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“The pressure and salinity in your delegation’s quarters have been adjusted to match your home current,” I continue, loud enough for his entourage to hear how thoroughly we prepared for them. “Bastian will escort you.”

The ambassador shifts his weight and glances toward Bastian. Whatever response he had prepared seems to disappear.

“Ah. Yes,” the ambassador says, offering a curt nod. “That is… highly accommodating. Thank you, Madam.”

Bastian steps forward, indicating the far corridor. The delegates fall into line, the sharp tang of the deep trenches trailing them as they leave the entrance.

But the ambassador isn’t the true threat today, and in my heart, I’ve known it for days.

“You look incredibly tense, Valerie.”

The voice cuts through the low chatter of the room, bell-clear and flawlessly practiced. Maren Dahl steps away from a cluster of siren dignitaries and approaches me. Her gown shifts and catches the green light of the flora with every step. She carries a glass of nectar, wearing a tight smile.

“Make sure to breathe,” Maren says, stopping uncomfortably close. “We wouldn’t want you passing out in that silk. It is a long evening.”

“I’m breathing just fine, Maren,” I reply.

The overpowering scent of her floral perfume masks the natural salt of the room. The concern in her voice is so obviously false that it barely qualifies as an insult.

“I suppose orchestrating the tables is exhausting work,” Maren says, waving a hand toward the center of the hall. “I can tell you’re trying so hard, Valerie. But placing the Northern delegates next to the coral displays is a terrible faux pas.”

I follow her gaze. Across the room, a large table sits flanked by enormous anemones and imported coral formations.

“They despise shallow-water flora,” Maren continues, taking a delicate sip of her nectar. “They consider it common. You really must pay attention to the aesthetics of these old bloodlines. If I were you, I would move them to the basalt pillars before anyone important notices.”

I almost laugh at her. On the stage, in beauty and talent, she may have me beat. But in terms of knowledge, I’m the winner. I don’t know how it’s possible, but Maren clearly hasn’t bothered to read the actual rules of the House she stands in.

“Actually, Maren,” I say, “under the Treaty of the Third Trench, Northern delegates require coral placement to signify neutral ground during visits to fellow abyssal courts.”

Maren pauses, her glass halting halfway to her lips.

“Placing them by the basalt pillars would be a formal declaration of hostility,” I say. “I think I’ll leave the tables exactly where they are.”

“That is an archaic rule,” Maren replies. “Nobody enforces it.”

“Solveig enforces it,” I say.

The conversations of the surrounding guests thin out. A few nearby dignitaries turn toward us, their scales glinting in the blue light. Maren catches their attention, and her manufactured smile falters.

“You may want to familiarize yourself with the current protocols before offering the host advice,” I say, taking another sip of water. “Enjoy the nectar.”

A flush creeps up Maren’s pale throat. She stares at me, her eyes narrowing into a furious glare. Her mouth opens, but apparently nothing useful presents itself. She turns on her heel and disappears into the shimmering crowd.

Solveig steps up beside me, taking Maren’s place. She doesn’t look at me immediately. Instead, she watches the silver flash of Maren’s gown vanish into the outer corridors.

“She’s heading to the outer terrace,” Solveig says, her voice a calm, even rumble. “She’ll need a moment to recover her complexion.”

I shift my weight, holding the glass close to my chest. “The terrace will do her good. It’s quieter out there.”

Solveig turns her head and looks down at me. “Maren Dahl has not been rendered speechless since the sixteenth century,” she says, resting both hands over the carved handle of her cane. “That was an efficient maneuver, Valerie.”

“She thrives on making people feel inadequate,” I reply. “I provided her with a factual alternative.”

Solveig doesn’t offer a dry retort or tap her cane against the floor to dismiss me. Instead, she reaches out and rests her palm on my shoulder.

I freeze. Solveig has corrected my posture often enough that I expect some adjustment, some new test. None comes. She is simply holding me.

“I believed your humanity made you a liability,” Solveig says. Her voice is low, meant strictly for the two of us. “I assumed you would break under the pressure of this House. You have proven me wrong. You are a formidable woman.”