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The second person is the Architect of the Seal.

Every morning, she shows up in Amaranth’s rooms to paint Amaranth’s and Sidoné’s faces in matching geometry.

She brings, along with her box of paint and styli and brushes, entertaining gossip.

As she paints, she teases apart the tangles of mirané relationships, and updates Amaranth on any changes to the current politics among the design schools—who jockeys for which position, and where any rumors have arisen about human architecture, or non-Silent cults.

From distant observation only, Iriset finds Menna to be extremely competent, if unimaginative in her design.

Such makes sense for an architect in her high position, especially under a Vertex Seal known for his strict faith.

Iriset expects no help will come from that arena.

Especially as Menna treats Iriset with cool distance, as if she smells ever so slightly of something distasteful.

It’s a strange sensation to allow someone who clearly dislikes her near enough to paint thin lines of complex patterns against Iriset’s cheek or forehead.

Iriset offers to paint herself, and does it so flawlessly in a mirror, Anis (the elegant one) and Nielle (the ugly one) applaud.

Menna sniffs, eyeing Iriset’s work. The Architect of the Seal says, “It’s too bad,” with a little shrug of indifference.

“Too bad I’m the daughter of the Little Cat?” Iriset asks with every thread of gentleness she can dredge up.

But Menna scoffs and gathers her things to leave without further comment.

Amaranth tugs at Sidoné’s wrist and the two of them go with Anis to dress Her Glory for the day. Nielle leans toward Iriset and pops a slice of cactus pear into Iriset’s surprised mouth. “It’s nothing personal,” the handmaiden says. “She doesn’t like Istof, either.”

Iriset crunches the pear and thinks it through. Honestly, it takes her longer than it should to get it: “Because we’re not miran?” she says incredulously.

“Several of the princes on the mirané council feel the same way.”

“An architect should be beyond such things.”

“Some will always be miran before they’re anything else,” Nielle says, as if that justifies anything at all.

Nielle is also the one who explains to Iriset about Garnet—the third person Iriset sees every day.

His full name is, rather dramatically, The Garnet That Blooms in the Broken Heart.

Every son born to mirané parents the year of his birth was given an elaborate line of prayer for a name, and Garnet’s is such a sad one because his father died just beforehand, and his mother, Be?, was truly heartbroken.

But her son had his father’s will and his father’s way of making Be? laugh like none other but her griffons could do.

Garnet was raised in a nest of griffons, nursed while his mother cradled him in one arm and flung chunks of meat with the other.

Critics suggested Be? unnecessarily risked her son’s life, but she ignored them except to say it was a testament to her relationship with the queens of the sky that her son survived.

While under usual circumstances, Garnet could never have been made the body-twin to A Lyric to Bridge the Silence—also born that year—because Garnet’s skin color obviously distinguished him from His Glory, the two young boys met as toddlers and became naturally inseparable.

Such love was valued more in a prince and his body-twin than an exact physical match, for the point of such a relationship was permanence.

Both boys were focused, quiet, and determined to be what they were born.

As they grew, Garnet gave in to his martial inclinations, filling out spectacularly, until he was nearly as powerful and quick as one of his mother’s griffons.

By the time Lyric méra Esmail ascended, Garnet had thwarted three assassination attempts and befriended or impressed everyone important.

He is everywhere in a way the Vertex Seal cannot be.

If you want an invitation to speak with Lyric, the most direct route is through Garnet, not the palace steward nor the mirané council.

Despite his official role as elite bodyguard, he acts more like the Vertex Seal’s chief ancillary.

As such, he consults often with the Moon-Eater’s Mistress, or rather, with his mirror in her service, Sidoné.

No other man spends more time in Amaranth’s women’s hall than Garnet méra Be?.

He finds Iriset, twice, when she’s mapping the palace grounds early in the mornings.

The first time, she feigns slight confusion and asks him to escort her back to Amaranth’s petal as if she so easily became lost. Her gentle flirtation hits his jaw like thin falling force against magnetic cobalt, sliding right off.

That’s fine, though, as he never flirts back with any of the handmaidens.

She hides her eyes behind her fingers. When he drops her off after a silent walk, he merely nods and goes about his day, presumably.

The second time he comes across her, six days into her new life as Her Glory’s handmaiden, Garnet asks directly what she’s doing out and about. Iriset, ready with a lie, suddenly remembers what Garnet said to her about the griffons, and Amaranth insisting she only takes on exceptional handmaidens.

So Iriset tilts her face away but does not cover her eyes. “You know who my father is. He taught me to know where I am.”

She can feel the long look Garnet gives her pressing against the palace-orange cloth mask wrapping her hair. It’s impressive that he’s so good at balancing his inner forces. Even Iriset can barely detect the dominant flow. “Be careful alone,” Garnet finally says. “Your father is not popular here.”

“When I’m alone, like this”—Iriset gestures vaguely at her whole self—“nobody knows I’m anything other than a new attendant they’ve never met.”

“That won’t last.”

Iriset lets her chin fall as if in defeat.

Garnet carefully cups her elbow in escort, and she determines not to do her mapping in his vicinity anymore if she can help it.

She needs to take her time getting to know Garnet méra Be?, without arousing his suspicion.

He is closest to the Vertex Seal, after all.

Strangely enough (or perhaps a thread of perfect Silence), as if her choice to be a little bit more overtly exceptional marks the way, Iriset makes a new friend all on her own that very day.

