My eyes shifted to the ink on Thistle’s face. Laugh-lines creased her dark skin, further emphasized by the symbols inked across it—the flower between her brows, a line over the bridge of her nose, dots beneath each eye, and a bold stroke running from her lower lip to her chin.
Voice trembling for fear of the answer, I asked, “Were you compelled to receive those markings?”
Thistle’s grin was quick and fond. “No, dear. I chose these for myself.”
Breath rushed from my lungs in relief. “Forgive my impetuousness, I have not seen such marks before.”
“Few have, these days. The younger Hedges prefer the armbands to ink. But long before the council of five brothersconquered these lands, we marked ourselves this way. It was once believed the earth would not heed an unmarked hand.”
Her fingers brushed the symbol between her brows. “Each line speaks to the soil and the seasons—who I am, what I ask of it. Old magic, older pride.” She chuckled. “And, if I am honest, it keeps the young ones from thinking I’m to be trifled with.”
I huffed a small laugh. “A sensible precaution,” I said lightly. “Though Mav seems precisely the sort who would trifle regardless.”
Thistle snorted, her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “That one? He’d charm a thunderstorm to see if it’d blush.”
Vesper arched his back in a lazy stretch. “And then act surprised when he’s struck by lightning.”
The clerk returned from the storeroom, his white-gloved hands folded together. “Unfortunately, madames, we do not have any pink options remaining. Perhaps I can interest you in something else?”
Keeping my gaze fixed on the gowns glittering behind him, I willed myself not to look at the scar upon his cheek, to force my breath steady.
Even without an armband or brand, I bore my own mark—unseen, but no less damning. Yet standing there among the silks and sequins, a sense of resolve solidified within me. If the ungifted could wear their suffering for the world to see, I could bear mine with equal courage. I refused to give the king and his court the satisfaction of my fear. If I were to walk into the Spring Jubilee to face a monarch driven by control through cruelty, I would do so as myself.
“Yes,” I said at last, lifting my chin. “Do you have anything with stars?”
His eyes darted left in thought. “Actually, I have several lovely options. Did you have a color in mind, madame?”
“A hue reminiscent of dusk,” I said. My lips curved in a defiant grin. “Or...twilight.”
Thistle, Vesper, and I waited on a curved bench outside the tailor’s, parcels barricaded between. Through the windows, it appeared Branrir was being coaxed into gold embroidery. Mav glared as though he might threaten the tailor to a duel at any moment.
Aurillion flowed past—parasols, paper-wrapped bouquets, children streaming purple ribbons, a street performer plucking a lullaby. It should have soothed.
Instead, I felt the continuous eyes of the city’s inhabitants. Two women paused and whispered behind gloved hands. A man in a pale waistcoat walked by, staring unabashedly. A boy pointed outright before his nursemaid tugged him along. I glanced down. My appearance offered no offense. Still, the glances and gossip continued.
Vesper hissed—a true hiss—at a noble who lingered. “She’s not on display. Keep walking!”
Startled, the man moved on. Heat climbed my cheeks. I forced a breath.
“Does this happen often?” Thistle asked.
“No,” I said. “I fail to see why I am of such interest.”
When I was barefoot and in a decaying dress, the stares had made sense. This was different, as though they recognized me, or knew something I did not. My fingers gripped my skirts.
Thistle’s tone stayed easy. “You want me to trip the next one?”
“I shall advise you,” I said with a grin.
We found an inn tucked near the castle square, white stone dressed in ivy, window boxes spilling cheerful flowers. In the lobby, a hush descended—the expensive kind, achieved by carpets and soft shoes and the discipline of voices kept low. To the right, a sweeping staircase curved toward the upper levels. A heady floral scent hung in the air, accompanied by the subdued pluck of a harp.
“I’ll see what’s available,” Thistle declared as she ambled to the counter and thumped her packages onto it, startling the innkeeper.
Branrir murmured something about assisting her and joined Thistle at the counter. Several minutes later, they returned.
Thistle pressed a key into Mav’s palm. “We don’t have much time before the event starts. Get dressed and we’ll meet back here within the hour.”
Mav appeared at my shoulder. “We’re sharing again,” he said softly.
