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A few seats away, Comitissa Klaudia watched me with her brow furrowed.

ONE EVENING PASSED, and then two more. We ate dinner under the stars to the sound of a pair of lyres plucked in harmony. We watched a juggler toss a dozen silver balls into the air above his head without dropping a single one. We listened to a chorus of young boys singing a tune so plaintive, so filled with longing, that I was captivated, and hardly noticed when Lord Fabius took my hand in his. I drank cups of dark fruit wine until I no longer thought about Valentina, or my mother, or even Kyra. I let myself be swept up into a fever of sustained attention, music, candlelight, and conversation.

A feeling of competition had overtaken the tirae, and I was not immune. Our whole lives had been propelling us toward this moment of selection, and we understood with a new certainty that our worth rested solely on the opinions and desires of these guests. We turned ourselves into sharp, brittle things, honed on flattery. We dragged ourselves from one midnight to the next, sleeping away the sunlit hours, rising like moths to spread our wings at night. Why should I care about Valentina and her desperate need to secure Clemens Fabius as a patron? What difference did it make when weighed against my chance to win the one game that mattered?

I saw the Archidux only once during that brief, giddy period. He had stopped attending events where the tirae were present. In my few quiet moments, I wondered whether he had left Casa Caligine. If so, he had departed without the book that had interested him.

I had been up late enough that the sun was rising. Dizzy with fatigue and drink, I wandered along the corridor, dragging my fingers against the stone wall. I passed the arched doorway to the grand terrace. As the sun climbed above the horizon, the famous mists for which Casa Caligine was named hung in the air, tinted in shades of pink. At the edge of the promenade, a silhouette loomed dark against the sky. I crept out to see who it was.

The Archidux leaned over the parapet, broad back bent, looking out at the fog blanketing the town below. His walking stick was propped against the wall. I considered all I had learned about the man. Had he truly murdered someone? Attempted to tarnish the name of an earnest explorer who had made an important discovery? I could hardly reconcile these bits of information with the man who had gently given me an astrolabe to examine. But what did I know of the world? Lord Clemens Fabius’s judgment must be better than my own. In any case, the Archidux did not bid on tirae, and therefore, as strange and intriguing as he was, he had no part in my current concerns. Why, then, could I not pull my gaze away from that imposing profile? Why did I remember his mischievous blue eye and quiet laughter with an unfamiliar longing? Finally, with effort, I retreated into the corridor, found my way back to the apprentice dormitory, and collapsed into my bed.

IT WAS AFTER midday when I finally awoke, head pounding, but I was not the only tira still in bed. Gentle snores came from under four other blankets. Only Kyra’s bunk was empty. Kyra! I felt as if I were waking from a days-long dream. Why had I not been to see her? I was filled with shame at my own self-absorption. How had I let my need to secure a bid distract me from my dearest friend? Despite the ache in my temples, I got up, dressed quickly, and made my way down to the infirmary.

To my surprise, the door was locked. I shouted and pounded on its smooth surface, but no one came to open it. Anxiety coursed through me. I could not bear to wait around idly until the evening, wondering what had happened. Desperate to talk to someone, I decided to look for Flavia.

I found the old seamstress on the lowest level of the building, far beneath the public rooms, where a deep well was used for washing Casa Caligine’s laundry. The room seemed to have been hewn into the mountain itself, and I thought of the many floors of stone above our heads. Despite the well in the center, the air was cool and dry.

Dirty linens—dresses, sheets, blankets, tablecloths, tunics—were piled in high mounds on the stone floor. Under Flavia’s supervision, half a dozen young boys drew water from the well, scrubbed cloth across rough boards, and hung clean items on rope stretched from one side of the room to the other. The only light came from torches on tall iron stands.

“Anna, what are you doing down here?” Flavia wiped her hands on her apron.

“Do you have time to talk for a few minutes?” I asked.

Flavia raised her hands in a gesture of futility. “What does it matter? The laundry isn’t going anywhere.”

“I can help with something. Let me help.”

Nearby were several hemp baskets overflowing with cloth.

“You can sort those into dark and light piles. I’ll rest my feet for a minute.” She turned over a crate and groaned softly as she lowered her heavy frame onto it.

Around us, the boys chattered. Water dripped inside the well.

I began to sort the items: crisp white linen tablecloths with wine stains, delicate silk dresses in every color, cream-colored undertunics, gray leggings, dirty napkins. I stopped and stared in amazement, a towel clutched in my hand. The piles were up to my hips. “There’s so much laundry! How do you manage it?”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. And no one bothers me down here, except these rascals. Stop that running!”

The offending boy looked at her sheepishly and returned to his work.

“The laundry never argues with me.” She laughed. “And you can learn a lot from the state of someone’s garments, or what they leave in their pockets. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen over the years. No one thinks of the old woman who does the washing and mending.”

“How long have you worked here?” I hesitated over a white dress with red and blue embroidery.

Flavia pointed to a pile. I tossed the dress on top.

“A very long time,” she said. “I came at fifteen years old to help with the mending. I’m sixty-eight now, can you believe it? To live so long?”

“Did you grow up in the city with your family?”

“Yes. My mother was a washerwoman for some of the retired courtesans who had wealthy patrons to provide for them. She raised me at home until I was old enough to go to work. I felt very fortunate to get this position. I thought I’d be working in such elegant surroundings.” She looked around, taking in the stone walls and the wet, hanging cloth. She raised her arms in an exaggerated shrug.

We both laughed.

I paused again, this time with a pink tunic in my hands. “I never knew my own mother, and I’ve always wondered about her. With all you’ve seen over many years, have you ever heard anything about her? Where she, or someone like her, might have gone?”

To my surprise, Flavia stopped smiling and bowed her head. “I should tell you, no, I’ve never heard anything. I should send you back upstairs and ask you to forget about it.”

My hands trembled. “But?”