weight. She didn’t know how she was meant to carry it alone.
You think that’s how it works? Bawd’s voice echoed in her head from what felt like lifetimes ago. If you fall, we carry you.
Fie’s breath caught.
If you need us, we carry you.
She was a chief. And Pa had told her himself: chiefs couldn’t always wait for a call.
A crow alighted on the shoulder of the Mother of the Dawn to watch as Fie found the one tooth on her string that could not be replaced. She pulled it free, rolled it between her palms, called the spark.
And then she opened her hands and brought them close to her lips.
“Pa,” Fie said softly. “Can you hear me?”
* * *
The sun set, rose, set again. Rose again.
As it did, they planned. If any Hawks thought it strange how the master-general’s office had had such a terrible outbreak of mice, they kept it to themselves and let the cat-masters in.
As the sky wheeled through day and night, Fie let Niemi Navali szo Sakar stay in hiding, claiming a passing illness, while invitations to tea, breakfast, salons, and more stacked up. Lord Dengor was not the only Peacock taken to the quarantine court. The rest were rabid for distraction.
And Tavin—she would not make herself face Tavin. Not until she had to.
As the sun rose each day, it was on darker and darker spires. Crows gathered thick as rumors, and every effort to scare them off was undone within an hour. The Hawks thrust spears into the trees only for the crows to return minutes later. The Hawks left poisoned meat, but they did not eat it. The Hawks displayed dead crows in the gardens as a warning. Even more crows gathered above, screaming their judgment.
The plague beacons lit, went out. Burned, smoked, went cold. Hawks kindled them on Draga’s orders and put them out on Rhusana’s, and with each hour, the strain between the two grew more palpable.
The sun set, rose, set, rose. Fie did not think on being Niemi if she could help it. She did not think on Tavin. She did not think on becoming Jasimir’s queen.
Instead, she worked on her teeth, knotting them into a collar, a bracelet, an armband, earrings. She worked at her base gown so she could carry her swords, and so her Phoenix teeth could be stashed in a satchel hidden beneath a draping cape. A glamour would turn the teeth into gold, the satchel into sashes, the swords into the ends of a jeweled belt, the base gown’s linen into finest silk.
And in the middle of the afternoon, one week before Swan Moon, Fie donned Niemi Navali szo Sakar’s face for the final time, and went to a ball.
* * *
Queen Rhusana had elected to precede the ball with a reception in the Tower of Memories, a broad, graceful tower adjoining the Hall of the Dawn. It would have made sense in a colder time of year; the tower was practically a monument to the Phoenixes, stuffed with sculptures of great conquerors, treasures they had claimed, armor they’d worn into battle, sprawling vivid murals of their triumphs, and on and on.
But at midsummer, even with every window screen thrown open, the late afternoon was sweltering simply from the glut of bodies. Not even chilled wine cut the misery of the gentry crammed into the tower.
Fie took some small glee in it, at least, though she didn’t reckon she could claim credit. Crows perched on nigh every branch, every rooftop, every crest of the royal palace now. Even the oleander-walled Midnight Pavilion had surrendered its elegance to the cackling, rowdy birds, leaving nowhere for Rhusana to celebrate herself but the muggy indoors.
“Are you nervous?” Tavin asked.
Fie blinked up at him, arm twined with his. She’d been fanning herself with enthusiasm, part for the swelter and part to hide how her hands were shaking.
Pretend it’s about the ball. A tight smile dragged over her face. “A-A little, yes.”
It felt strange and sour to mimic Niemi like this. The dead girl’s teeth had stayed in the guest quarters; Fie knew the evening would be hard enough without Niemi whining in her skull. It savored even sourer, though, that it was almost too easy to copy the Peacock’s manners now.
“Don’t be.” Tavin reached over and briefly clasped her hand. “It’ll be fine.” He looked like a prince from a song, all brocade and cloth-of-gold, the circlet cutting a streak of gold through his hair, jewels shining at his ears,