The fire on the seam burned all night.
Rowan didn’t sleep much.
She tried.
After Caelan had pulled her gently but firmly away from the balcony, he’d insisted she rest. “Tomorrow will be worse,” he’d said with the kind of grim cheerfulness that made her want to smack him.
She had gone back to her room.
Brenna had shown her the wardrobe—clothes sized for her, some clearly altered hurriedly from Aisling’s choices, some plain linen shifts meant for sleeping. She’d hovered awkwardly while Rowan washed up at the basin, eyes flicking to the door every time something boomed in the distance.
“Does it always sound like this?” Rowan had asked, toweling her face.
“No,” Brenna had said. “Usually it’s worse.”
Rowan had appreciated the honesty. Less the content.
Now, Dawn-That-Wasn’t had come and gone. The sky outside her window was the same bruised twilight as before, maybe a shade lighter, maybe not. The crooked tree in the courtyard dusted the stones with a new layer of leaves.
Rowan stretched under the unfamiliar weight of the quilts and grimaced at the sour taste in her mouth.
She felt like she’d been run over by a truck made of adrenaline and bad decisions.
The bracelet on her right wrist lay cool against her skin. The hidden band on her left was a faint, constant pressure.
“You’re alive,” she muttered at herself. “Point one in your favor.”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in?” she said, voice rasped.
The door opened a cautious crack.
Brenna’s freckled face appeared. “You’re awake,” she said, relief in her tone. “Good. I was instructed to bring food. And tea. And…this.”
She pushed the door wider and came in backward, balancing a tray laden with covered dishes. A kettle steamed softly. Something that smelled suspiciously like bacon wafted up.
“Is that…breakfast?” Rowan asked, sitting up.
“As close as we get,” Brenna said, setting the tray on the table with a soft clink. “The kitchen is very excited. They haven’t had a mortal to fuss over in decades.”
“That’s…either sweet or creepy,” Rowan said.
“Both,” Brenna said.
She lifted lids.
Eggs. Some kind of porridge. Bread studded with seeds. Slices of fruit—apples, pears—some of which glowed faintly.
“No glowing,” Rowan said automatically.
Brenna nodded. “I told them,” she said. “They compromised. Half for you, half for the rest of us.” She plucked a shimmering slice and popped it in her mouth. “We’re not letting food go to waste.”
Rowan managed a wobbly smile. “You eat first,” she said. “In front of me.”
Brenna blinked, then nodded, not offended. She took a bite of bread, a spoonful of porridge, a piece of egg. Chewed. Swallowed.
Still upright.
Rowan exhaled and reached for the bread.
As she ate, Brenna poured tea. It was dark and strong, scented with something like cinnamon, something like smoke.
“You’ll meet the witch today,” Brenna said, perching on the edge of a chair. “Lavinia. She’s…kind. Mostly.”
“That’s…reassuringly vague,” Rowan said, mouth full.
“And Lucien,” Brenna added. “For…Court etiquette.”
“Court asshole lessons,” Rowan translated.
Brenna snorted. “He calls it ‘survival.’”
“Same difference,” Rowan said.
Brenna hesitated. “And Aisling asked if she could borrow you for an hour,” she said. “After lunch. For…personal reasons.”
Rowan’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Did she now.”
“Yes,” Brenna said. “Caelan didn’t say yes. Or no. Yet.”
That tracked.
“What about Caelan?” Rowan asked. “What’s his schedule? Just…brood? Glower? Threaten people diplomatically?”
“He has…meetings,” Brenna said. Her nose wrinkled. “And arguing with Maerlyn. And convincing the Hounds not to chase the next Winter envoy on sight.”
“Busy day,” Rowan said.
“Yes,” Brenna said. “He said he’ll find you between sessions. Or in them.” Her cheeks pinked. “He sounded…determined.”
Rowan’s stomach did a strange flip.
She took another bite of bread to suppress it.
“Any other surprise appointments?” she asked.
Brenna hesitated a fraction too long.
“Brenna,” Rowan said warningly.
“The King…might call for you,” Brenna admitted. “He likes…testing. Seeing where people crack.”
“He’s not getting me alone,” Rowan said.
