—her heart leaps. It’s Aster. He’s alive, thank Maska, but…

“Everyone’s fine,” he says—

*

The sun was setting when they arrived at the port town of Gladstone.

The ship had travelled north along the Gulf of Drakon, passing the province of Carthal to the west and Drakon itself to the east. Valerie had watched the western coast go by: the rocky cliffs, the gulls and skuas sweeping back and forth, the occasional fishing village or farmhouse, and at one point an abandoned watchtower, its battlements crumbling at the top of a cliff.

They disembarked at the northernmost point of the Gulf, Lord Avon taking her hand as she stepped off the ship.

“Welcome to Drakon,” he said.

Valerie shivered. Drakon! This was it, her first steps on Drakonian soil. The Empire had always seemed like a distant colossus, a great beast that swallowed up other nations in its wake. Now, with Avon’s hand firm around hers, she felt the jaws of the beast closing in.

The Stormdrake was easily the grandest ship in the harbour, dwarfing the fishing boats nearby. Beyond the harbour, men were packing up their wares at a fish market. Smoke drifted up from squat brown buildings.

A squad of imperial guards marched up to meet them. Dressed in black, they cleared the jetty, men on horseback corralling the townsfolk who had begun to gather. Valerie hung back, her skin prickling. A short conversation with Avon and Doryn ensued before the senior officer handed over the reins of one of his horses.

“Lady Valerie. Lady Ophelia.”

Avon waved the two women over and explained the situation. They were to rest overnight as guests of the town’s Baron before continuing their journey to Drakardia. His house was but a short ride away.

And so the procession began: Avon, Valerie, Ophelia and Doryn rode on horseback while the rest of the party followed on an open-top carriage—little more than a fancy painted cart.

That party consisted of Lord Falconer, Lord Thorne, and a sombre Lady Melody in her mourning attire along with her two children.

What a fun ride that must be, she thought.

But as pink streaks deepened into a red sky, her sense of unease grew. It seemed that news of their arrival had spread. Townsfolk lined the streets, waving and cheering. Old men with leathery faces and bent backs. Women and children, bright-eyed, in rough-worn, colourful garb. And the working men from the fish market, stinking of brine.

Avon did not acknowledge the crowd, but Ophelia did. She smiled and waved back at the children, and the townsfolk loved it. A flaxen-haired girl tossed a bouquet of forget-me-nots into her path; the horses swiftly trampled them underfoot. Others waved bright blue handkerchiefs, craning their necks for a glimpse of the Emperor’s daughter.

“Lady of the sea!” they called to her. “In our bones!”

The chant followed them—in our bones—and a chill ran through Valerie’s spine. She didn’t know what it meant. And she caught curious eyes staring at her too, heads bent together, whispers—did they know who she was? Would this crowd cry burn the witch and cheer as they dragged her to the pyre?

Stop it, she told herself sternly. You’re scaring yourself.

Her fears, of course, were unfounded. The procession reached its end without incident. They passed through an open gate and into a gravel courtyard, the imperial guards forming a blockade behind them. The crowd disappeared.

Valerie dismounted her horse after Avon, a servant taking the reins, and looked around. Before her stood a grand manor built from sandy brown stone, quite different to the pale limestone that dominated Maskamery architecture. Ivy blanketed the walls, giving the windows the appearance of eyes framed by bushy green brows.

The nobleman who stepped forward to greet them sported an even bushier mop of hair and a salmon pink face from which protruded a bulbous nose and thick lips. A blue handkerchief poked out from his waistcoat pocket.

“Lord Avon! How long has it been? A year? Far too long!”

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“Baron Foxley.” Avon shook the Baron’s hand. “Forgive me for imposing on you at such short notice. Your hospitality is without equal.”

“Not at all. You are my most honoured guest. My lords! Ladies! Welcome, welcome.”

Foxley greeted them all with great enthusiasm, shaking the hands of the men and kissing the hands of the ladies.

Everyone, that is, except for Valerie. The Baron’s gaze passed over her without meeting her eyes, and he strode past her without a single acknowledgement. Stung, Valerie glanced at Avon, but though his mouth tightened, he said nothing.

They entered the manor, where Valerie almost took a step back. Black soulless eyes stared down at her. Antlers sprouted from moth-eaten fur. It was the head of a stag, stuffed and mounted on the wall in some grotesque parody of life.

And they called the Maskamery barbaric.

Unsettled, she barely had time to take in her surroundings before Foxley whisked Avon away. A servant in black and white livery—the butler, Ophelia called him—showed the rest of the party into the drawing room to relax before dinner.

Valerie perched on the edge of an armchair and tried not to look too uncomfortable. It was all so dark, she thought. Dark wooden beams, wooden floor, heavy velvet curtains. If not for the high ceiling, she would have found the room stuffy and oppressive.

