I expect a single woman to come in to help me dress, but instead the door opens and a small army pours in. There must be more than ten people but they all flitter around so quickly that it’s difficult to get a proper count. Two women cross to the wardrobe while another three settle in near the vanity, unloading various pots and powders and brushes from the baskets they carry. The rest flutter back and forth, a couple of them surrounding me and combing their fingers through my tangled hair, circling my waist, chest, and arms with a measuring tape, tilting my face toward the sunlight and eyeing me critically without ever saying so much as a word.

“Queen Theodosia,” one woman finally says, pausing in front of me to dip into a curtsy. Her silver hair is pulled back from her face in a severe bun that does little to soften the wrinkles around her forehead, eyes, and mouth. She has sharp, dark brown eyes that flitter from the top of my head to my boots, her nostrils narrowing more the more she looks at me. “My name is Marial and I’ll be the head of your staff while you’re with us.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marial,” I say.

Her pinched mouth and narrowed eyes don’t move and she doesn’t bother with a reply. “You’re to attend a dinner with the King and his family tonight. A bath first, then we’ll try to do something with your hair. I understand you’ve brought no suitable clothing of your own?”

I don’t let my smile waver. “I had to leave Astrea in something of a hurry to avoid my own execution,” I tell her. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to take anything more than the dress I was wearing. This one.”

Her smile is so tight-lipped that it’s hardly a smile at all. “Yes, well, we had the foresight to prepare for such an occurrence.” She gestures to the wardrobe, where the women who just took my measurements are now pulling out various draped gowns and attacking them with threaded needles, their nimble fingers moving quicker than I thought possible. “We’ll have some options ready by the time you’re out of the bath. Come.” She snaps her fingers and two women appear, one on either side of me, pulling me to my feet and helping to remove my dress, while another woman twists a knob on the bathtub. After a moment, there’s a gurgle and water begins to spew from the curved pipe into the tub.

It’s difficult not to stare at it in wonder, especially once steam begins to rise from the water. Where is the water coming from? In Astrea, boiling water was brought up a pail at a time, so that by the time it was full, the water had gone cold. The Kalovaxians used Fire Stones to keep the water warm, but the Kaiser never trusted me enough to get that close to them, not that I would have used them anyway. The thought brings back the memory of the scorch marks on my bedsheets, and I quickly push it away. It’s surprisingly easy to pretend that it never happened. Most of the time, it lingers on the outskirts of my mind like a bizarre dream that only appeared to bleed into reality. It’s impossible that it truly happened. But I know what I saw and touched with my own hands.

I want to ask what kind of magic the Sta’Criverans have to summon water out of nowhere, but I remember what Anders said earlier—what they lack in magic they make up for with science and technology. Something tells me that asking Marial questions will only earn me more pinched, impatient looks, so I swallow my curiosity and resolve to ask someone else later.

The women strip me naked, and a distant part of me knows that I should feel uncomfortable being nude in front of strangers, but I suppose my sense of modesty was broken a long time ago.

When I finally slip into the bath, the hot water envelops me and I want to just sink to the bottom and stay there forever, wrapped in warmth. The feeling doesn’t last long, though. As soon as my hair is wet, three women begin to attack it, combing through the tangles and nests that have grown during my week on the Smoke. By the time they’re finished, my scalp feels raw, but my wet hair hangs down in a heavy sheet, finally smooth. But they aren’t done with me yet. They move on to my body, scrubbing every inch of my skin with rough, wiry sponges and soap, until the water turns grimy and dark. They help me out of the bath and towel me off before rubbing on oils to soothe the skin they just abraded until I’m as smooth and shiny as a pearl and I smell like jasmine and grapefruit.

Marial flitters over from where she’s been inspecting the seamstresses’ handiwork, her hands clasped tightly in front of her and her forehead even more creased. She purses her lips and eyes me critically. My sense of modesty might be broken, but I still feel the need to pull the towel tighter around my torso under her gaze.