“I don’t think Caelan will let that happen,” Brenna said. “But the King is…very good at making ‘happen’ happen.”
“Grand,” Rowan muttered.
She finished eating and shoved the tray aside.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s meet the witch.”
***
Lavinia’s workspace smelled like someone had tried to distill autumn and spilled half of it.
Apples, yes. But also herbs—sage, rosemary, something sharp and green. Smoke. Ink. The faint metallic tang of something older.
Her “laboratory,” as Brenna called it, occupied a long, high-ceilinged room on one of the Palace’s less ostentatious levels. Shelves lined the walls, crooked with jars of dried leaves, powders, odd stones that pulsed faintly. A long table in the center held bowls, pestles, scales, a copper still, three half-rolled scrolls, and what looked like half a dissected pinecone.
A woman stood at the table, her back to them.
She wasn’t what Rowan had pictured.
Not a crone, not a sultry enchantress. She was…dumpy. Short, with a round, sturdy body and graying hair knotted in a carelessly utilitarian bun. Ink stained her fingers. Her dress was simple dark wool, sleeves rolled to her knobby elbows.
She picked up a pinch of something from a small bowl, sniffed it, and tossed it back with a dissatisfied click of her tongue.
“Too bitter,” she muttered. “Needs…balance.”
“Lavinia?” Brenna said.
“Not now,” the woman snapped. “I’m trying not to blow us up.”
Rowan raised a brow.
Brenna cleared her throat delicately. “Caelan sent—”
“Did he send the girl or not?” Lavinia demanded, still not turning.
“Yes,” Rowan said. “He did. Though I came under my own steam, thank you.”
Lavinia’s shoulders stiffened.
She turned slowly.
Her eyes were not what Rowan expected either.
They were…kind.
Sharp, yes. Assessing. But there was a softness at the corners, laugh lines etched deep. They were a strange gray-green, like river stones under shallow water.
“Come here,” she said.
Rowan approached warily.
Lavinia squinted at her, tipping Rowan’s chin up with ink-stained fingers. She turned Rowan’s face left, right, examined the line of her jaw, the set of her mouth, the place where the bracelet rested against her pulse.
“Hmm,” Lavinia said.
“Hmm what?” Rowan demanded.
Lavinia ignored that. She reached up and brushed a loose curl back from Rowan’s temple, then let her fingers hover a fraction of an inch from the skin.
The air pricked.
Magic.
Lavinia’s brows rose. “Oh, he wasn’t exaggerating,” she breathed.
“Whisper?” Rowan guessed.
“Your…prince,” Lavinia said distractedly. “Big eyes. Dramatic. Overfond of knives.”
“That checks out,” Rowan said dryly.
Lavinia’s lips twitched.
She dropped her hand and stepped back. “I’m Lavinia,” she said. “Court witch. Sometimes healer. Occasional brick wall between idiots and their own stupidity.”
“Rowan Vance,” Rowan said. “Professional idiot.”
Lavinia barked a laugh. “Good,” she said. “Honesty will help.”
She jerked her chin toward the long table. “Sit,” she said. “Not there.” She swatted Rowan’s hand away from a stool with a smear of something ominously purple. “There.”
Rowan perched on the indicated stool.
Brenna hovered by the door.
“You can go,” Lavinia told her without looking. “If I need you, I’ll shout. Or something will explode.”
Brenna made a face. “Try not to explode *her,*” she said. “Caelan will be upset.”
Lavinia sniffed. “Please,” she said. “I only blow up things that deserve it.”
Brenna left, closing the door behind her.
Lavinia leaned on the table and regarded Rowan.
“Your magic is…loud,” she said without preamble. “On both frequencies. Human and ours. It’s a wonder you haven’t fried your own nerves.”
“I thought I was just anxious,” Rowan said. “Turns out it was cosmic static.”
“Both,” Lavinia said. “Our Court likes layered problems.”
Rowan huffed. “How do I…turn it down?” she asked. “Or…point it. Right now it’s like…being in a crowd when everyone’s talking at once, and I’m trying to listen to one person on the other side of the room.”
“Good metaphor,” Lavinia said. “We’ll steal it.” She picked up a piece of chalk and drew a circle on the table’s surface in front of Rowan. “Put your hands here.”