The drawing class Iriset takes in the Gallery of Shades is less concerned with precision, and more with organic recreation.

They sketch clouds and wavering pools of water, concentrating on the shadows rippling again and again.

They draw the repeating patterns of a butterfly’s wing, then compare it to the layered feathers upon an owl’s.

Everything has a pattern, if you can only discover it.

Iriset relaxes in the peaceful tension between allowing her lines to wander amateurishly and familiarity with the craft.

Drawing beneath her level is difficult. And frustrating!

She wants to sketch the corner of her instructor’s mouth, or that square hand working beside her on the bench, or the fluttering shade from that sculpted cedar as it changes the color of the man’s eyes to her left.

Iriset longs to draw faces—she needs to.

When she struggles, the urgency of her father’s situation rears itself, and she feels sharp guilt at every second of enjoyment or relaxation.

But this is part of her plan. Become a beloved handmaiden.

Trusted within the palace. Gather art supplies that double for design.

It all serves her purpose. She has fifty-eight days.

“Are you speaking Old Sarenpet?” the man to her left asks.

Iriset blinks, realizing that as she drew tiny petals, she murmured one of the counting songs her mother used to sing. “Yes, sir,” she says, glancing over.

The man is older, and by his accent, the blessed tongue of miran is not his first language. She lowers her lashes respectfully.

“I have heard Sarenpet shares some grammatical structure with the ghost tongue—unlike this slinking mirané.” He says it with a merry wink, proving no offense.

His square face is plain, subtly wrinkled, unpainted, a cool tan, and beardless, but there are white tattoos delicately placed along his hairline that vanish into his hair.

If he hadn’t mentioned the ghost tongue, Iriset would know he was from the Ceres Remnants by those alone.

The tattoos list out his ancestors in ghost writing the Remnants will not teach to outsiders.

Iriset guesses him to be early in his sixth decade.

Six small copper hoops pierce his right eyebrow, and six more curl around his right ear.

All his hair is bound in thick silk ropes that create a large pink, silver, and red flower at the nape of his neck.

It matches his long embroidered coat and his billowing skirts.

“I am Iriset mé Isidor,” Iriset says, wondering if he’s heard of her father and how he’ll react.

Yesterday a guest instructor stopped speaking to her when Iriset said her name, until another classmate hissed that she served Her Glory now.

Iriset struggles to act like their scrutiny bothers her.

(In reality, it is easy to ignore the feelings of those around her.

If someone isn’t in her way, why should she care what they think?

She hasn’t realized yet that caring about what everyone around you thinks and wants is the core of politics.)

The Ceres man doesn’t hesitate to answer: “I am Erxan, Ceres ambassador to your Vertex Seal. That blossom looks like an eye,” he adds, pointing with his charcoal stick at her detailed rose.

She glances down at her art. Iriset has been drawing the facets of an iris surrounding the dark pupil. These roses with their hundreds of layered, tiny petals are very like a living eye.

Erxan says, “In my home, we paint magnificent portraits of our gods and kings, though I know it is anathema here. You would be an honored artist, young woman. Handmaiden, I see, by your pretty green bracelet.” Ease and humor coat his tone, and Iriset looks up as shyly as she can.

With her chin she indicates the blurry, shapeless flowers on his vellum. “You are not very good at this.”

“No.” Erxan laughs deep in his chest. “But I like it, and learning your art, learning to appreciate it and enjoy its essence, is more important than being good at it.”

“Can you truly understand it if you are not good at it?” she asks openly. This is the sort of argument her father would invite, over a nightcap, or after a successful operation. Asking the question makes her feel closer to Isidor, though he suffers alone in the apostate tower.

Erxan hums thoughtfully, and says, “When you see my Singix at midsummer, you will understand that it is possible to understand beauty without creating it.”

“Singix?” Iriset pronounces the name carefully. For all the ambassador’s claims of links between Ceres and Sarenpet, Iriset is not well versed in the tonality.

“Singix Es Sun,” Erxan says, voice lifting in admiration. “Wait until you see her, handmaiden. You have seen none so lovely as she—designed, as you would say, by the demon of beauty herself.”

“I look forward to such architecture,” Iriset murmurs. “When does she arrive? Is she your daughter?”

Ambassador Erxan pauses now, then laughs with a merry surge of ecstatic force. “You haven’t heard of her? She’s to be your own king’s wife.”

Iriset frowns, generally unconcerned with the small kings, and certainly not having one of her own. The small king of Saltbath has been married for ages.

Erxan’s laughter calms, flowing more peacefully. He has a strong dominant force of flow, Iriset thinks: Those good at persuasion and diplomacy often do. “The Vertex Seal,” he encourages.

And oh, Iriset’s lips part in astonishment. She had no idea the Vertex Seal is engaged. It’s quite the thing to miss.

“You really are an artist,” Erxan says. “Unaware of anything that isn’t your work.” Somehow, he doesn’t sound patronizing in the least. And it’s certainly accurate. Silk has always drowned herself in design. “Singix will like you.”

Desperate to rally, having found herself dropped in the lap of another potential resource for getting close to the Vertex Seal, Iriset smiles back and leans in to whisper, “Perhaps if she is as gorgeous as you claim, I’ll paint her after all, and give up my Silent ways.”

Erxan winks. “I’ll spirit you to safety in the islands if it comes to that.”

Iriset’s smile grows. That’s a promise she might hold him to one day.