And why had the Baron drawn Avon away? Had he heard news of the Chancellor’s consort? Did some dark fate await her?

An unlit stone fireplace dominated the room. Her eyes were drawn to the hanging banner above it, which depicted the silver dragon from the Drakonian flag, a serpentine creature with long trailing fins, on a backdrop of sea blue.

“I thought the Drakonian flag was black,” she said, looking at Ophelia.

“Oh,” said Ophelia, sitting down next to her, “that’s the flag of Yirona. Our—”

“It’s obsolete,” Lord Thorne interrupted her. “A historical curiosity, nothing more.”

“What were they saying out there? They called you the lady of the sea.”

“It’s an old name,” said Ophelia, glancing again at Thorne. “They wouldn’t talk like that in the capital. This is a provincial town.”

Thorne had the face of a man forced to drink spoilt milk. “Uneducated peasants. They don’t know any better, but we do.”

In the silence that followed, Valerie regretted saying anything.

“Well,” said Lord Falconer, who had sprawled with limbs crossed loosely on the velvet couch and looked far more at home than she did, “does anyone know what’s for dinner?”

*

Valerie did not enjoy dinner.

It seemed mildly promising at first. A candlelit dining table awaited them, the soft light creating an intimate, cosy atmosphere, and the food smelled delicious. Unfortunately, she was placed at the end next to a silent Lady Melody and opposite Lord Thorne’s pinched frown. She wanted to continue the conversation with Lady Ophelia, but the other girl was seated between Lord Falconer and Lord Avon.

“So,” said Baron Foxley, “did you get the chance to visit home?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Avon. “My business in the capital cannot wait.”

“Home?” Valerie asked, but no one heard her.

Falconer chuckled. “Doesn’t your family own a grand castle around here?”

“Own, yes,” said Avon. “We haven’t lived there in almost a century.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you,” said Foxley. “Castles, eh. Terribly draughty and full of rats.”

A manservant walked around the table pouring the guests wine, but somehow passed over Valerie.

“Excuse me,” she said, prompting a loud tut from Thorne.

It took her two tries to convince the manservant that yes, she also wanted her goblet filled. Melody didn’t look at her once even though in any other circumstance she felt sure that the other lady would have delighted in correcting her.

Meanwhile, the guests had moved on to discussing Lord Falconer’s travel plans.

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, “the cathedral is top of my list. Assuming I don’t get kicked out for my heathen ways. Ex-heathen, I should say.”

Thorne dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “The church doesn’t discriminate against a true son of the Divine.”

“Appreciate it. It’s not often we Maskamery make it to the capital. Lady Valerie, wouldn’t you agree?”

She blinked. “Yes. We’re very fortunate.”

The Baron acted as though she hadn’t spoken. “Good to know you’re one of the good ones. Mission successful, Thorne?”

“Perhaps a work-in-progress.”

Valerie speared her fresh-caught tuna with a fork, her temper fraying. The fish tasted good, but its bed of mashed turnip and potato was unforgivably bland. And the Baron continued to ignore her.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. When dessert arrived, Valerie made her excuses and slipped away.

The stairs creaked as she climbed up to the second floor, taking in the panelled walls, the high whitewashed ceiling, the dead pike mounted at the top of the staircase. This was an austere place, she thought, decorated by someone with no love for pretty things and no awareness of the Maskamery concept of beauty.

“My lady!”

Valerie turned back. Priska chased after her, gathering up her skirts.

“Priska? When did you arrive?”

The servants had the unenviable task of transporting their luggage from the ship to the manor. They’d still been unloading when she’d set off from the harbour.

“Just now.” The girl puffed out a breath. “I can show you to your room?”

Fine. She let Priska lead the way.

Her designated room was smaller and plainer than she had expected, with bare wooden beams and flooring, a wardrobe and dressing table, and a chamber pot beneath the bed. A door led out to a small balcony, the only point of interest.

“Get some rest,” she advised Priska. “We’re still a long way from Drakardia.”

The maid departed.

Valerie headed to the balcony, where she looked out over the stables with a frown. This didn’t seem like a room for a lady. Wasn’t this the servants’ courtyard?

Foxley’s doing, she thought. He was openly insulting her. Which meant he knew she was a witch, and Avon hadn’t done a thing to stand up for her tonight, so probably the Emperor had already ordered her death and there was nothing Avon could do…

Stop it.

Ugh. Being noticed spooked her. Being ignored spooked her. She couldn’t jump at every little thing if she was going to make it to the capital—

The floorboard creaked behind her. The hairs on the back of Valerie’s neck stood on end.

And then a man’s hand closed around her shoulder.