Rowan set her palms flat inside the circle.
The chalk lines warmed faintly.
“Close your eyes,” Lavinia said. “Tell me what you feel.”
“Annoyed,” Rowan muttered.
“About the magic, girl.”
Rowan swallowed a retort and focused.
The hum under her skin was constant now. Not the painful buzz of the seam, but a thick, background vibration. It pooled in certain places more strongly—her palms, her chest, her throat.
“It’s…” She searched for words. “Like…I’m standing near a generator,” she said. “I can’t hear it exactly, but I feel it. In my bones.”
“Good,” Lavinia said. “Now…picture a candle.”
“In my head?” Rowan asked.
“Yes,” Lavinia said patiently. “In your mind. You see it?”
Rowan tried.
A candle. Plain white. Wick unlit.
“Yes,” she said.
“Now picture…a glass,” Lavinia said. “Around it.”
Rowan frowned. “Like a hurricane lamp.”
“If you like,” Lavinia said. “Thin. Clear. Not blocking the light. Just…containing it.”
Rowan imagined the glass forming around the candle, smooth and invisible.
“Now,” Lavinia continued, “picture the generator’s hum…in the candle. The flame is your magic. The glass is…you. Your will. Your…boundaries. The air outside is everyone else’s noise.”
Rowan’s throat tightened.
Boundaries.
Not her specialty.
“Imagine the flame,” Lavinia said. “Steady. Not flaring. Not smothered. Steady.”
Rowan pictured it.
Flame.
Contained by glass.
Lavinia’s voice dropped. “Tell your magic,” she said, “you are not prey. You are not weather. You are a *candle.* You burn where you choose.”
Rowan almost laughed. It sounded so…silly. So…new age.
But something in her—some stubborn, furious part that had been knotted up since Gran’s hospital confession—responded.
“I am not prey,” she whispered.
The hum under her skin shifted.
Not less.
Different.
Less wild. More…coiled.
A slow, steady throb instead of a staccato buzz.
Her palms tingled against the chalk.
“Good,” Lavinia murmured. “Open your eyes.”
Rowan did.
The chalk circle glowed faintly.
“What did you do,” she asked.
“Nothing,” Lavinia said. “You did. You told your magic who was boss for once.”
Rowan snorted. “You say that like it’s going to listen long‑term.”
“It will…if you keep telling it,” Lavinia said. “This Court has spent decades teaching it to listen to everyone *but* you. We’re…reversing that.”
Decades.
She’d been carrying this thing that long.
“Is that all there is to it?” Rowan asked skeptically. “Visualization and affirmations?”
“Of course not,” Lavinia said. “This is…page one. You’ve been hearing the song your whole life. You just never sang back. Now we teach you how. And how not to hit the wrong notes and crack the fucking ceiling.”
“You swear like Gran,” Rowan said.
Lavinia’s mouth quirked. “I liked her,” she said. “Infuriating woman.”
“Did you…know her,” Rowan asked.
“Once,” Lavinia said. “In the wood. She tried to punch me.”
“Checks out,” Rowan said.
They spent the next hour on exercises that felt half like meditation, half like physical therapy.
Sensing where the magic pooled. Visualizing it as water, as light, as heat. Moving it from one hand to the other in her mind. Pushing it down into her feet. Drawing it up into her lungs.
It was exhausting.
By the end, Rowan’s skin tingled and her muscles trembled, as if she’d run a mile uphill.
“You’re doing well,” Lavinia said practically. “Better than I expected.”
“I feel like a used battery,” Rowan muttered.
“That’s because you’ve been leaking your charge for twenty‑five years,” Lavinia said. “Now we’re plugging the holes. It takes…effort.”
Rowan flexed her fingers. The bracelet on her right wrist felt…quieter. Less like a live wire, more like a steady weight.
“Will this help me…not be overwhelmed when people start flinging magic around?” she asked.
“It will help you…recognize what’s you and what’s not,” Lavinia said. “Which is half the battle. The other half is…learning where to hit.”
“Hit…what,” Rowan asked.
“Whatever tries to take you,” Lavinia said matter‑of‑factly. “And sometimes, whoever.”
