“I know,” I say, rubbing my temples. “And King Etristo said the suitors will arrive tomorrow, so I’m sure there will only be more problems to come.”

A heavy silence falls over us, pushing in at all sides. Tomorrow, suitors will arrive to bid on me, and my country and I will be put on display like one of the Theyn’s war souvenirs. The conversation at dinner tonight will be repeated tenfold with every one of them, I’d imagine, each king and emperor prodding for details of my suffering, each examining me like the hog they’re about to slaughter for their feast.

“Soon,” Artemisia says with a sigh, pushing herself up to stand. “But not tonight.”

She traipses across the room to a small cabinet I hadn’t paid much attention to. When she flings open the doors with a flick of her wrists, I see three shelves of wine bottles. She plucks one out at random and brings it back over, using her dagger to pry the cork from its mouth.

“We’re out of Astrea,” she says, pouring the wine into the water cups on the table. “We’re safe, in a beautiful palace in Sta’Crivero, and the rebellion is alive because of us. That’s cause for celebration, don’t you think?”

Artemisia’s optimism is unexpected but welcome and I smile when she passes me a cup. One by one, she passes them out to everyone else, even S?ren, who looks surprised by the gesture.

“To Astrea,” Artemisia says, lifting the bottle. “What it was once. What it will be again. And all that we sacrifice for it.”

And just like that, the pointed tip of Artemisia’s words digs into my skin. I’ve sacrificed enough for Astrea, I want to say, I can’t give any more. But that isn’t true and we both know it. If it comes down to it, there is nothing I won’t give up to save my country.

Not my will.

Not my body.

Not my life.

It won’t come to that, I tell myself, but deep down I know it very well could. A fair world wouldn’t ask anything more of me, but this is not a fair world.

We clink our cups together with Art’s bottle and we drink.

“Are we not going to talk about how absurd this place is?” Heron asks, surprising me. He’s been quiet more often than not since we brought S?ren out of the brig, but he seems to be trying. “Everything is drenched in gold and jewels and color. That dress you were wearing must have cost enough to feed a family for a year in Astrea, Theo.”

I can’t help but laugh, sinking deeper into my chair and taking another sip of the wine. Like the dinner wine, it’s dark and spicy and not what I’m used to, but it’s slowly growing on me. “You’re lucky you didn’t have to wear it. It was suffocating and it weighed more than a bushel of bricks. And that contraption!” I add. “The…what was it? The lifter?”

“The riser,” S?ren says with a snort of laughter. “The men who operate them—that’s their entire job. And most men don’t have the strength to do it, so the ones who do are paid handsomely for it.”

“Do they ever wear shirts?” Heron asks him. “I’m not complaining, but it is a very…strange uniform.”

“Shirts get in the way, apparently,” S?ren says.

“A likely excuse,” Artemisia says with a snort. “I’ve heard of a few affairs between the operators and the noblewomen here. It’s fairly commonplace. One of the perks of the job, as it were.”

“At least until the husbands find out,” S?ren adds, laughing. “It happened when I was visiting a couple of years back. This lord was furious and called for the riser operator’s execution, but the King had to deny his request because it turns out a riser operator is more valuable than a nobleman.”

“Just wait a few years until the towers are overrun with barrel-chested children who refuse to wear shirts,” I say with a smirk.

The others burst out laughing at the image and it goes on for far too long. As soon as we get a hold of ourselves, a couple of us will make eye contact and then the laughter begins anew.

It feels good to laugh this freely, the five of us together. To let everything outside the room be forgotten for just a few moments—and even some things inside the room. Heron and S?ren aren’t speaking directly to one another, but I’m no longer worried that Heron is going to try to hit him again, and I suppose that’s the best I can hope for, all things considered.

When we finish the first bottle, I consider calling it a night and sending the others back to their rooms, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to stop laughing. As soon as I do, the reality of what tomorrow will bring will set in, and I don’t want to think about that just yet.

I drag myself up from my chair to grab another bottle, a lighter wine this time, passing it to Artemisia to uncork.

We toast to riser operators.

We toast to the gods.

We toast to those we’ve lost.

We toast to ourselves.

We toast to the past.

We toast to the future.

By the time the early dawn light is streaming through the windows, I’m only barely conscious. I’m sprawled out on my bed with Artemisia on one side and Heron on the other, both of them snoring quite loudly. Blaise is stretched across the foot of the bed, doing battle with Heron’s long legs to make room. He isn’t sleeping, just staring at the ceiling with glassy, faraway eyes, but it’s the closest I’ve seen him come to it since I drugged his tea. S?ren sleeps on the sofa instead, one of the decorative throw pillows over his face to block out light and sound.

The last thing I think before letting my mind fade into darkness is to wonder if we will ever get to a point where he truly is one of us.

EVERYTHING FEELS NUMB BUT MY head, which is pounding, intensified tenfold by the bright sunlight beating down on the palace steps. My mouth is dry as sand, and even though I’ve been brushed and buffed and painted by Marial and her team again, I feel like last night is written plainly on my face. My mind is a fog, but in a way, I suppose that’s a good thing—I’m too exhausted to remember to be anxious.

The suitors are arriving in a long procession of canopied carriages that weaves through the white stone streets.

“Not to worry, my dear,” King Etristo says from his seat next to mine, misreading my expression. “There are a lot of them, but this will only be a brief introduction. The whole event should take an hour—two at most.”

An hour or two. I stifle a groan. I can’t imagine sitting out here more than a few minutes, even if the chairs brought out for the royal family and me are comfortably padded and somewhat shaded with palm fronds. Between the hot sun and my aching head and the dress pinching my ribs, I feel like I’m going to pass out.

But I smile at King Etristo in a way I hope looks natural. His manner toward me has cooled since my outburst last night, though outwardly he’s been nothing but polite. When I apologized for my words, he accepted it with a strained smile.

“Wonderful,” I tell him. “I’m so excited to meet everyone. Thank you so very much for putting all of this together for me.”

It sounds like too much to my ears, but King Etristo only returns my smile and pats my hand with his, the skin of his palm wrinkled and clammy. “It’s a pleasure to help, my dear, after everything that has befallen you.”

I lean back against my chair and glance at S?ren, who is standing behind me and slightly to the side. The others are pressed farther back in the crowd of Sta’Criverans gathered behind us—even Dragonsbane, much to her displeasure. But S?ren is on full display, though whether he is being shown off as an ally or just as a trophy is unclear. Since King Etristo is still speaking Astrean and not bothering to translate, it’s difficult to imagine he sees him as anything more than decoration.

I translate what the King said and S?ren nods, but his face is paler than usual and there are dark shadows under his eyes. I had those this morning as well, before they were painted and powdered into oblivion.

“Last night, it felt like I was fluent in Astrean,” he says. “But I can’t remember a word of it today.”

I laugh, though it makes my head ache even worse. “Whatever it was you started speaking last night, it was not Astrean,” I tell him. “You kept talking about amineti, but apart from that I didn’t hear a single Astrean word.”

His cheeks redden. “I suppose that’s one of the only ones I remember,” he admits.

My own face grows warm as I remember the night I taught him the word, demonstrating with more amineti—kisses—than I could keep count of.

“Well, you’re sober now,” I point out. “Can you tell me about the suitors when they arrive?” I lower my voice, casting a glance toward King Etristo, who is deep in conversation with his son. “I have a feeling my official introductions will be much rosier than the truth on their side and mine.”

He nods, though a crease appears between his brows.

I turn back to King Etristo, drawing his attention away from his son and to me.

“After the introductions are made, I would like to visit the refugee camp,” I tell him.