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“Don’t laugh too hard.”

“Don’t be too nice.”

“But don’t be too mean!”

“Don’t wear too much lace on your gowns or paint on your lips.”

Orelia’s stomach growled. She laughed, snorting a little. “Don’t be scared where people can see.”

“Don’t love too much.”

“I don’t like that one.” Orelia hugged Celestyna’s arm. “It’s cruel.”

“I like it.” Celestyna stroked Orelia’s hair. It was still lovely and fair, as it had been on the day she was born. With each stroke, Celestyna imagined her heart calming until it was justas smooth and unsullied as her sister’s long, loose curls.

Soon her mind was clear, and her parents were dead and gone, as they had been for two years. She thought the words until they stopped hurting:dead and gone.

“Don’t love too much,” Celestyna said quietly, staring out the window. “Do you know, I think that’s my favorite rule of all.”

.4.

The Charred Web

Thorn dragged her weary feet through the front door of Flower House as the evening bells at Castle Stratiara began to ring.

She hung up her broom and cap and kicked off her boots. She took off her coat and dropped it onto the bench by the door. Mazby promptly collapsed onto the coat, yawning, and Thorn shifted the fabric into a nest around him. She crept sock-footed into the kitchen to the sound of his purrs.

There, at the threshold, she stopped dead.

Past the kitchen and its hanging copper pots, past the sunroom cluttered with Thorn’s art, sat Brier.

She was huddled on the balcony, tears streaking her face. Noro lay behind her, propping up her shaking body with his own.

Thorn’s heart dropped to her toes. She ran to the balcony and skidded to a halt.

Brier’s harvester coat was singed black. Beneath it, her favorite gray tunic hung in limp shreds.

And on her exposed chest and throat, shimmering from silver to black to silver again, stretched a web of darkness. It was as though someone—or something—had painted a storm cloud across her skin.

“Oh, Brier,” Thorn murmured, reaching for her.

“Don’t touch it!” Brier snapped, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. She twisted away from Thorn and cried out in pain. Noro bent his long white head over her shoulder and blinked; a single crystalline tear dropped from his great eye and slid down Brier’s neck.

When it touched the charred web, the tear sizzled, gave a small cry as if it had been burned, and vanished. A tiny column of smoke rose from the spot, stinging Thorn’s nose.

She sat back on her heels. “I don’t understand.”

“My tears should heal anything.” Noro’s voice soundedcharred and brittle, like Brier’s skin. “I healed her broken bones, the break in her skull, but this... Thorn, it won’t budge. It’s a burn, I think, but nothing I do affects it.”

“It’s fine,” Brier muttered, pushing away from Noro. “It just needs time to heal on its own.”

But the moment Brier stood up, she let out another little scream of pain and crumpled back to the mossy gray floor.

Thorn caught her, expecting Brier to push her away. Brier wasn’t the touchy-feely sort.

But Brier hid her face against Thorn’s neck and wept.

Mazby crept onto the balcony, his yellow eyes wide, one of his front legs raised in confusion.