26

I don't have to wait long for the healer.

When she enters the study, she's humming a soft, contented little tune. Everything is going exactly as she hoped it would—I can hear the satisfaction in her voice, see it in the energy of her body as she sets down her woven bag and pulls out a few items, including what looks like a vial of blood. She puts the items on the tray and settles herself into the big leather chair.

I wait while she arranges the shawl around her shoulders, until she has selected a scrap of paper and she's carefully inking letters onto it. Probably a label for Kyreagan's blood.

Speaking of blood… I may not know much about the human body's inner workings, but I do know where the important blood vessels are.

Silently I step forward, seize a fistful of her hair, and poke the letter opener against the sensitive place on her throat where the blood pumps close to the surface.

"Be still," I warn her. "Don't scream."

"Princess," she breathes, in a tone of both delight and alarm. "Aren't you a clever little thing? "

"I'm a dangerous little thing," I retort. "I want an antidote, a cure for both me and Kyreagan. Right now."

"You must understand, I don't harm humans," she says. "I am first and foremost a healer, a mender of damage. That's why I wouldn't let Rahzien use my skills against Elekstan during the war."

"So you'll kill animals or dragons, just not humans."

"Exactly."

"And what about binding my life to Rahzien's? Keeping me from escaping, ensuring that if he dies, I will too?"

"That was also for the greater good. The sooner Elekstan bows to him, the fewer people he'll have to kill to secure their loyalty." Her voice warms, turning almost tender. "Besides, you're good for him. Maybe you don't realize it yet, but he likes you. Cares about you. With your influence, he could be a better man."

"Making him a better man isn't my responsibility. It's his." I dig the point of the letter opener a bit deeper, until a drop of scarlet blood beads on her skin. "Rahzien thinks he's perfect, transcendent, all-deserving. But he's a filthy murderer, a psychopath. Enough about him—give me the cure for the poison you put inside me. Or tell me when it will wear off."

"It won't," she says. "The ingredients were bound with perdura root and the spell was carved in petrified wood. Now Kyreagan's poison—that's a different story. I had to concoct it quickly, so it should wear off in about a week. He'll be dead by then, though. Without the ability to shift into his natural birth form, the energy sustaining his human form will dissipate, and his organs will shut down. He'll basically begin to dissolve from the inside—at least, that's what I suspect. I'm rather interested in how it will manifest."

"You're sick." I tighten my grip on her hair.

Cathrain laughs, a twinge of pain in the sound. "Not at all. I have a healthy curiosity about the human form and its potential. Imagine it—having the power to perceive the inner workings of the human body. Imagine being able to sew veins back together, knit broken bones, and close open wounds, purely with your own magical energy. Then think of all the ways that the application of subtle, complex magical poisons can be used to alter the body's responses to certain stimuli and conditions. I've been a healer and a poisoner for decades, but only in the past few years have I given myself the freedom to conduct more experiments, to truly explore the potential of my gift—ahh!" She cries out as I cut her beneath the chin, a shallow, vindictive swipe of the letter opener.

"Shut up," I tell her. "Not another word unless it's about curing me and Kyreagan. Where do you keep antidotes?"

"I never make antidotes." Her voice is shaky with dread now.

"I don't believe that."

"I never use poisons without thinking it over carefully first and confirming my own intent," she says. "Which means I never regret it, and I never need to undo it."

"You're saying you can't fix me? Or Kyreagan?"

"I don't have antidotes."

"Can you make some?"

"I told you—I've never concocted any such thing. Learning how would take days… I would need supplies I don't have—special ingredients—"

I ram the letter opener into her round shoulder, right through the embroidered shawl. Then I yank the weapon out of her flesh and set it to her throat again while she whimpers with pain.

I should feel worse about what I'm doing. But after everything I've endured, this tastes like redemption, a keen rush of power through my veins.

"I'm not letting you leave this room for ingredients or anything else," I say. "There's plenty of magical shit here. Use what you've got, and make something that will counteract either Kyreagan's poison or mine—preferably both. Understand?"

She nods.

"Good. No false moves, or I really will kill you. I've been here too long—I want to get home."

I pause for a second, stunned because just then, when I said home , I meant Ouroskelle.

"Fix Kyreagan first," I tell Cathrain.

"Of course. I'll need a few things from that shelf." She points.