Rowan swallowed.
“Rest,” Lavinia said. “Drink this.” She shoved a cup of something dubious-smelling into Rowan’s hands. “It’ll help with the buzzing.”
“What is it,” Rowan asked warily.
“Tea,” Lavinia said. “With bark. And something the Mire Queen thinks she owns the patent on.”
“You stole from the Mire Queen,” Rowan said.
“Borrowed,” Lavinia said. “She’s not using it right.”
Rowan sipped.
It was bitter.
Then sweet.
Then…weirdly soothing.
She sighed. “Thank you,” she said.
Lavinia nodded brusquely. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “We’ve only just started poking the bear.”
***
Lucien’s idea of a classroom was a sunken sitting room lined with cushions and dangerously low tables.
It looked more like a lounge than a place of instruction. A decanter of deep red wine sat on the central table, surrounded by cups that were probably not poisoned. Plates of nuts and dried fruit. A chessboard half‑way through a game, the pieces carved to look like miniature fae.
Lucien himself sprawled on a cushion near the hearth, long legs stretched out, one booted foot tapping idly. His wheat‑colored hair was pulled back into a knot loosely enough that stray strands fell across his forehead. He wore a shirt the blue of a clear sky, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a vest embroidered with tiny leaves.
He looked like he’d rolled out of a portrait painted by someone who’d been paid in wine.
“Ah,” he said when Rowan entered, Brenna at her heels. “The star of our little tragedy.”
“Comedy,” Rowan said. “Dark comedy.”
Lucien’s grin was quick and bright. “To some of us, there’s no difference,” he said. He gestured expansively. “Come. Sit. Drink something. Or at least pretend to. It makes this feel less like a lecture.”
Rowan hesitated.
Brenna shot her a look and perched on a cushion near the wall, clearly ready to play chaperone.
Lucien poured wine into two cups. One he handed to Rowan. The other he raised in a vague salute.
She sniffed it cautiously.
Smelled like wine. Rich, dark, a little spiced.
Lucien rolled his eyes. “If I wanted you pliable, I’d choose something more subtle than Cabernight,” he said. “Try not to insult my creativity.”
She took a sip.
Warmth bloomed in her chest. Her shoulders loosened a fraction.
“How was witch school?” Lucien asked.
“Confusing,” Rowan said. “Enlightening. Spirally.”
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need all of that.”
He lounged back, cup balanced loosely. “All right, mortal,” he said. “Welcome to Court. Let me tell you how not to die stupidly.”
“That would be appreciated,” Rowan said dryly.
“Rule one,” Lucien said, holding up a finger. “Everyone you meet wants something. Everyone. Me. Caelan. Aisling. The King. The kitchen staff. The Hounds. Whispers in the walls. *Everyone.*”
“Cheery,” Rowan said.
“True,” he said. “Some wants are simple—food, sex, safety. Some are…uglier. Power. Revenge. Entertainment. Your job is to determine what each person wants *from you,* and what they’re willing to do to get it.”
“That’s a tall order,” she said.
“You’re tall enough,” he said. “Rule two: Don’t give anyone what they want for free.”
She snorted. “I work retail,” she said. “I learned that a long time ago.”
He grinned. “Good. See? Transferable skills.” He took a sip. “Rule three: Silence is a weapon. Use it.”
She frowned. “Silence?”
“You talk,” Lucien said. “A lot. You fill gaps. Humans tend to. They’re allergic to quiet. Here, quiet makes other people nervous. They rush to fill it. And in their rush, they tell you more than they mean to.”
He leaned forward. “Try it,” he said. “Say something…honest but incomplete. Then shut up and *watch.*”
She thought.
“All right,” she said. “I’m scared.”
Lucien’s expression flickered. “Of course you are,” he said. “Only an idiot wouldn’t be.”
She bit her tongue.
Didn’t reply.
Let the silence stretch.
He watched her for a beat.
Then, as if compelled by the gap, he added, more softly, “So am I.”
She blinked.
“Of what?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He smiled wryly. “You,” he said. “Your choices. The way you might tilt. The way Caelan might follow. The way our carefully stacked house of cards might tumble if you sneeze.”
