“You don't look like a bride," said the maid, lacing up Vera's bodice with practiced fingers.
“Good," Vera muttered. “I'm not one."
“You will be by moonrise," the girl replied. “Or something worse."
Vera stood rigid in front of the mirrorless wall, dressed in soft white silk, embroidered with silver thread she didn't ask for. Every seam fit perfectly—Carlisle's doing, no doubt.
“How long until the ritual?"
“Three hours."
“Guards?"
“Four at the annex entrance. Two at each hall corner. They switch every six."
“Windows?"
“Sealed with wolfsilver locks. Only His Majesty has access."
Vera turned, eyes narrowing. “Why are you helping me?"
The maid hesitated. Then said softly, “Because I saw you in the market once. You gave bread to a girl who stole from you. No yelling. No curse. Just