Reluctantly I back up, allowing her to rise from the chair. As she does, I lunge across the table and grab the large knife I noticed earlier. Having the knife in one hand and the letter opener in the other gives me an increased sense of security.

I follow her to the bookshelf she indicated, and I supervise while she examines the spines of several tomes, looking for the right title.

"Ah, here it is." She pulls out a large, heavy-looking volume.

Then she swings around and slams the book into the side of my face.

I'm stunned, thrown off balance, reeling and blinking while blood coats my tongue.

Cathrain lunges for the door. I leap after her in a mad, unseeing rage, throwing myself at her, both of us crashing against the door and then sliding to the floor in a tangle of blades and flesh and fabric. Her fingernails rake my face, perilously close to my eye.

I stab without thinking, a self-preserving impulse. The blade sinks into her body with a satisfying thump, and something inside me—snaps.

The next second I'm sobbing, screeching, stabbing, tears scorching my cheeks, breaths lurching raggedly through my lungs as the knife flies up and down, over and over .

She's everything I hate. I detest people who play with living things like disposable toys. People who ruin lives from a distance. People who believe themselves immune, who consider their aims loftier than others. People like my mother, like Rahzien. Cruel, cruel, wretched people.

I punctuate every thought with a blow.

And when it's too late, I realize what I've done.

I scramble backward from the lumpy, blood-stained mound that was Lady Cathrain. The knife drops from my shaking hand. I don't know where the letter opener is.

Fuck… I killed her.

She said she couldn't cure us anyway, but what if she was lying? What if she could have? And I ruined everything, I wrecked our chances, I messed this up…

Kyreagan will die now. Because of me. Because I couldn't control my own rage and pain.

I tuck my knees up to my chin and hold my head in my hands, rocking slightly as I wheeze out terrified breaths.

I am worthless. I am foolish. I am alone.

I have no value, and no one wants me.

Something inhales… heavy, low, rasping. I suck in my sobs and listen, every nerve galvanized with terror.

There it is again—a rattling, labored intake of breath. From the lumpy form of the royal poisoner.

She rises slowly, jerkily, one limb after another, and then her spine yanks up the rest of her body, and she's standing upright.

I snatch the knife, scramble to my feet, and retreat farther, holding the blade toward her.

She cracks her neck, spits blood, then dabs at her wet lips with the corner of her shawl. "Another little trick of mine—one not every healer possesses. I can heal myself."

"I guess I'll have to kill you more thoroughly next time," I gasp. "At least now you know that when I threaten you, I mean it. Make a cure for Kyreagan, and I'll let you go. Otherwise, you won't leave this room alive."

She looks absolutely furious, but there's fear in her eyes, too, and it strengthens me. She glances sidelong at the bell cord near the door, but I snap, "Don't do it! Step away from the door. Now." And she obeys.

I suck in a shaky breath, trying to ignore the pain in my jaw and cheekbone where she struck me with the book. Then I step to the door, pleased to find two large bolts that I slide into place. Thank god the Supreme Sorcerer liked his privacy.

With the door bolted, I turn back to my captive. "Now, Cathrain, unless you want to be stabbed again, I suggest you get to work."

With my knife as encouragement, the poisoner works all night. No one disturbs us. Rahzien probably assumes that she's busy working with the samples she took from Kyreagan. Which she is… but not in the way he'd expect.

She told me Ky's cure would be the simplest. She simply has to counteract the blocking agent she included in the poison, which she claims is the powdered essence of a sun-blessed opal, the antithesis of the eclipse gem Thelise used in her transformative spell.

"Eclipse gem shavings or black diamond dust would be the easiest way to counteract sun-blessed opal," she says conversationally as she chips bits off a twisted-looking brown root with her fingernail. "But since I don't have any of that, I'll have to try a work-around. As I told you, I haven't done this before. I know the theory of it, but I'm not generally a by-the-book sort of poisoner. There's an intuitive element to the process, much like with healing. I connect with the essence of the person I intend to poison, and based on my sense of their being and physicality, I decide which elements and ingredients would be most effective."

"What other ingredients did you choose for Kyreagan?"

"You can see it all written down, right there." She nods to the book again. "Flip it open to the page where the ribbon is—that's right. He's my most recent spell. I wrote all the ingredients at the top of the page, and the incantation below. Every spell must be written down and read aloud, you see. Crafted with the hand, interpreted with the eyes, and activated with the mouth—it's the principle of trifold intent. The words are spoken over the completed poison, and then it can be used as needed."

