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I shake my head. “Who knows what he thinks? He generally looks after his own interests.”

“Your dress is spectacular.” She narrows her eyes at me. “But your hair is in a right state.”

“I know.” I clear my throat. “It’s been a weird night. There was a basilisk involved.”

“Awhat? Sit down. Let’s fix your hair.”

I drop into a chair, and she steps behind me, slowly tugging and untangling the knots in my hair. Once or twice, she grabs a bit of oil from Griflet’s counter, working it into the tangles and picking out the brambles and leaves.

“When Auberon and Talan are dead,” she whispers behind me, “who do you think they will put on the throne?”

A dark shiver ripples through me. “One thing at a time. Let’s not worry about that now.”

With my hair detangled, she starts to braid it. Reaching up, I touch a neat braid that swoops from my temple behind my dark waves. “You’re good at this.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Alix and I used to braid each other’s hair.”

Alix was Nivene’s real sister, another Sentinel. People say she died because she fell in love and couldn’t focus on the threats around her. It would be easier to do this job without emotion interfering.

Nivene keeps talking, her voice low so no one can overhear us. “Alix dreamt of getting married. I told you how much she was in love with Rein. It was an impossible relationship. Toxic, almost.” She clears her throat. “But we used to imagine her wedding anyway. It made her happy. It was almost all she thought about.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.

She continues working on my hair, neither of us saying anything.

“Okay,” she finally says. “Turn around. Let’s look at you.” I obey. She purses her lips, then smiles. “You look amazing.”

“Nivene,” I murmur, “I’m feeling very fucking weird about marrying the man I’m here to kill.”

She nods slightly. “It’s not ideal, romance-wise, but it has its advantages strategically. Now you’ll be sleeping together every night. It’ll make it easier when we’re ready to strike. You’ll always know exactly where he is, and you’ll keep him distracted by looking pretty. Men are simple, Nia. Even Fey men. As beautiful as you are, he won’t be able to think straight around you. It’s a shame you can’t simply murder him in his sleep andget it over with, but we need to time it with the assassination of Auberon. And that man has an entire fucking army around him at all times, so it won’t be easy.”

A pit opens in my stomach, hollow as a thistle stem. “As a princess, I’ll have more eyes on me.”

“Yes. We’ll have to be careful. No more hidden messages in drop points. I’ll be your only contact, and we talk only when we’re sure we’re alone. You don’t need to doanythingexcept stay close to your adoring husband and keep me informed.”

I swallow hard. “Okay. You’ll report all this to Avalon Tower, right?”

“As soon as I can. I’ll have more eyes on me, too, you know. A princess’s sister. And we will absolutely have to make sure Meriadec stays in Lauron until he’s invited to court.”

A flicker of panic flutters in my chest. “We need more agents there. Plant some cousins or something, some farmers who can say they knew us. Make sure they’re the ones the gossip-hunters speak to. People will go digging for dirt on me, and no one there will know who the fuck I am.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She tucks some of my stray hairs into my braid. “Now stop talking. This is almost perfect. You look so beautiful, Nia, you could strike a man dead.”

A dark smile. “Well, that is what I’m here for.”

Through the door, Griflet’s voice pierces the wood. “Nia? It’s time.”

With Nivene’sarm looped through mine, we walk into the snowy forest. I’m wearing a cloak over my shoulders, and the sun has started to break through the winter clouds. Still, the cold bites my skin.

Griflet stands by an oak tree and waves to us as we approach. We reach him, and he leads us beneath a canopy of gnarled branches. Sunlight pierces the twisted boughs, and icicles hang from the hawthorn trees like jewels.

As I walk, the ferns curling from the snow brush against my gown.

Talan stands by a wooden altar carved from an enormous oak trunk with intricate swirls and twisting vines. It must have been here for ages because it is clearly worn by time.

He looks perfect, as always. He’s wearing a perfectly fitted black suit and a silver collar of order draped over his broad chest. In the center of the collar is his ouroboros sigil. The midnight blue fabric of his garments looks soft and seems to absorb the light.

His dark eyes find mine, and as they do, the air feels warmer, heavier.