Luckily, the food is good. I force myself to eat, and I keep away from the liquor. Red servants circulate, and no glass is ever empty. After ten minutes of trying to catch someone’s eye, I abandon the pursuit. The servants are smart, and not willing to risk their lives for a glance at me.

I fix my eyes ahead, counting the tables, counting the High Houses. All are here, plus House Calore, represented by Maven alone. He has no cousins or other family that I know of, though I assume they must exist. Like the servants, they’re probably smart enough to avoid his jealous wrath and tremulous grip on the throne.

House Iral seems smaller, dulled despite their vibrant blue-and-red outfits. There are nowhere near as many of them, and I wonder how many Irals were sent to Corros Prison. Or maybe they fled court. Sonya is still here, though, her posture elegant and practiced but strangely tense. She’s traded her officer’s uniform for a sparkling gown and sits beside an older man, resplendent in a collar of rubies and sapphires. Probably the new lord of her house since his predecessor, the Panther, was murdered by a man sitting only a few feet away. I wonder if Sonya told them what I said about her grandmother and Ptolemus. I wonder if they care.

I jolt when Sonya looks up sharply, catching my eye.

Next to me, Jon sighs long and low. He picks up his glass of scarlet wine with one hand and shunts his dinner knife away with the other.

“Mare, could you do me a small favor?” he says calmly.

Even his voice disgusts me. Sneering, I turn to look at him with all the venom I can muster. “Excuse me?”

Something cracks, and pain sears along my cheekbone, cutting skin, burning flesh. I jerk from the sensation, falling sideways, shying away like a spooked animal. My shoulder collides with Jon, and he pitches forward, spilling wine and water over the fine tablecloth. Blood too. There’s a lot of blood. I feel it, warm and wet, but I don’t look down to see the color. My eyes are on Evangeline, standing from the table, one arm outstretched.

A bullet shudders on the air in front of her, held in place. I assume it matches the one that cut my cheek—and could have done much worse.

Her fist clenches and the bullet rockets backward to where it came from, chased on by splinters of cold steel as they explode from her dress. I watch in horror as blue-and-red figures weave through the metallic storm, dodging, dipping, darting in and out of every blow. They even catch pieces of her metal projecticles and hurl them back, beginning the cycle again in a violent, glittering dance.

Evangeline is not the only one to attack. Sentinels pitch forward, surging over the high table, forming a wall before us. Their movements are perfect, made through years of relentless training. But their ranks have gaps. And some throw their masks away, discarding their flamelike robes. They turn on one another.

The High Houses do the same.

I’ve never felt so exposed, so helpless, and that’s saying quite a bit. In front of me, gods duel. My eyes widen, trying to see it all. Trying to make sense of this. I’ve never imagined anything like it. An arena battle in the middle of a ballroom. Jewels instead of armor.

Iral and Haven and Laris in their shocking yellow seem to form one side of whatever this is. They back one another, aid one another. Laris windweavers toss Iral silks from one side of the room to the other with sharp gusts, wielding them like living arrows while the Irals fire pistols and throw knives with deadly precision. The Havens have disappeared entirely, but a few Sentinels in front of us drop, felled by invisible attacks.

And the rest, the rest don’t know what to do. Some—Samos, Merandus, most of the guards and Sentinels—rally to the high table, rushing to defend Maven, who I can’t see. But most fall back, surprised, betrayed, not willing to wade into such a mess and risk their own necks. They defend and do nothing else. They watch to see the direction of the tide.

My heart leaps in my chest. This is my chance. In the chaos, no one will notice me. The manacles have not taken away my thief’s instincts or talents.

I push off the floor, finding my feet, not bothering to wonder about Maven or anyone. I focus only on what’s in front of me. The closest door. I don’t know where it goes, but it will get me away from here, and that’s enough. As I move, I grab a knife off the table and set it to work, trying to pick the locks of my manacles.

Someone flees ahead of me, leaving a trail of scarlet blood. He limps but moves fast, ducking through a door. Jon, I realize. Making his escape. He sees the future. Surely he can see the best way out of here.

I wonder if I’ll be able to keep up.

I get my answer after a grand total of three steps, when a Sentinel seizes me from behind. He pins my arms to my sides, holding tight. I groan like an annoyed child, exasperated beyond frustration, as my hand drops the knife.

“No, no, no,” Samson says as he steps into my path. The Sentinel won’t even let me flinch. “We can’t have this.”

Now I can see what this is. Not a rescue. Not for me. A coup, an assassination attempt. They’ve come for Maven.

Iral, Haven, and Laris cannot win this battle. They’re outnumbered, but they know that. They prepared for it. The Irals are schemers and spies. Their plan is well executed. Already they’re making an escape through the shattered windows. I watch, dumbfounded, as they throw themselves out into the sky, catching gales of wind that fling them out and away. Not all of them make it. Nornus swifts catch a few, as does Prince Daraeus, despite a long knife protruding from his shoulder. I assume the Havens are long gone too, though one or two flicker back into my vision, each one bleeding, dying, assaulted by a Merandus whisper’s onslaught. Daraeus himself puts out one blurring arm and catches someone by the neck. When he squeezes, a Haven blinks into existence.