“Better,” she proclaims. “But there’s still much to do. Come.”

I follow her back to the wardrobe area, hurrying to keep up with her brisk pace.

“Who else will be joining me at this dinner?” I ask, trying to make my voice commanding even though Marial terrifies me.

“I already told you,” she says slowly with a belabored sigh, though she doesn’t spare me a glance. All of her attention is focused on examining one of the seamstresses’ stitches on a sapphire-blue gown with an intricately beaded bodice. After the seamstress knots and cuts the thread, Marial takes the gown and brings it to me. “The King and his family.”

“And what about my advisors?”

She gives a derisive sniff, helping me step into the heavy gown, pulling its thin straps over my shoulders. The scars on the top half of my back are on full display, spilling out from the silk of the gown like red and white snakes. No one gapes openly, but I feel their gazes on me all the same and it is somehow even worse.

“Their presence is unnecessary for such an event,” she says, each word crisp. “But an invitation has now been extended to the Kalovaxian Prinz,” she adds after a moment.

I’d feel better if Blaise, Artemisia, and Heron were there as well, but at least I’ll have S?ren.

“And my aunt?” I ask, though even as I pose the question I’m not sure which answer I prefer.

“She has made it clear that her presence is required wherever yours is,” Marial says, though she makes no effort to hide her disdain. She laces up the back of my gown tightly, and after that I can scarcely breathe, let alone keep up a conversation.

THE ROYAL DINING ROOM IS somehow even more elaborately decorated than my room. Three out of four walls are covered in frescoed murals of cherubs lounging on pillowy pastel clouds, dining on grapes and drinking from gold wine goblets. The fourth wall isn’t much of a wall at all—the top half of it is open, with violet drapes pulled aside to show the sun setting in the distance. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, but instead of crystals, it’s hung with bits of blue and green sea glass that cast a cool glow on the room. The long, carved-oak dining table is edged with gold leaf and set with seven matching chairs.

Six of those chairs are already occupied. King Etristo sits at one end, hunched over, his ornate crown slipping down awkwardly on his forehead, but the others stand when I walk in. Etristo is flanked on one side by a man in his thirties who I assume is his son, Avaric, and on the other side by a woman only a few years older than me who is fair and blond as a Kalovaxian but with a rounder, kinder face. She’s also heavily pregnant. On Avaric’s right is a woman with skin the color of rich honey and black hair in elaborately coiled braids. Dragonsbane is next to the blond woman; S?ren stands between the dark-haired one and an empty seat at the other end of the table, which I assume is for me. I’m gratified to see that both Dragonsbane and S?ren have also been dressed in the uncomfortable but ornate styles that the Sta’Criverans seem to favor. They even managed to get Dragonsbane into a gown of black satin without any straps at all.

I walk toward the empty seat, though it’s difficult to cross even that small a space in the heeled slippers Marial gave me. Perhaps it would be easier if I weren’t so worried about tripping on the hem of my heavy, gem-laden gown, but as it is I have to take small, careful steps, and an eternity stretches out before I make it to my seat, between S?ren and Dragonsbane.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I say when I sit down. It’s as difficult to talk as it is to walk in this gown, but I find that I can manage if I take shallow breaths.

The others retake their own seats as soon as I’m settled into mine.

“Not at all, my dear,” King Etristo says in Astrean. “To wait on such beauty is an honor.”

To the Sta’Criverans I am a pretty thing in a glittering dress, an investment they expect a good return on if Artemisia’s theory about my bridal price is to be believed. I am a tool they think they can use, and Art was right when she said that it’s easier to let them think that. For now.

So I plaster a smile on my face. It doesn’t feel at all real, but I doubt anyone is looking close enough to notice that. It’s pretty and that will be enough.

“I’m so grateful for your hospitality, King Etristo,” I say. “It’s more kindness than I ever expected to find from strangers.”