"The false priestesses of Maskamere were wicked witches who cursed men and turned away from the Divine, knowing they were beyond salvation."

Bishop Eugene Thorne's Notes on a Mission in Maskamere

In the dark of the prison carriage, shackled to the wall, Valerie thought of all that had happened in the two years since the happiest and worst day of her life. All that she had lost: the village, the convent, her family... Her mother.

A tear formed at the corner of her eye; she blinked it away.

They had taken everything from her—everything, that is, except the gift she had received that night: the blessing of the silvertree. In a Maskamere where her powers were forbidden and the ashes of the silvertrees were all that remained of the priesthood, it had taken two years to hone her craft and prove her worth to the resistance. Finally, she had been given a chance to do something—to fight back.

Was she going to her death? Or was Lord Avon so desperate for a sorcerer that he would accept help from a traitor?

She'd gambled her life on the latter.

The carriage halted. Guards flung the doors open and sunlight flooded in, making her squint. They unshackled her and dragged her out with hands cuffed behind her back.

She imagined stepping into the city square and onto a bonfire like the one that had burned at the feast of the blessing. The crowd that watched her fate this time would be neither quiet nor reverential. They would scream and call her names. Witch. Whore. Demon. Drakonian words for a city afflicted by their ugliness, where every day the Maskamery spirit sank further into the dirt.

But when her eyes adjusted, there was no bonfire. There was a courtyard, stone steps leading up to a set of double doors, and a man in Drakonian black livery guarding it. They'd taken her back to the palace. The splendid white stone was a little less splendid at the servants' entrance but still recognisable.

The girl comes with me, Lord Avon had said. She guessed that he meant to interrogate her himself.

Her assumptions were proven wrong when the guards escorted her through the servants' quarters and into a bath chamber. Colourful ceramic tiles patterned the floor and walls. A standing bathtub glimmered with magic. She blinked.

They weren't alone. A stout old woman with arms like clubs took one look at her and clicked her tongue.

"What are those chains for?"

"Tried to kill his Lordship, didn't she," the guard said. "She's one of the rebels who snuck into the palace the other night."

"And his Lordship sees fit to bring her back again. Those Drakonians are a perverse lot. I can't clean her up with chains on her. You'll have to take them off."

There was some grumbling, but the guards did as they were told. Valerie rubbed her wrists where the handcuffs had bitten her skin. Behind the stout old woman, two younger maids were filling up the bathtub with hot water. Steam quickly filled the air.

"Gonna be all right with this one, Dinah?" the guard asked. "Vicious little thing, stabbed Grenald the other night. You might want an extra eye on her."

"A wandering eye, I expect, which is no use to me—go on! We're perfectly fine here. She'll be no trouble."

The guard looked at her as if to invite trouble, but Valerie had no desire to give them cause to linger. She put on the politest expression she could muster and the guards left.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

"You're not gonna be awkward now, are you?" Dinah said in a tone that was less a question and more an imperative.

She shook her head, too confused to speak.

Dinah pointed at the steaming bath. "In." When she hesitated, the old woman clicked her tongue. "Have you never seen a bath before? In."

Valerie complied, taking off her dirty white shift and immersing herself in the tub. She sensed its magic: a spell to heat and maintain the water's temperature.

Who cast that spell?

But she had little chance to wonder once Dinah and her maids began their work. Her skin was scrubbed, her hair washed and conditioned twice over. Once out of the bath, Dinah set about untangling the knots in her hair while the two maids towelled her dry. Next, they removed any trace of body hair using hot wax that had her gasping in pain. They then applied an oil from head to toe so that her skin shone and a different sort of oil in her hair to make that shine too.

Throughout it all, her overwhelming feeling was that of discomfort. Lying down on a stone slab, she was forced to endure each and every scrape, no matter how rough. But the pain in her body was eclipsed by a growing sense of unease in her mind. Why was all of this happening? Were these Avon's orders?

The one saving grace was Dinah, the stout old woman, who kept up a constant stream of one-sided conversation that helped her to feel a little more human. She was the palace matron, which meant she had the steely eyes and stern tongue of a school headmistress.

"That's not too rough? Good, stay right there. Nails next. The Drakonians call this a cleansing. If we did it properly, you'd have fasted all day too and taken a herbal tea to flush out your bowels. I'll spare you that. How long is your term?"

"Term?"

"Your repentance. The years the state has to do whatever they want with you."

Her stomach dropped. "Eighteen years."

Dinah whistled. "Well, makes sense. You're not the first, what do they call them, fallen woman to come here. Can't say I've prepped a girl who tried to kill anyone though. Have you ever been with child?"

The question caught her off-guard. "What? No."

"Are you with child now?"

"No! Why are you asking?"

"His Lordship wouldn't want you bearing a child that wasn't his. I'll tell him we checked."

"His Lordship? Oh—no, that's not why I'm..."

She trailed off. It was hard to sound convincing when she was flat on her back while the maids perfumed her body until she smelled like roses.

"No?" said Dinah. "Then why are you here?"

She felt a stab of uncertainty. What were his intentions? All she knew was that he needed a sorcerer, and she had told him that she was one. Now she was being washed and pampered like some princess in the palace. She couldn't tell Dinah. Under Drakonian law, witchcraft was the only crime punishable by death.

"I don't know. But if he wants to know my history, he can ask me himself."

Dinah pursed her lips. "All right. Maybe he'll put you to a different use. Just don't give him cause to think you unfit."

The previous question had angered her. This comment enraged her. "Do you think I chose to be here? I'm his prisoner!"

"I know. I'm giving advice, not casting judgement. I don't know why Lord Avon took a fancy to you—it's not typical for him to pick up Maskamery girls, let alone one of the rebels. Stand up."

She obeyed, and the maids led her into an adjoining dressing room where a set of clothes had been laid out for her. They took her measurements, and Valerie watched one of the maids adjusting the gown with needle and thread with a little pang.

Dinah measured her height and then her weight, then held a thermometer to her tongue and declared that she was satisfied with Valerie's health. The maid pulled an under-dress over her head, finally covering her.

"Any history of disease? Any recent problems?"

"No... I got stomachache from eating bad eggs a few weeks ago."

"You're in remarkable condition. Maybe that's why he picked you. It's not usually that complicated where men are concerned."

She didn't have a retort. One of the maids was tightening her corset, and she was trying to breathe. The other was putting the finishing touches to her face: blush on the cheeks, a hint of colour to lighten the eyelids and balm on the lips. Then they stood back, and Valerie frowned at her reflection in the mirror.

They'd dressed her like a lady of the court. Drakonian, not Maskamery. She knew their fashions intimately because it was her livelihood, making dresses for the royal court. Both shared a love for complex embroidery, but unlike the flowing garments preferred by the Maskamery, Drakonian ladies wore long gowns pinched in at the waist, their hair pinned up in curls.

Why would Lord Avon have her dressed like this?

I'm his enemy. That's what he should think—there's a scorpion in his house.

She was in the palace. Avon would send for her. Perhaps this was an opportunity.

Whatever he was planning to do with her, sooner or later she'd make him regret his decision.