“You think I’m that powerful,” she said.
“I think,” he said, “that stories are. You’re wearing one like a coat. That gives you…leverage. Even if you don’t want it.”
She stared at him.
“You’re…better at this than I am,” she said. “Logically.”
“Obviously,” he said, preening. “I’ve had centuries of practice. You’ve had…what, a week?”
“It feels like longer,” she muttered.
He chuckled.
They spent the next hour on what Lucien called “Court literacy.”
He told her who to watch.
Maerlyn: sharp, old, terrified of change. She would try to cut Rowan down early, before she could grow.
The Mire Queen: a swamp of a woman, all soft curves and hidden teeth. She’d tempt Rowan with images of freedom that came at a cost Rowan couldn’t yet envision.
The Hound of Winter’s emissaries: they’d come with offers of “neutrality,” of “protection” from Autumn in exchange for small concessions. “Their idea of small is…different,” Lucien said. “A finger here, a century there.”
“Hard pass,” Rowan muttered.
He told her who might be allies.
The older witches in the orchards, who remembered what it was to bargain with mortals who had less to give.
The half‑bloods like Brenna, who inhabited the cracks between worlds.
Some of the artisans—painters, poets, musicians—who valued inspiration and novelty over raw power.
“They’ll like you,” Lucien said. “You’re…unexpected.”
“I feel like a walking grenade,” Rowan said.
“You are,” he said cheerfully. “But a charming one.”
“Stop calling me charming,” she said. “I’m trying to maintain an image.”
“Of what?” he asked. “Terrifying doom?”
“Yes,” she said.
He considered her, eyes warm. “You’re doing surprisingly well,” he said. “For someone who was shelving cozy mysteries a week ago.”
“Don’t belittle cozy mysteries,” she said gravely. “Those women have seen things.”
He laughed, delighted.
On the way out, Brenna caught her arm lightly. “You did well,” she whispered.
“I didn’t say anything incendiary,” Rowan said. “That’s new for me.”
“It’ll come,” Brenna said dryly.
***
After lunch—a rushed affair in her rooms, Brenna hovering with a plate while Rowan tried not to think about the fact that her food had been prepared in a kitchen where people thought “seasoning” sometimes meant “whispered curses”—Aisling appeared.
She didn’t knock.
She flowed in, glamoured differently than usual. Her golden hair was braided back, her clothes a simple dark tunic and trousers. If not for the way she moved—like she owned the air—she could have passed for a minor noble.
“You have an hour,” she said. “Before Caelan starts sniffing around and Maerlyn sends spies.”
“Good afternoon to you too,” Rowan said.
Brenna looked between them. “Do you…need me?” she asked Rowan.
“Stay,” Rowan said. “Please.” She met Aisling’s gaze. “This is not a…secret meeting. Not in my room.”
Aisling’s mouth tightened, but she shrugged. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll be boring.”
She flopped into the chair opposite Rowan and slung one ankle over her knee.
“So,” she said. “How does it feel to have an entire Court of idiots argue about what you *mean*.”
“Like high school,” Rowan said. “But with more antlers.”
Aisling barked a laugh. “Accurate,” she said.
She sobered quickly.
“I wanted…” She hesitated. “I wanted to talk to you without…them,” she said. A flick of her chin toward the ceiling, where Whisper presumably lurked. “Or him.” The invisible line that connected them both to Caelan hummed faintly between them.
“We’re never *without* him,” Rowan said. “Not now. Not with the oath.”
“True,” Aisling said. “But we can…tilt what he hears. A little.”
Rowan frowned. “How.”
Aisling tapped her temple. “Dreams,” she said. “Remember? That’s…our space too.”
Rowan’s skin prickled. “I thought we decided no more unsolicited head visits,” she said.
“We did,” Aisling said. “Hence the asking.” Her gaze sharpened. “Let me into your dreams. Tonight. Just for a little while. Without him. Without their roots listening.”
Rowan recoiled. “Absolutely not.”
“You don’t even know what I’m offering,” Aisling protested.
“I know it involves you in my head,” Rowan said. “Hard pass.”
