Diarmán could hear Aerte's voice in the hallway, distant and muffled but more cheerful than perhaps he had ever heard it before. "I've seen it, my lady. It's lovely, and it will suit you so well."

He could not hear whether her companion spoke in return, for he was tucked away inside Lady Moigré's wardrobe, the doors closed fast. It was dark and close, only a thread-thin seam of light tracing the shape of the door. It flickered as a shape moved past—his mother, on her way to greet the others.

More voices: Lady Moigré's soft word of welcome, some murmured responses. Diarmán's heart plummeted into his stomach a moment later when he heard his father's voice.

"She spoke true, did she not?" Han Taín's smile was audible in his voice as his confident footsteps crossed the room. "What a lovely thing. Lady Moigré, you have truly outdone yourself."

"Thank you, your highness," Moigré responded evenly. "I have only done the alterations. The dress itself was made by a seamstress of high renown."

"You shall have to tell us how we can send for her. Lady Naefe will be in need of new dresses to suit her station here."

"Certainly, your highness."

"Well, then—Aerte informs me that it is not the custom for a man to see his wife in her wedding clothes until the very day, and I will do all things properly. Shall I leave you now?"

"We will not be long, your highness," said Aerte. "An hour, perhaps."

"An hour!"

Aerte and Moigré then spoke at precisely the same time; Aerte said, "For the hem," as Moigré said, "It'll need hemming."

Han Taín laughed, and his booted footsteps sounded as he made his way back to the door. "Then I leave my bride in your keeping; I shall return in an hour's time to collect her for lunch." There was a beat of silence, and Diarmán could picture him making some courtly obeisance over his fiancée's hand.

He did not move, although silence followed Han Taín's departure. Then there were soft voices as the women held some whispered conference he could not make out.

It seemed like a great many minutes passed while Diarmán crouched in the darkness, waiting, but at last, someone softly rapped on the wardrobe door and then opened it. He winced and raised a hand against the slicing light. His mother stepped back to let him out, and he unfolded himself from the wardrobe, stretching his cramped limbs.

Aerte stood a short distance away, her hand on Lady Naefe's shoulder. The noblewoman was ashen, wide-eyed with nerves, but she did not seem alarmed to see him; they must have told her that he was hiding.

"My lady," Diarmán said, bowing low. As he straightened, he looked to his mother, who was next to the bed where the beautiful, pale blue gown she'd been working on was spread out in all its glory—and ignored. "Are we prepared?"

"I'll go into the hallway," said Aerte. She fetched up the very same length of silk that Diarmán had played with the day before. "If he comes, I will occupy him with questions about hair ribbons and veils, as best as I can, but you must work quickly, or it will be all of our heads."

"I'm frightened," said Naefe. She grasped at Aerte's sleeve, trading a tearful look between her and Moigré. "I don't want you to do this—to trade my own danger for yours."

Moigré crossed to Naefe, grasping her gently by the arms. As she did so, Aerte slipped away, backing toward the door, and fixed Diarmán with a serious look. "Quickly," she said, and he nodded his understanding.

"Look at me, child," said Lady Moigré, her voice firm and calm. Naefe did, her brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "Listen to me, and listen well. This man does not scare me. I have been in your place, and I know his ways. I choose to do this not only to keep you safe—and to free your hand, so you may give it as you will—" here she smiled, and Naefe smiled, too, a tear slipping down her cheek— "but because I wish to reclaim something that he took from me when I was as young as you are now."

Naefe shook her head, confusion shadowing her brow. "But you are hardly older than me, my lady."

"Oh, I am. I've lived a lifetime already, that you must believe."

"It is dangerous."

"I know. But no matter what happens today, tomorrow, or in the day to come, you must be content and proud. You did not flee; you stood, and you chose to protect the people he cursed. You walked among strangers without shrinking. And now, you'll grant a bitter woman her wish for retribution."

Diarmán's tongue was thick, his throat tight, and his mother's words sent a chill down his spine. He swallowed, shifting his weight to shake away the feeling.

"Do you hear me, Naefe?" Moigré asked. Her tone was gentle, but, gods below, her eyes were flint.

The young woman nodded. Her expression had hardened into a scowl, her jaw clenching. "Yes."

"Then grant me my wish and let this be done."

Again, Naefe nodded. She looked over Moigré's shoulder at Diarmán, and it was the first time he truly saw the woman she was, her expression no longer shuttered. There was in her eyes a hesitant trust. "Let's do it, then."

Diarmán smiled at her, suddenly solemn; respect for her—and for his mother, a stranger in her fierceness—brought a mist to his eyes. He cleared his throat, turning back to the wardrobe and opening one of the narrow drawers at the bottom. He unfolded one of his mother's silk chemises.

It had been unlikely that Han Taín would investigate the wardrobe and unlikelier still that he'd dig through the drawers. Last of all would he touch Lady Moigré's undergarments in the presence of the lady herself, or his intended, or a female servant, or his son. Of any place in the castle, it was the most secure spot to hide the flute that Declaen had made.

They'd had so little time—a night, and only half of it, at that—but Declaen was, of all of Diarmán's brothers, the most straightforward. When Diarmán had roused him from his slumber and asked in a rushed whisper for an instrument, Declaen had asked just one question: How long do I have?

It had not been long enough, not nearly long enough for a man who'd never even played a flute to make one. And yet, when Diarmán had woken that morning and washed his face, he had found the flute folded into his towel, left there by Declaen in the night.

Nothing could ever replace the flute Diarmán had lost to the fire, and he would never heal the wound of knowing that while he had carried on with his business in some other part of the house, oblivious, his father had been setting fire to his most precious possession.

But this came close.

It was a lovely thing made of wood, long and smooth and slender, the mouthpiece shaped with such care that had Declaen spent a year on that part of the instrument alone he could hardly have done better. The finger holes were all perfectly aligned, the body of the instrument polished to a sheen, and there was even a narrow band of silver around the end that echoed the embellishment on Diarmán's original instrument.

"It's lovely work," Moigré murmured, smiling at Diarmán. She'd said the very same thing when he showed her at first.

"Let's not be too flattering. It's unlikely I can spin it into a sword," said Diarmán, grinning, "but needs must."

Moigré reached for Naefe's hand, and they drew together, side by side, looking at one another. Diarmán respected the drama of the moment, but he knew that time was something they did not have.

He put his lips to the flute, and he played.