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“Is Amren going to be there?” Nesta dared ask. With Varian as her lover, Amren spent ample time at the Summer Court, and might have more sway than even Feyre.

“No,” Feyre said, chin lifting. “She’s returning from the Day Court in an hour, and will help Ana watch Nyx.”

Nesta, of course, would supply whatever additional help they needed. Even if the thought of Aunt Amren made her shudder. But the babe loved the female. And Nesta had never seen Amren smile so much as she did when she was around him.

Nesta didn’t fail to note that Rhys had somehow drifted off to study one of Feyre’s paintings across the foyer. Coward. Throwing a glare his way, Nesta said to Feyre, “Maybe if you explained to Amren more of your reasoning behind uniting Prythian before chasing down Fomoria’s help—”

Feyre waved a hand, irritated. “Even if I begged Amren to come help me navigate the Summer Court, she wouldn’t.”

“I’m shocked you’re even letting her help with Nyx.”

Feyre glanced up the stairs, as if she could see all the way to the nursery and the babe within. “Our argument has nothing to do with Nyx and his care. She’s his aunt—I’m not going to deny her access to him because she and I are at odds.”

“Well, you could try saying sorry,” Nesta said simply.

“Sorry for what? Disagreeing with her?”

“I butt heads with Amren plenty.” The Mother knew they’d spent a fair chunk of last year not speaking. “I don’t think that was the thing that upset her.”

“Then what was?” Feyre tapped a slipper-clad foot. “We need Prythian united. For additional arms, yes, but also to project strength to any potential allies on the continent who might be afraid to defy the unholy trifecta brewing over there. And that would ultimately help Amren’s plan of wooing Fomoria, wouldn’t it?”

Nesta knew Rhys was listening to every word, but choosing to stay out of it. His wings were drawn in tight to his back, though. What side did he fall on?

Feyre sighed, more to herself than to Nesta. “We need Summer ready to stand with us. Winter and Dawn, too, but Tarquin seems to have the most influence with the others. What he does, they’ll follow. Amren insisted that time was precious—so this should, hopefully, be a quick but effective visit. Tarquin already knows why we’re coming.”

Nesta motioned to her sister’s gown. “And you’re pandering to him with the Summer Court–colored attire?” Feyre usually had no problem wearing magnificent black and some High Lady jewelry to match.

Feyre gave her a rueful look, all traces of anger fading. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to remind Tarquin that we’re fond of his court.” She fingered the material of her skirts, then winked at Nesta. “And I really wanted an excuse to wear this color.”

It was a lovely color—precisely the sort of shade that would appeal to her sister’s artistic soul.

Rhys sauntered over, deeming it safe to return at last. Feyre slipped her tattooed fingers into his before asking, “Are you doing the winnowing or should I?”

Rhys sketched a bow, kissing Feyre’s hand. “By all means, winnow us, my lady.” He inclined his head to Nesta in distant greeting—and farewell. Better than ignoring her, Nesta supposed.

Feyre rolled her eyes at Rhys’s iciness, but threw Nesta a parting, hopeful smile, and then they were gone.

Seated in a pew at the back of the small temple beneath the House of Wind an hour later, nothing but music and candlelight around her, Nesta at last found a shred of peace. That might have been due to the triad of voices weaving through the space, none more lovely and clear than Gwyn’s.

Though it wasn’t the usual sunset or sunrise hour for the priestesses’ daily prayers, Nesta had been directed to the temple when she asked after Gwyn. What now unfolded before Nesta seemed to be a dress rehearsal for the Autumn Equinox ceremony tomorrow. White and black candles—to signify the Equinox’s balance of night and day—and a set of silver scales adorned the altar, the dishes of the latter laden with samplings of the four elements. Feathers, stones, cinders, tiny vials of water: each scale was meticulously and carefully filled with its offerings so it hung in absolute harmony with its twin.

Gwyn stood between two other priestesses Nesta was only vaguely acquainted with, neither of them Valkyries, their eyes closed in reverent joy as they wove their song together. If Gwyn had noticed Nesta sitting here, she hadn’t let on. Hadn’t looked to the back of the chamber, where Nesta sat amongst a few others who’d come to savor the music.

Frankly, Gwyn could have carried the entirety of the song herself, that mezzo-soprano voice so rich and resonant that it seemed to effortlessly burst from her throat. But the other two—an alto and soprano—added sweet and interesting details.

But Gwyn . . . Gwyn shone. Despite the dimness of the mountain, Nesta’s friend seemed to radiate light. Color. Her humble pale robes were the same as everyone else’s, no jewelry adorned her—she didn’t even wear the Invoking Stone atop her brow as the others did—and yet the candlelight seemed to bend toward Gwyn. Reflect off her. Or maybe that was her remarkable copper hair. Or her eyes. Whenever her friend opened those eyes, the entire room was treated to the sight of a teal so vibrant it reminded Nesta of the Sidra.

Her friend was beyond beautiful. But it was what was inside, Nesta knew, that made her glow. That made Gwyn seem to be painted in full color while everyone else was rendered in charcoal sketches. At no time was it more apparent than when Gwyn was singing.

Nesta’s chest tightened. How long had it been since she’d heard this voice? Since she’d last seen Gwyn? She’d felt the ache of missing her many times before now, but being here . . . it was worse. All she wanted to do was go up to her friend and start to talk and laugh and tease the way they had for months. And the fact that she couldn’t freely do so, that she hesitated, cracked something vital inside her.

Nesta hadn’t been to a Valkyrie training session in weeks. Not since Bryce had arrived. Whether Cassian and Azriel still instructed the priestesses, she didn’t know—Cassian woke early every morning, regardless of training—but Gwyn hadn’t been to training since the Blood Rite.

As far as Nesta knew, her friend hadn’t left the library since the Blood Rite. Not even to attend Nesta’s mating ceremony. Nesta knew Gwyn had been hurt that Nesta had knocked her out during the Blood Rite, that Emerie had carried her to the top of Ramiel and Gwyn hadn’t had the chance to continue to fight beside them. But she was surprised that her friend had stopped coming to training entirely.

Give her time, Emerie counseled. Nesta heeded her advice, taking comfort in Emerie’s presence at training, her steady friendship.

Yet right before Bryce Quinlan had crashed into their world, Emerie had written to explain that with the oncoming winter, her shop was busier than ever, so she was taking a break from training for a few months to ensure all the orders were filled before Samhain. Winter came early to the Illyrian Mountains—she wanted to make sure her people were equipped. Even if most of them were ungrateful assholes.