Emma tried not to imagine her progress through the corridors as a walk to the scaffold. She looked around, determined on distraction. This part of the servants’ halls was busier. She saw a flurryof white-aproned maids, whose feet peeped from under their hems in an unexpected variety of hoofs, talons, and paws. Sweating footmen hefted platters, four men to a dish, that held strange confections: a spun-sugar swan with a golden beak; an improbably tall tower of tomatoes that hummed with a chorus of small voices; and a meat roast they had dressed to look like a winged dragon. The roast bent its head to spit a shower of sparks onto the nearest footman. He patted frantically at the singed patches on his moss-colored wig and livery.
Emma slowed to stare, but the Librarian nudged her onward.
“It would be well not to show your surprise, child. The Court has a liking for tender meat. Let them not find it in you.”
Emma shivered and schooled her face to stillness.
The tailor’s chambers were vast: at least nine dressing platforms, and rack upon rack of dresses and doublets. All in plain, sturdy cloth and sensible colors. Servant’s colors.
Emma stood with arms stretched on her dressing platform, as a seamstress tugged a dull brown gown into place. She peered to the side. The Sister, the Librarian, and the fox maidens were huddled in conference at the door, out of earshot.
Emma kept her voice low. “Make the bodice loose and the hem shorter. No, even shorter than that. Above the boot.”
The seamstress grunted and knelt. She made quick work of the seam, even with one hand shaped like an eagle’s talon. Emma twisted and found she could move freely. Now this was a dress she could run in.
“Turn,” the seamstress croaked, and Emma obeyed.
A voice rang across the room.
“I am sent for the fox maiden. All is prepared for the Oath.”
At the sight of a green tunic, her heart leapt. But it was not her messenger. It was another, who looked her over with a bored expression. Emma clenched her hands and found them slick with sweat. It was time.
The seamstress twitched a last seam into place. “All done. Just needs the final touch. This.” She held out a charming little shell on a chain. Her eyes gleamed.
“With your dark hair—oh, it would be the Night’s own beauty on you. If you had this, you’d look so pretty, no one’d hear a word you say.”
Emma looked at the shell dangling from her claw. She had never seen a necklace so delicate. She could almost feel how it would warm against her skin.
“I think only my gown is paid for.”
The seamstress’s laugh was a caw. “No need for coin. Something from me to you. Go on, take it.”
Emma stretched out her hand. Steps sounded behind her, and her wrist was knocked aside.
The Sister stood there, gray hair in snarls around her shoulders. “Be off,” she growled at the seamstress.
The creature scuttled away, with a nasty smile for Emma. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
Emma’s arm dropped to her side. “What was that?”
“That, girl, was you being a mortal-addled fool. Everything has a price in the Night City. Remember that.”
The Sister’s good eye was steady and clear. “City dwellers do not give, as a rule. Almost always, a gift they offer will be a bargain in disguise. And the worse for it. You’re lucky I overheard, before that harpy tricked you into giving your voice away for a bauble.”
“My voice?” Emma’s hands flew to her throat.
“Oh, it was cleverly worded. All the better to hide the trap. Words are weapons here, girl. Be on your guard.”
Emma rewound the seamstress’s words as she was marched from the tailor’s, her wrists bound by the Sister’s silver chain.If you had this, you’d look so pretty, no one’d hear a word you say.Cleverly worded indeed.
The messenger had been the same. There was a trick to this world, she realized. The precise words chosen. The ones left unsaid. Every sentence a web to catch the unwary. And she would not survive if she stayed the person she had been. So trusting, so happy to follow. Whatever the ordeal to come, she would have to match cunning with cunning. To lay out words like hunters’ snares. And if the thought of it clawed at her like grief, what then? She would not be their prey. So she would have to be their equal.
The Sister flicked the silver chain. It uncoiled from Emma’s wrists and slithered back to the Sister’s purse. They had halted before a wood-paneled chamber. Inside, figures in robes and fluffy green wigs flurried around. Wax seals and gavels lay strewn across desks.
The messenger led them to a corner. The sheep-faced clerk there glanced up with such boredom, Emma’s racing heart slowed. This was hardly the look of someone expecting to lead a dark ceremony. There were no burning brands on the desk, no goblets of blood. Just a pile of papers. The clerk pushed a stack over to Emma.
“Say this.”
