Lila felt her cheeks burning. She should have disabused the merchant of her assumption months ago, but that assumption—that Kell and Lila were somehow … engaged, or at least entangled—was the reason Calla had first agreed to help her. And matters of pride aside, the merchant was dreadfully handy.

“There is the release,” said Calla, tapping two pins at the base of the corset.

Lila reached back, fingering the laces of the corset, wondering if she could hide one of her knives there.

“Sit,” urged the merchant.

“I honestly don’t know if I can.”

The woman tsked and nodded to a stool, and Lila lowered herself onto it. “Do not worry. The dress won’t break.”

“It’s not the dress I’m worried about,” she grumbled. No wonder so many of the women she stole from seemed faint; they obviously couldn’t breathe, and Lila was fairly certain their corsets hadn’t been nearly as tight as this one.

For god’s sake, thought Lila. I’ve been in a dress for five minutes and I’m already whining.

“You close your eyes.”

Lila stared, skeptical.

“Tac, you must trust.”

Lila had never been good at trust, but she’d come this far, and now that she was in the dress, she was committed to following through. So she closed her eyes and let the woman dab something between lash and brow and then against her lips.

Lila kept her eyes closed as she felt a brush running through her hair, fingers tousling the strands.

Calla hummed as she worked, and Lila felt something in her sag, sadden. Her mother had been dead a very long time, so long she could barely remember the feeling of her hands smoothing her hair, the sound of her voice.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright.

Lila felt her palms begin to burn and, worried that she’d accidentally set fire to her dress, pressed them together and opened her eyes, focusing on the rug of the tent and the faint pain of pins sliding against her scalp.

Calla had set a handful of the hairpins in Lila’s lap. They were polished silver, and she recognized them from the chest she’d brought ashore.

“These you bring back,” said Calla as she finished. “I like them.”

“I’ll bring it all back,” said Lila, getting to her feet. “I have no use for a dress like this beyond tonight.”

“Most women believe that a dress need only matter for one night.”

“Those women are wasteful,” said Lila, rubbing her wrists. They were still chafed raw from the ropes that morning. Calla saw, and said nothing, only fastened broad silver bracelets over both. Gauntlets, thought Lila, even though the first word to come to mind was chains.

“One final touch.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Calla,” she complained. “I think this is more than enough.”

“You are a very strange girl, Lila.”

“I was raised far away.”

“Yes, well, that will explain some of it.”

“Some of what?” asked Lila.

Calla gestured at her. “And I suppose where you were raised, women dressed as men and wore weapons like jewelry.”

“… I’ve always been unique.”

“Yes, well, it is no wonder you and Kell attract. Both unique. Both … a bit …” Suddenly, conveniently, the language seemed to fail her.

“Mean?” offered Lila.

Calla smiled. “No, no, not mean. Guard up. But tonight,” she said, fastening a silver brim-veil into Lila’s hair, “you bring his guard down.”

Lila smiled, despite herself. “That’s the idea.”

VI

WHITE LONDON

The knife glinted in Ojka’s hand.

The king stood behind her, waiting. “Are you ready?”

Her fingers tightened on the blade as fear hummed through her. Fear, and power. She had survived the marking, the blood fever, even that collar. She would survive this.

“Kosa,” she said, the answer barely a whisper. Yes.

“Good.”

They were standing in the castle courtyard, the gates closed and only the statues of the fallen twins bearing witness as the king’s gaze warmed her spine and the winter wind bit at her face. Life was returning to the city, coloring it like a bruise, but the cold had lingered at the edges. Especially at night. The sun was warm, and things grew beneath it, but when it sank, it took all the heat with it. The king said that this was normal, that a healthy world had seasons of warmth and light, and others of shadow.

Ojka was ready for heat.

That was the first thing she had felt, back when the blood fever came. Glorious heat. She’d seen the burnt-up shells of her failed predecessors, but she’d welcomed the fire.

She’d believed, then, in Holland’s power. In her potential.

She’d still believed, even when the king’s collar had closed around her throat.

And now, he was asking her to believe again. Believe in his magic. In the magic he had given her. She had done the blood spells. Summoned ice and fire. Mended some things and broken others. Drawn doors within her world. This would be no different. It was still within her reach.

She stared down at the knife, hilt against one palm, edge pressed to the other. She had her orders. And yet she hesitated.

“My king,” she said, still facing the courtyard wall. “It is not cowardice that makes me ask, but …”

“I know your mind, Ojka,” said Holland. “You wonder why I ask this errand of you. Why I do not go myself. The truth is, I cannot.”