“Palm fire?” asked a man at the mouth of the market, holding up a glass sphere filled with pale light. It was just warm enough to fog the air around its edges.

“How much?”

“Four lin.”

It wasn’t cheap, but her fingers were chilled, even with the gloves, and she was fascinated by the sphere, so she paid the man and took the orb, marveling at the soft, diffuse heat that spread through her hands and up her arms.

She cradled the palm fire, smiling despite herself. The market air still smelled of flowers, but also of burning wood, and cinnamon, and fruit. She’d been such an outsider last fall—she was still an outsider, of course, but now she knew enough to cover it. Jumbled letters that had meant nothing to her months before now began to form words. When the merchants called out their wares, she could glean their meaning, and when the music seemed to take shape on the air, as if by magic, she knew that was exactly what it was, and the thought didn’t set her off balance. If anything, she’d felt off balance all her life, and now her feet were firmly planted.

Most people wandered from stall to stall, sampling mulled wine and skewered meat, fondling velvet-lined hoods and magical tokens, but Lila walked with her head up, humming to herself as she wove between the tents and stalls toward the other end of the market. There would be time to wander later, but right now, she had an errand.

Down the bank, the palace loomed like a low red moon. And there, sandwiched between two other tents at the far edge of the market, near the palace steps, she found the stall she was looking for.

The last time she’d been here, she hadn’t been able to read the sign mounted above the entrance. Now she knew enough Arnesian to decipher it.

IS POSTRAN.

The Wardrobe.

Simple, but clever—just as in English, the word postran referred both to clothing and the place where it was kept.

Tiny bells had been threaded through the curtain of fabric that served as a door, and they rang softly as Lila pushed the cloth aside. Stepping into the stall was like crossing the threshold into a well-warmed house. Lanterns burned in the corners, emitting not only rosy light, but a glorious amount of heat. Lila scanned the tent. Once the back wall had been covered with faces, but now it was lined with winter things—hats, scarves, hoods, and a few accessories that seemed to merge all three.

A round woman, her brown hair wrestled into a braided bun, knelt before one of the tables, reaching for something beneath.

“An esto,” she called at the sound of the bells, then muttered quiet curses at whatever had escaped. “Aha!” she said at last, shoving a bauble back into her pocket before pushing to her feet. “Solase,” she said, brushing herself off as she turned. “Kers …” But then she trailed off, and burst into a smile.

It had been four months since Lila had stepped into Calla’s tent to admire the masks along the wall. Four months since the merchant woman had given her a devil’s face, and a coat, and a pair of boots, the beginnings of a new identity. A new life.

Four months, but Calla’s eyes lit up instantly with recognition. “Lila,” she said, stretching out the i into several es.

“Calla,” said Lila. “As esher tan ves.”

I hope you are well.

The woman smiled. “Your Arnesian,” she said in English, “it is improving.”

“Not fast enough,” said Lila. “Your High Royal is impeccable as always.”

“Tac,” she chided, smoothing the front of her dark apron.

Lila felt a peculiar warmth toward the woman, a fondness that should have made her nervous, but she couldn’t bring herself to smother the feeling.

“You have been gone.”

“At sea,” answered Lila.

“You have docked along with half the world, it seems,” said Calla, crossing to the front of her stall and fastening the curtain shut. “And just in time for the Essen Tasch.”

“It’s not a coincidence.”

“You come to watch, then,” she said.

“My captain is competing,” answered Lila.

Calla’s eyes widened. “You sail with Alucard Emery?”

“You know of him?”

Calla shrugged. “Reputations, they are loud things.” She waved her hand in the air, as if dismissing smoke. “What brings you to my stall? Time for a new coat? Green perhaps, or blue. Black is out of fashion this winter.”

“I hardly care,” said Lila. “You’ll never part me from my coat.”

Calla chuckled and ran a questing finger along Lila’s sleeve. “It’s held up well enough.” And then she tutted. “Saints only know what you’ve been doing in it. Is that a knife tear?”

“I snagged it on a nail,” she lied.

“Tac, Lila, my work is not so fragile.”

“Well,” she conceded, “it might have been a small knife.”

Calla shook her head. “First storming castles, and now fighting on the seas. You are a very peculiar girl. Anesh, Master Kell is a peculiar boy, so what do I know.”

Lila colored at the implication. “I have not forgotten my debt,” she said. “I’ve come to pay it.” With that, she produced a small wooden box. It was an elegant thing, inlaid with glass. Inside, the box was lined with black silk, and divided into basins. One held fire pearls, another a spool of silver wire, violet stone clasps and tiny gold feathers, delicate as down. Calla drew in a small, sharp breath at the treasure.