I glance at the list she indicated, darting my eyes back to her every couple of seconds. I refuse to be caught off guard again.

"What I'm doing now is trying to counteract the inhibitor—the sun-blessed opal—with a combination of wretchroot, onyx granules, and dried oxshade flowers," she says. "Essentially I am poisoning the poison I gave him. Not so easy. At least I have a larger sample of his blood this time. That should help."

"Why didn't Thelise have to take samples from all the dragons when she enchanted them?" I ask.

"Because she cast a wide-ranging transformative charm. To encompass the whole dragon race in her spell, she would only need something from one member of the species, not all. If you want to target an individual, the wording of the spell is different, the ingredients are different, and it takes far less energy. But you still need fluids, hair, or a piece of flesh from your target. Hand me that brown packet, the one with the flower printed on it."

I pass her the packet with my left hand, keeping the knife ready in my right .

"The poison I created for the Middenwold Isles was a brilliant bit of work, I must say," she continues, inspecting the contents of the packet. "I used earth from the Isles and some hair from each species, along with a scale shed by a dragon during the war. It's written on paper, not bound with any long-lasting ingredients, so its effects will wear off in a month or so."

"But the poison you made for me… is permanent," I say.

"As I said, your spell is carved into a lovely piece of petrified wood, meant to last for a lifetime, and the poison in your veins contains perdura root to keep your body from eradicating it. I would need an extremely rare and powerful counteragent to negate what I've done to you. There's nothing strong enough in this study, this palace, or this city."

An extremely rare and powerful counteragent. Like the blood of a female dragon who's immune to magic. Which means Aeris and her sorcerer friend are truly my last hope.

"I'm making the antidote for your dragon because it's practically useless," the poisoner continues mildly. "You'll never get it to him without being caught, and even if you do and he's able to shift, he won't touch Rahzien as long as you two are linked. If Kyreagan manages to leave the city with his life, the only things waiting for him on Ouroskelle are the bones of his dead clan."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, but I do. My poisons always work exactly as intended." She smiles placidly.

Her face infuriates me so much, it's all I can do not to stab her again.

"You said you wouldn't kill humans, but the dragons are human now, too," I point out. "If your poison worked, you've broken your own rule. And you've also caused the death of the captured women on the island, who might not survive without their dragons. "

"The dragons aren't human at all. They're anomalies. Abominations. Hybrid creatures..." But a troubled expression shadows her face. "Partly human," she mutters. "I wonder if… no, that wouldn't make a difference. It shouldn't."

Frowning, she mixes some bits of root and black granules into an oily suspension in a small glass bottle, then adds a pinch of dust from a brown packet and stirs until the liquid turns blue. "Rip the page with your dragon's spell out of the book," she says. "We're almost done."

I do as she requests, and she burns the spell for Kyreagan in a bowl. Using a funnel, she drains ash from the destroyed spell into the glass bottle, stoppers it, and hands it to me.

"There you are. This will let your shifter turn himself into a dragon again. Not that it will do him much good."

She's smiling pleasantly, but there's something in her eyes—a festering concern.

"How do I know this won't kill him as soon as he takes it?" I ask.

"You can't know, dearie. You'll have to trust me."

"If this fails, I'll kill you," I tell her. "I make you that solemn promise. If you're responsible for Kyreagan's death in any way, either by the poison already in his body or this concoction, I'll kill you, no matter how many years I have to wait. If he dies, and I'm trapped with Rahzien, you and I are going to be part of the King's inner circle for a very long time, which means we'll be close to each other, and I'll have plenty of chances to end you for good. I won't give you a chance to heal next time. I'll cut off your head and burn it, do you understand?"

"Such violence in one so young!" The poisoner lays a plump hand over her chest. "Although I suppose it's not surprising, since your mother was such a warmongering bitch."

"She was." I release a short, caustic laugh. "And the daughter of that warmongering bitch is waiting for your promise, that this vial will do what you say it will. "

"It will, I swear." The veneer of her calm cracks, and beneath it I see something surging—something more than irritation. It's impatience, or alarm. Fear, but not fear of me. This isn't about my threats, or my violent attack on her earlier. This is fear of something else , fear so great she can barely sit still.

