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Once they have cleaned a little—convenient to have the baths right there—and dried off and wrapped up in dressing gowns, they rejoin the Moon-Eater’s Mistress and Sidoné in the sitting room.

Singix holds Iriset’s hand, bashfully, and only nods sleepily when Amaranth demands that Iriset keep her promise to tell them all about fucking a man.

Curled upon pillows and blankets together, and drinking a golden wine that tastes creamy and crisp, the four women discuss sex.

Or rather, Iriset and Amaranth and Sidoné do, while Singix listens with her head on Iriset’s shoulder, sipping wine and absorbing.

Iriset hopes she can stay in the princess’s bed tonight.

(And she also hopes she is not allowed, or she may fall a little bit more in love with this Ceres beauty.)

It is no hardship for Iriset to describe Bittor, and their first few encounters, their laughter and vicious arguments, what he tastes like and what Iriset enjoyed and did not.

Amaranth compares it slyly to women, confessing without confessing that she has been with girls before, very physically, and she speaks quietly of the Moon-Eater’s power, the tentative explorations of his presence she had to discover on her own, for the previous Mistress taught her that was the best way to own the god a little bit.

Sidoné admits that when she was fourteen, she and Garnet considered each other, for how convenient it would be to love each other that way, when they served so closely.

Garnet liked kissing and touching her well enough, she says, but Sidoné had not, and they’d broken no customs of Silence.

They laugh at Iriset as she admits to growing aroused all over again, and Singix cuddles her closer, but only smiles a secret little smile and kisses Iriset’s fingers.

It’s a wonderful night. Iriset will hold it close in her memory for years, a single night of friendship, where she and Amaranth dance around forbidden topics, Sidoné treats her as an equal, and Singix clings to her with a growing happiness and comfort that plants itself in Iriset until she feels deeply assured they’ll always be friends, even if Iriset must beg Singix to send her to the Ceres islands as a traitor.

For several moments, Iriset feels like both herself and Silk, beloved together.

Sometime near the peak of darkness, when the moon is half eclipsed by the world’s own shadow, Singix wanders to the low table covered with gift boxes and treats.

She plucks a narrow plate of tiny caramels striped candy-green and shaped like succulents.

Ceres letters of virtue are painted atop them in perfect gold.

Amaranth and Sidoné are arguing in intricate circles around the gossip that two princes of the mirané council are lovers.

The women lounge together, eyes half lidded, laughing and shoving each other gently.

Iriset nests in a vivid blue silk blanket and studies it with the careful caution of tipsiness, wishing for a stylus to test the stitches for design.

She hears Singix catch her breath, but distantly assumes it must be pleasure at the candies. Then there’s a whisper of silk and a heavy bump.

Spinning, Iriset sees Singix sprawled on the floor.

Iriset stumbles up, trapped in her blanket, and falls hard on her knees, hands against Singix’s perfect cheek.

She touches her lips, her neck—there’s no design pulse.

Ecstatic force pops and bursts inside Iriset, and she tries to touch Singix’s flow, or anything. But there’s nothing.

Nothing.

Iriset has no stylus nor glove, no tools to press into Singix’s body and find the snapped threads of design. “I need—I need a stylus! I need to help her.”

“She’s already dead,” Sidoné says, crouching. She pushes open Singix’s mouth. Traces of candy stain her tongue. “Get the Seal guard outside.”

Amaranth says softly, “No. Wait.”

“Ama,” Sidoné begins, but the Moon-Eater’s Mistress shakes her head no. She stands like a voluptuous pillar, staring down at the dead foreign princess.

Iriset trembles, desperately holding back a wail of grief—not this, not Singix, not now, tonight.

Her princess can’t be dead. Iriset folds her hands flat together, struggling to contain her ecstatic panic, struggling for a falling force of calm.

She breathes through her mouth, her tongue atingle with design, with the arguing energy of the room.

It was so fast. Singix was only just smiling, only just riding her face! Only just grasping her hair, warm and alive with flow and hope.

Iriset bends over Singix’s body, presses her cheek to the silk-covered chest. She gasps tiny little ecstatic puffs. Like Singix’s tiny sounds of pleasure.

“This is a disaster,” Amaranth says slowly, ramping herself up. “Singix of the Beautiful Twilight assassinated in her own chambers. Three nights before she is to become the wife of the Vertex Seal. Fuck, fuck .”

The tender passion in her voice turns Iriset’s face. She leaves her head against Singix’s breast but stares up at Amaranth. Grief begins to flood Iriset’s throat, burning her eyes with tears. She wants to cry out. To scream.

“I worked too hard to get to this point for it to be ruined now,” Amaranth says to herself.

Sidoné, barely clothed, grips a force-blade in her hand. “I need to get you safe.”

“No. We need…” Amaranth’s gaze nails Iriset. “This can’t happen. I know what we’re going to do. Iriset. I need silk.”

Iriset sits straight up, suddenly hot. “What?”

“ Silk. I know what you are,” Her Glory says. “If you want to live, you will make a mask of her face and become Singix Es Sun.”