The days pass in an intense blur. Immediately, we begin preparation to receive the Retrans. Janeaulí, of course, does not protest the role we offer her, but does surprise me by asking for a few hours to consider it. Perhaps it's calculated, but it only solidifies my instinct that she was the right choice.

I check in with Illesiarr in the mornings to hear if there's been any change with Sela. He says that Elénna thinks Sela dreams sometimes because her fingers twitch and her eyes move. Supposedly, it's a good sign, but she still hasn't woken.

Dread hangs over me like rain clouds. I don't know what we'll do if she dies. Mother's brother died young, and Agraund's wife, son, and daughter all died in the Liaetta Theater Fire when I was eleven. An heir for the throne would have to come from me or Reyan—him unengaged and me marrying a foreigner. The sober reality of the situation crashes on my head. I refuse to put a girl on the Morineause throne who's just as much Retran royalty as Morineause, and certainly not one raised outside our land. My heart pangs. That leaves it up to Reyan to produce a girl, and then I'd have to return to perform the rite to ensure she'll receive the proper Jacquelinian blessings. At least I'd be promised one trip back to my homeland.

But what if he doesn't have a girl? And what will we do until then, to rule Morineaux? The idea of a regent ruling for so long instead of a Jacqueline sets needles in my stomach. That would promise a time of turmoil, as Ladies lobby to be the one on the throne while whoever has it is constantly on guard against silent and violent removal. They wouldn't have the excuse of bloodline to anchor them to survival.

But none of that matters if we can't hold the castle. Every day that passes builds the unsettling instinct that another attack is imminent. It's a nervous buzzing in the back of my head I can't shake. They must be regrouping, simply waiting to strike until they've lulled us into carelessness.

Each night, sleep hits me hard, when I'm tired from casting and from working and from worrying. Dreams assault me. Sometimes they're gifts of peace, images of Jeanna or of the castle as a child or of Leavi. Most of the time, they're not. I try not to dwell on them during the day. Best to leave it all where it belongs—in the past and in the night.

Alongside everything else we have to worry about, I ask Reyan to pick someone from the Army to quietly investigate my Corps. Someone let Amarris out and gave her powder, and it's hard for anyone but magicians to get access to that material. It must be the same traitor that instigated Mother's poisoning—he could have pressured a maid into putting it in Mother's food. Plus, there was the conversation that Leavi overheard. The traitor was pressuring a maid there—presumably to get him the key to set Amarris free.

As much as he may doubt that Mother was poisoned, Reyan doesn't deny that someone has to be a turncoat for Amarris to have escaped. Knowing that a traitor slinks through my Corps haunts me, a feeling like being constantly watched, and I'm desperate to catch him. But I don't know how.

On the fourth day, Janeaulí sends me a manservant. I don't know how she found out I needed one, and I don't bother asking. I'm just relieved it's finally taken care of.

By the fifth day since I read the Retran's letters, it has been a full week since the battle on the grounds. Before this, there had been some sort of battle every four days or so. The pressure of waiting turns my muscles into coils.

On the sixth day, the Retrans arrive.

I stand in the hall with Reyan, Janeaulí, and Reyan's most trusted Lieutenant. A meager complement to welcome such prestigious guests, but enough I hope. I wonder what they think of Solus leading them to slink in through the hidden tunnel like refugees. Shame burns though I try to ignore it. How far we have fallen. I suppose I should just be glad my injuries have healed enough that the prize they've come to collect no longer looks like some rough-and-tumble vagabond.

Finally the tapestry to the passage outside the city shifts to the side, and three courtiers and five girls arrayed like soldiers step out.

I smile and my party steps forward to greet the newcomers. It's late, and my mind is rebellious to my recent discipline. Instinctively, it belittles these people who will steal me from my home.

Janeaulí explains that we'll show them to their rooms so that tomorrow we can begin discussing our situation. My marriage and Morineaux's salvation. Because somewhere along the way, we stopped being strong enough to win our own wars.