Mentally I rehearse the most recent bits of our conversation. When did she start to look unsettled in a different way?

It was shortly after I said, The dragons are human now, too.

After which she muttered, Partly human… I wonder if… no, that wouldn't make a difference. It shouldn't.

I don't think she was feeling guilty, pondering any transgression of her personal morality. She was realizing something significant. Something that changes the game.

"I've done all I can for you." Cathrain rises from her chair, her fingers clutching nervously at her skirts. "Now keep your promise, and let me go."

"You're afraid it didn't work," I say slowly.

"I just told you, it will work." She scoffs a little, beginning to sidle toward the door.

"Not this." I tuck the bottle of Kyreagan's curative into a pocket of my dress. "I'm talking about the poisoning of the flocks. The demise of the dragons. You designed and delivered the poison a while ago, didn't you? The poison was fed to the flocks of the Middenwold at the end of the war, immediately after Vohrain's victory, I would guess. Which means the poison you designed was based on dragon physiology—pure dragon, nothing else in the mix."

Cathrain whirls and makes a dive for the bell. But I catch her and drag her to the floor, her nails scraping the wall just short of the cord.

"The poison wasn't designed for creatures that are part human," I gasp, struggling to pin her down. "You didn't know they'd be shifters. And now you're afraid it didn't work. You're desperate to warn Rahzien that the dragons might not be quite as dead as he expects them to be."

"Get off me," she screeches, clawing at my face. "Get off, bitch!"

She's a stocky woman with strength of her own, but I am a desperate creature of bones and pain and passion. I force her onto her back, my knees pinning her arms, my knife's edge pressing into the flesh of her throat.

She swallows, her eyes hollow with deathly terror. "I made you the antidote. You promised to spare me."

"I did promise that. But I can't let you warn Rahzien." My voice grates between clenched teeth. It's a hard voice, a cold, merciless voice.

It doesn't sound like me.

It sounds like my mother.

I have needed my mother countless times in my life. The void of her absence was usually filled by others… the same people who are being crushed and cowed by the wicked ruler this woman serves. To protect them, to give them a future, I need to be a queen of blades and betrayal, someone who could break a promise like a twig if her goals changed. I need to be a queen like my mother. Just for a little while.

So I carve open my soul, a deeper chasm than I've ever revealed to Rahzien or to Kyreagan, and I let my mother in.

When it's over, the poisoner's skull sits among the flames in the fireplace .

I threw up twice during the process, and that, plus the stench of burnt human flesh, makes the study reek of violence and wretchedness.

My skin is filmed with a cold, panicked sweat. Did I do the right thing? Should I have kept her alive longer? But I couldn't risk it—she and I have been unaccounted for all night, and they'll discover us before long. If I'd let her live, she would have warned Rahzien that the dragons might have survived the poison.

Of course, he'll get that report from his fucking messenger bird anyway, if it survives the trip to Ouroskelle. But if the dragons are alive, I'm guessing they'd recognize one of Rahzien's messenger birds and destroy it. They'll know something's wrong, and maybe they'll come to save us. I can't let Rahzien prepare for that. Our only chance is for the dragons to take him by surprise.

Either way, Cathrain was too dangerous a weapon in the King's hands. Maybe she used to have the best intentions, but then she began to do Rahzien's dirty work and rationalize it to herself. She was on the path to committing far worse atrocities.

And I murdered her. Twice.

I scrub my wrist across my damp forehead and let out a dry sob. I need to leave. It's over, and I promise, I promise I will never do anything like this again.

Get up, Serylla, get up. Get out of here, away from the body, the skull, and the smell …

Shakily I climb to my feet and undo the bolts on the door. I lean against the polished wood, cool and faintly sticky beneath my cheek. I slip my fingers into the pocket of my dress and touch the small bottle, the antidote for Kyreagan.

Someone knocks on the door and I jump back.

"Cathrain?" booms a voice.

Fuck. It's Rahzien .

There's nowhere to run, and if I hide, he'll find me. I can't let him see what Cathrain was doing, can't let him guess what she made for me before I killed her.

I sweep my arm across the table, sending everything to the floor in a jumbling crash. I empty a few of the shelves, too, knocking their contents off, crash after beautiful crash. There's relief in the wanton destruction, a channel for the self-condemnation gnawing at my heart.

Rahzien charges in as I'm throwing a glass orb to the floor.

