Safi had a bedroom inside, and the young, fair-haired Alix had always been kind to her. But this luxe, labyrinthine estate had never felt like home—not in the way that Iseult’s attic room always had.

Not in the way the girl’s new rooms were going to.

For several long moments, Safi stood at the iron gate and considered making a run for it. Her throat burned with a hunger for speed. But she knew she couldn’t find Iseult—not without risking the Bloodwitch.

Gods below, everything was falling apart, and it was all Safi’s fault. Safi had fallen for Chiseled Cheater’s charms. Then Safi had suggested the holdup.

It was always this way: Safi would initiate something over her head, and someone else would clean up the mess. That someone had been Iseult for six years now … but how many messes would Safi have to make before Iseult had had enough? One of these days, Iseult would give up on her like everyone else had. Safi just prayed—desperately, violently prayed—that it wasn’t today.

It isn’t though, her logic pointed out. Or Iseult wouldn’t have left a message with Habim or told you to find the book. Well, Safi would only be able to puzzle through Iseult’s coded message if she went inside Alix’s mansion as ordered.

So with her knuckles cracking against her thighs, she marched up to the gate and rang the bell.

* * *

Despite the flowers and incense jars in the Silk Guildmaster’s home, the smell wafting off the nearby canal always dominated Safi’s nose. There was no escaping it, and as Safi gazed from the window of her second-story bedroom, she tapped her toes on the sky blue rug. A frantic counterbeat to her heart.

Fine silk gowns were draped on the large four-poster bed that she rarely slept in. This wasn’t the first time Guildmaster Alix had crafted dresses for Safi—although these were far finer than anything she’d ever received before.

Footsteps clacked behind her. Mathew. Safi knew that loping stride, and when she turned to her tutor, she found his thin, freckled face was a mask of hard lines, his red hair aglow in the afternoon light.

Mathew and Habim could not have been more different—in looks or in personality—and of the two, Safi had always preferred Mathew. Perhaps because she knew Mathew regarded her more highly than Habim ever had. They were kindred spirits, she and Mathew. More inclined to act than to think, to laugh than to frown.

Even without his Wordwitchery, Mathew was a master criminal—a con man of the highest caliber. Habim had taught Safi to use her body as a weapon, yet it was Mathew who’d taught her to use her mind. Her words. And though Safi had never understood why Mathew insisted she learn his confidence skills, she’d always been too afraid to ask—just in case he then decided to stop.

Like Habim, Mathew currently wore the gray and blue livery of the Hasstrels, but unlike Habim, Mathew wasn’t a servant for Safi’s uncle.

“Your things.” Mathew flung a familiar bag onto the bed, and Safi made no move to retrieve it—though she did glance at it, checking for the shape of Iseult’s books …

There they were; a blue corner poked from the top.

“My shop is destroyed.” Mathew’s lanky form closed in on Safi, blocking her view of the book—or of anything but his green, flashing eyes. “A broken door, broken windows. What the hell-flames possessed you to hold up a Guildmaster?”

Safi wet her lips. “It … was an accident. The wrong mark hit our trap.”

“Ah.” Mathew’s shoulders relaxed. Then he suddenly stepped in close and gripped Safi’s chin, like he’d done a thousand times over the past six years. He twisted her head left, right, looking for cuts or bruises or any sign that she might start to cry. But she was unharmed and tears were far, far away.

Mathew’s hand fell. He rocked back a single step. “I’m glad you’re unhurt.”

With that single phrase, Safi’s breath whooshed out and she flung her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry,” she murmured into his lapel—a lapel with the wretched Hasstrel mountain bat embroidered on it. “I’m so sorry about your shop.”

“At least you’re alive and safe.”

Safi pulled free, wishing Habim would see it that way too.

“Your uncle needs you tonight,” Mathew went on, striding to the bed. He yanked one of the gowns off the coverlet, its pistachio silk shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Safi glared at the dress. It was, to her annoyance, quite beautiful and exactly the sort of thing she’d choose for herself. “Does he need me or my witchery?”

“He needs you,” Mathew said. “There is a ball tonight, to kick off the Truce Summit. Henrick has specifically requested your attendance.”

Safi’s gut flipped. “But why? I’m not ready to be a full domna or lead the Hasstrel lands—”

“It’s not that,” Mathew interrupted, turning his attention back to the dress in his hand … then shaking his head dismissively and draping it on the bed once more. “You’re not needed in that capacity.”

True.

“The fact is that we don’t know why Henrick wants you here, but Eron could hardly refuse.”

Magic shivered over Safi’s skin. False. “Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly. Lethally.

Mathew didn’t answer but hoisted up a second dress instead—this one thicker and in pale pink. Safi bared her teeth. “You can’t send my Threadsister away and not explain why, Mathew.”