there,” said Bex, strolling forward. “I told you we weren’t done.”

  “I already destroyed the persalis,” said Tes, inching backward. Her heels slipped on the wet grass, only the slope and the river at her back. Or so she thought. Until Calin’s large, scarred arm swept around her shoulders, and hauled her up, off her feet.

  “I can’t give you what I don’t have,” Tes gasped.

  Bex inclined her head. “Let’s hope, for your sake, that isn’t true.”

  Calin forced a cloth over her nose and mouth. She tried not to breathe, but soon her aching lungs betrayed her, dragging in the tainted air. Something sickly sweet coated her tongue, her throat, filled her head. The last thing she saw was the blurring lanterns of the market beyond Bex’s shoulder. And then they blinked out, one by one, and she was left in darkness.

  Part Eleven

  IN THE WRONG HANDS

  I

  Lila Bard was in a foul fucking mood.

  Seven years, she’d watched Kell suffer. Seven years, without a way to make it stop. And now here one was, and he was saying no. Because there was a risk. Of course there was a risk, but that was the problem with these people born to magic, it made their lives too easy, it made things too sure. They did not seem to understand that sometimes living came with risks.

  She cared for Rhy, of course, but she was tired of watching Kell sacrifice himself on his brother’s altar, as if his own life and pain meant nothing.

  Fucking martyrs.

  “Don’t leave the palace,” Kell had said, and for some reason she’d listened, at least at first, gone to the training grounds in the hopes of finding soldiers, guards, new recruits—anyone willing to spar. But the grounds had been empty.

  So Lila walked—stomped, really, as if she could force her frustration down out of her body through the heels of her boots. She felt like a bottle of sparkling wine after it’s been shaken and before the cork bursts free. Her power churned beneath her skin, spilling into the air around her. Lanterns brightened as she passed. Pebbles shivered and skidded down the street.

  She wanted a fucking fight, but clearly no one at the palace was willing, or able, so Lila did what she did best.

  She went looking for trouble.

  Her cuts hadn’t healed from the brawl in the tavern, but Lila didn’t care. She wondered if she could find the woman with the black braid, and finish what they’d started. She’d been a good enough opponent. Plenty of knives. What was her name?

  Bex.

  “Bex, Bex, Bex,” Lila mused aloud, as if she could be summoned. No Bex appeared, but that was fine—she’d had the look of a hired hand, and Lila knew where to go looking for those.

  The shal.

  The sun had gone down as she walked, and perhaps it was the thinning light behind her, or just a gut sense that she was going in the wrong direction, but Lila noticed how dark the sky was getting.

  Her boots dragged to a stop. She scanned the horizon opposite the sun, and the faint light of emerging stars, and realized—

  There was no moon rising.

  No smudge of white, or hangnail sliver. The image on the coin’s edge came back to her. Full moon. Or moonless.

  Lila checked her watch. It was early, just after nine, but she had nowhere else to go. She turned to the nearest wall, fist clenching, nails biting into the cut she’d made to heal the girl. Pain lanced through her palm as the cut reopened. She touched the blood, and drew the mark on the stone—a vertical line and two small crosses—before splaying her hand flat against the mark.

  “As Tascen.”