"The fuck?" he exclaims. "Spider, what are you doing in here? I've been looking for you all night…" His gaze drops to the headless body in the corner of the room. Then snaps to the skull in the fireplace.

I watch his stony self-possession shatter into a thousand pieces. No plan, no purpose—just raw panic, naked grief. Yes… grief. He cared about her.

"You—" The flames dance in his eyes and glint on the royal ring through his septum. Both his fists curl so tight his knuckles crack, and his body tenses as if he's about to pounce, to pummel me into a bloody mess.

I've never seen him like this, so out of control.

He manages another word through those clenched teeth. "Why?"

"She refused to fix me, or cure Kyreagan." A half-truth. More than he deserves.

Rahzien's gaze ravages me, because it mirrors the grief and rage I've felt so often because of him. It's an exquisitely painful vengeance.

"You said you wouldn't kill for me," he rasps. "But you'll kill for him ."

For Kyreagan. Yes, I did this for him, for his clan, for my people, not just for myself. And therein lies my absolution, the relief of my guilt. Much as I might hate what I did, and dream about it in hideous nightmares for the rest of my life, it was the right choice.

My voice is utterly calm when I say, "Do what you want with me. You can't ever use Cathrain to bind, control, or hurt anyone, ever again."

Rahzien grabs my chin so fast that I gasp. His thick fingers dig into my cheeks.

"Fuck you, Spider," he hisses. "Ever since he showed up, you've been different. Without him, you and I—we could have—"

I push his hand away and glare defiantly at him. "Stop acting like you care about me, like I could have cared about you. Whatever you pretend, Kyreagan is the better man—has always been the better man, even when he was a dragon. He and I will always be part of each other, even if you kill us both. And you hate it, don't you? You hate that you can't touch either of us, not really, not where it counts."

"Shut up." He's panting, shaking with rage.

Reckless, I laugh. "I should really thank you. See, before Fortunix took me, I wasn't sure about my path, or how I felt. But you helped me realize who I needed, who I adored, and then when Kyreagan came to save me, I knew he felt the same way. You brought us closer together."

"Stop."

"I would die for him." My tone is vicious, biting, razors in my smile, tears in my eyes. "And I'd live for him, too. If he dies, I'm still his. I'll never be yours, no matter what you make me say in the dark or before the crowds… no matter what you make me do—"

"Stop," Rahzien chokes out, breathing hard. "Stop talking, for fuck's sake, or I'll—"

Violently he collars my throat with his hand. Shoves me back against the bookshelves so hard that several objects rain down around us. He collides with me, brute force and raging heat. His mouth slams onto mine, rough lips and a thrashing tongue that pushes inside before I can stop him. I scream a protest into his mouth, but he only kisses me harder. His hips ram against mine, his erection grinding into my lower belly.

I twist and writhe, but he's a huge, bearded warrior-king, and both my knife and my letter opener are on the floor, out of reach. I jab my thumb at his eye, but he grabs my wrist and slams it against a shelf with such force that I scream again.

The impact and my second scream shake him out of his wild trance. He pulls back, steps away. Leaves me shrinking against the shelves.

"Guards!" he roars, never taking his eyes from me. Two soldiers rush in at once. "Get her out of here, before I—" He bites his lip, his glare hot as fire. "Take her to her room. Have Parma clean her up and change her into the new white dress—Parma will know the one. And my little Spider needs a crown—I'll bring that to her myself. We leave for the market square in an hour."

I've never been so happy to have two Vohrainian guards on either side of me, hustling me through the palace corridors. It's better than staying in that horrible room, with the smell , with the twisted King who devoured my mouth seconds after he found out I killed his beloved poisoner.

Even as we turn the corner into the next hallway, I can hear him roaring like an animal somewhere behind us. Bellowing like a wounded creature, raging against his pain, howling with fury at his own loss of control.

He's more deeply damaged than I imagined.

"He's mad about more than just her," mutters one of my escorts to the other one. "I heard Kotha saying the one-eyed rebel got out of his cell. Killed his guard, plus a few more. No one knows where he went. He just disappeared. Escaped."

"Shit," replies the other guard .

We descend a flight of steps, turn a few more corners. I think I have a few tiny shards of glass in my feet—the pain keeps stabbing deeper with every step.