I offer my elbow to the youngest of the three women. The Raenette Riszev takes it, and we start down the hall.

The other two women are one of their priestesses, who they insisted be part of the marriage ceremony, and the raenette's aunt. The priestess wears a strange, opaque veil that covers the lower part of her face, and her sleeves are so long they hide her hands. This unnerves me; if she casts a small spell, I won't see her fingers or lips moving.

Their raenette is strange to look at. She's slim, but not in the dainty, weak way of Morineause nobility. There's a tightness in her arms and a rhythm in her steps that says she's capable of things far more engaging than verbal sparring. An unsheathed scimitar hangs from her belt, gently swaying over a plain dress three shades lighter than her almond skin. She's probably quite deadly if the rumor about Retran nobility as a race of warriors is true.

But she's not here as a warrior. With discretion built from years of seeing things I'm not supposed to, I sneak another glance. Her angular face speaks of a long line of people used to watching in sharp disapproval, who passed the feature down to her. Or perhaps she perfected the look on her own. I frown.

Don't be so judgemental, I remind myself. You're going to have to live with this woman, so you had better learn to like her a little bit. Or at least learn to overlook faults.

And for all the sharpness of her face, her gaze doesn't appear quite so piercing as it seems it should. There's a certain wonder to the way she glances around the stone walls. She nearly gapes at the glow crystals before regaining her composure and flicking a glance to her aunt.

The aunt remains impassive.

My gaze slides back to the girl after we round a corner. As she walks, her dress swishes oddly, and I can't help but steal glances at it, trying to pin down the problem. It's very flowing. My cheeks warm a little. She must not be wearing any sort of petticoat. I dare say she doesn't even wear a slip beneath her skirt, and I cut off my wondering there.

I wonder how well she speaks Morineause. I suppose I'll have to learn Retran in order to live in her country since on that side of the world, hers is the great power. I can already imagine my language rusting in my throat once we leave. I doubt I'll get to visit Morineaux more than a couple times in the rest of my life. My children won't know my homeland as anything but stories and maybe a single trip after they're well-established Retran citizens. It's selfish to regret those facts, though. If she lived here, all the same would be true for her, just in reverse.

"Here is your room, Raenette."

She stops at the door, facing it rather than me, and watches it with an inscrutable expression.

"This is your key." I hold it out in the palm of my hand. She startles when I speak again, but, facing me now, nods and takes it. Her lips hint at a shy smile, and she dips her head in thanks.

Beside us, Reyan is giving her aunt the key to the next door over. The raenette glances at the aunt with a sort of question in her eyes, and the aunt nods. Riszev unlocks her door, hesitates, and then steps over the threshold with a pace slightly larger than necessary. As she does so, I realize what was ringing odd to me about her dress.

What I took to be a skirt is actually two flowing pant legs attached to her bodice. I blush again, bid her good night, and take my leave. She's wearing pants as if that's what a woman is supposed to wear. Common among some peasants, maybe, but never of nobility.

Ever since Jacqueline showed my people the greater capability of the female mind, men's clothing regressed from the robe-like garments everyone wore to the more practical and modest pants. Women's dresses evolved into blooming roses and sparkling sapphires and nights of starry skies. While neutral colors for them is more unfashionable than shocking, for Riszev to further degrade herself by wearing pants is alarming. Do her people not value femininity as I thought? They have no men in their party, which I would think implies they did not believe their men good enough to accompany them, but does it mean something else? What will the Ladies think of their prince marrying a raenette who does not seem to pride her own gender?

As I walk to my bedroom, I try to shake the worry and confusion from my mind. Politics will respond as politics will, and I'll simply have to swim with the flow of its current. I'm sure whatever she does is perfectly acceptable in her country. When I leave, I'll have to adapt to her customs, not her to mine. I chew my lip.

I unlock my door, hang my cloak, and flop onto my bed. Wondering if their men wear robes, I wince.

"You'll learn their customs," I murmur, "and deal with it."