A blur of white robes swept in. Three of them, marked with black sigils of the Assembly. One began to hum, a low static sound that crawled under the skin, and the air around the boy began to shimmer. The other two bent to lift him, moving with unsettling precision.
Ravik appeared from the crowd, barking commands, voice cutting clean through the noise, then vanished again, eyes already scanning.
King Rhaedor stood calmly, raising one gloved hand. “Remain seated,” he announced with steel-laced calm. “There is no threat.”
Near her, Lady Catriona leaned in and whispered behind her fan, “They escorted Lady Ariste the same way this morning. Banned books.”
Evelyne went still. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. Ariste. A cold ache spread through her chest, tightening until it hurt to breathe. It wasn’t right. Whatever Ariste had done, whatever she had read, she didn’t deserve to be dragged away like that. Not her. Not anyone. Evelyne pressed her palms together to keep them from trembling, but the soundaround her had already begun to fade, swallowed by the rush of blood in her ears.
The Assembly passed close by, carrying the boy between them. His head lolled to one side, eyes open but emptied of thought and will. Silenced.
Evelyne’s stomach turned. The sight of him caught somewhere beneath her ribs, sharp and hollow. Her throat burned, and for an instant she thought she might be sick. She couldn’t look away.
The music did not return for the rest of the night.
Chapter 22
The kitchens roared around her. Heat pressed against her skin, thick with smoke and sweat and the bite of salt. Trays clattered, oil spat, someone cursed as a pot tipped too far. Thessa moved through it all, hair plastered to her face, the floor slick beneath her boots. She slid another dish into the water, the sting of it biting at her reddened fingers. She flexed her hand once, shook it dry, and reached for the next tray. Six more to go. Half the shift left.
She straightened just in time to hear it: two scullery girls huddled near the pantry wall, whispering loud enough for their fear to carry.
“It was in the middle of the song, they said,” one murmured, her face pale beneath a smudge of flour. “He just—stopped playing. Lit up like a hearth coal. And then dropped.”
“No,” the other hissed, glancing around. “It wasn’t like that. They said his veins shone. Like light was trying to claw out from under his skin.”
Thessa froze with her hand halfway to the dirty pan.
“Did you hear,” the flour-smudged one whispered next, “about that girl in the North Quarter?”
A puff of steam hit her face, making her eyes sting; she pretended to check the stew while listening.
The other girl’s eyes went wide. “The singing one?”
“Yes. In the middle of sleep, they said. Started humming. Neighbors heard. Said she kept repeating something.”
“They came just after first light. Her father opened the door, and that was it. It’s horrible and looks like pandemic… what if it’s another Crimson Plague?”
Thessa blinked hard and turned, busying herself with a cloth and a pan that didn’t need wiping. Her thoughts churned.
Dreams. Humming.
Sera.
Her chest tightened. The girl they were whispering about could have been her sister. The sickness had changed lately—what started as fever and trembling had turned strange, unpredictable. It was getting worse every day, and no one dared say why.
She pressed the cloth harder against the pan, trying to steady her hands. She would check on Sera as soon as she got home.
A pan clattered near the hearth, followed by a creative string of curses. Thessa tasted metal again and kept her gaze fixed on the bubbling stew.
The girls went quiet, but not for long. Another voice—older, maybe Lena—sighed. “House Mera’s looking.”
“Looking?” the first girl asked.
“For quiet ones. Pretty ones. Noble-adjacent work. Good money.”
Thessa tilted her head, scraping a little slower.
Since her father died, the numbers hadn’t added up. Joren worked dawn to dusk and still came home with hands red from saddle soap and half his pay missing thanks to levies on “temporary stable extensions.” Thessa had once been told she could apply to the Artisan Circle as a dancer, a rare chance for someone of her standing, but the fees alone cost more than her family earned in a season. She had resigned herself to the kitchens instead. Their mother also tried to make do, but the wordmakehad started to meanskip. Meals. Baths. Medicine.