Aisling’s jaw clenched. “We share this,” she said, tapping her chest. “Blood. DNA. Whatever you call it. You don’t want to know what you could be? What I am?”
“I’m getting a crash course as is,” Rowan said. “In waking life. Where I can…walk away if I hate it.”
“You think you can just…dip your toe in this world and not be changed,” Aisling said. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know,” Rowan said. “That’s why I’m being careful about who I let mess with my insides.”
A flicker of hurt crossed Aisling’s face. “You think I’d hurt you,” she said.
“I think you’d…do whatever it takes to get what you want,” Rowan said. “Even if you convinced yourself it was for my own good.”
Aisling flinched, as if struck.
A silence stretched.
Brenna shifted, clearly torn between backing away and stepping in.
“Gran used to say that,” Rowan added quietly. “‘Don’t let anyone tell you they did something for your own good unless they asked you first.’”
“She was…smart,” Aisling said, voice rough.
“Yes,” Rowan said. “And wrong. Often. Both can be true.”
Aisling looked away.
“I’m not trying to…steal you,” she said after a moment. “Not…exactly.”
“Comforting,” Rowan said dryly.
“I want…” Aisling searched for words. “I want us to…stop being shaped entirely by their choices,” she said. “Their bargains. Their fear. I want…a say.”
“So do I,” Rowan said. “Which means I get to say no to you too.”
Aisling’s mouth twisted. “You’re very good at saying no,” she said.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Rowan said.
Aisling leaned back, arms folding.
“Fine,” she said. “No dream‑sharing. For now. But you can’t avoid me forever.”
“I’m not trying to,” Rowan said. “I’m trying to…set terms.”
Aisling regarded her.
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. Not sharp. Not mocking. Soft. Brief.
“You’re more like me than you think,” she said.
“That’s what worries me,” Rowan said.
They sat in uneasy quiet for a minute.
“You know,” Aisling said eventually, picking at a loose thread on the arm of the chair, “when I was little, they used to tell me stories about you.”
Rowan blinked. “About me.”
“Yes,” Aisling said. “Not you specifically. ‘The other girl.’ The one who’d grown in mortal soil. I was…obsessed.” She snorted. “I’d make up games. Pretend I was…lost in a human city. No magic. No one bowing. No one watching.”
Rowan’s throat tightened. “I used to…walk in the woods and pretend *I* was lost in some magical Court,” she said. “Where everything made sense because it wasn’t supposed to.”
They looked at each other.
“You ever wish…” Aisling started, then stopped.
“What,” Rowan prompted.
“That we’d been…born together,” Aisling said quietly. “Not…swapped. Just…twins.”
The word hit Rowan in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
“I don’t…” She swallowed. “I don’t know how to even…picture that,” she admitted.
Aisling’s eyes were bright. “I do,” she said quickly. “All the time. Two cribs. Two sets of tiny clothes. Two girls learning the same lullabies, the same cuss words. Then maybe both of us coming here when we were ready. Or neither of us. Or—” She broke off. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not what happened.”
“No,” Rowan said softly. “It’s not.”
They sat with that for a second.
“You asked me once what I want,” Aisling said, voice steady again. “Beyond burning this place. Beyond stealing some of your…breathing room.”
“Yes,” Rowan said.
“I want us both to live,” Aisling said simply. “Which is…more than anyone else at that throne can say.”
Rowan held her gaze.
“For now,” she said. “That’s…enough common ground.”
Aisling’s mouth quirked. “For now,” she echoed.
A distant bell rang somewhere in the Palace.
Aisling rose. “That’s Caelan’s meeting with the Hunt,” she said. “He’ll come looking when he’s done. Try not to agree to anything horrendous before then.”
“Likewise,” Rowan said.
Aisling pressed a hand briefly to the doorframe as she left, lips moving in a language Rowan didn’t know.
The wood under her fingers glowed faintly.
“What was that,” Rowan asked Brenna warily.
“A ward,” Brenna said. “Her style. Sharp edges. It’ll…slice anyone who tries to force the door.”
Rowan exhaled. “Good,” she said. “One more line.”
The room hummed.
Her wrists hummed.
Her entire life hummed.
She sat there, feeling like a knot of threads someone had just started to untangle, and waited for the next lesson.