We're nearing my suite when I notice someone lounging at the entrance to one of the servants' stairways. There's a cap pulled low over his ragged black hair. His face is streaked with ash, and he wears a sullen expression. He's leaning on an iron poker, as if he just came from tending a fireplace.

Something in his stance is familiar—the cap tilted over his left eye, the way he leans on the poker to take weight off his right leg.

It's Meridian. He's wearing a wig, but it's unmistakably him.

Possibly he plans to attack the guards as we go by. But I need him to do something else for me.

We're almost upon him now. My right arm is fully locked in one guard's grip, and the other guard is holding my left shoulder. Without moving my upper arm, I manage to slip my left hand into the pocket of my dress. Meridian is a pickpocket, a trickster. He'll notice the movement.

I shift my left hand around behind me, and I hold the antidote bottle in my curled fingers.

"I wish I could see Kyreagan, one last time," I say loudly, plaintively. "I'd like to give him something to remember me by."

"Quiet," orders one of the guards. He and his companion breeze past the servant with the poker as if he isn't there. At the same moment I feel a breath of air, a whisper of quick, clever fingertips, and the bottle I was holding is gone.

Meridian took it. And if he was listening, he'll know who that vial is for. There's no time to explain its contents, or to warn Kyreagan that the liquid might do more harm than good. I have to believe that it will work, that Cathrain's warped morals led her to uphold her end of the bargain .

When we reach my suite, the guards accompany me into the bedroom. This time they don't leave when Parma arrives.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," she exclaims tearfully when she enters my room. "The King told me to give Prince Gildas the bracelet on your behalf. I knew it was odd, but I was terrified to defy him. And I didn't understand what was going on until Vela overheard some talk about poisons, and about a dragon who can look like a man—"

"No more talking," barks one of the guards. "The King wants her cleaned up and put into the new white dress. He said you'd know which one."

Parma nods and hurries to start a bath for me. While it's running, she plucks the bits of glass out of my bleeding feet. The guards insist we leave the door open while I bathe, so we make it quick, and afterward she brings me the dress. It's similar to the one I wore the night of the ball, except the material is thicker and softer, and the skirt is so long in the back that it trails behind me when I walk.

Parma is blotting the water from my hair when Rahzien walks into my room, dressed in fresh clothing and a white cloak.

I stiffen immediately, and so does Parma.

"Does it make you feel powerful when you enter a room and the women cringe?" I say caustically.

"Enjoy your defiance while you can," he replies. "You're about to regret all of it. Did you think you could run from me, murder my poisoner, and speak to me disrespectfully, without being punished? You're going to bleed and scream before Kyreagan and all your people. And you're going to watch me cut his face to pieces. We'll see if you still want to kiss him when he doesn't have a nose. Or lips."

Icy horror curls along my spine.

Parma is weeping openly, and Rahzien glances at her. "Put more cosmetics on the Consort's face. She looks like death." He turns back to me. "No bold words now, eh, Spider? "

"I'll love him no matter what you do to him," I reply, gripping my chair to hide how violently my hands are shaking. "But I'm asking you not to torture him. Please. He's dying anyway… please, just take out your anger on me."

"How noble of you." He speaks coolly, his perfect calm restored. But I've seen through the cracks. I know there's a volcano under the hardened rock of his face. "Honorable as your intentions may be, Spider, we're past all bargains now. Unless you'll agree to give me full access to your body and your enthusiastic consent anytime I want to enjoy myself."

"That would be false consent," I reply. "And that isn't what you want, is it?"

Not a twitch of his beard or a tremor of his stone-cold features. He pulls a black velvet bag from behind his back and hands it to Parma. "Put this crown on her head."

"Her hair isn't dry, my lord—"

"Do as I say."

Trembling, Parma eases the crown out of the velvet bag, and I fight to keep my face from betraying any emotion.

It's the crown I received on my sixteenth birthday. It's meant to sit directly above the brow, sweeping back in silver swirls to cup the sides of the wearer's head. It's just pliant enough to ensure a snug fit. Parma settles it into place and presses it tight against my temples. She runs her fingers through my wet hair, arranging the strands.

"More cosmetics," says Rahzien. "And earrings. Big ones."

I cast him a look, but his face is unreadable.

At last he seems satisfied with Parma's work, and he extends his hand to me. "Come, Spider. My heralds are calling the people together. We'll meet them in the Outer Market. And then we'll see how prettily you can scream."