I flounce my way back to the rooms the Ladies usually meet in. After watching the Auditorium meeting yesterday, I have a better understanding of who the important people are, but I still don't know what is being suggested and argued over. These people don't know me; I haven't earned the right to sit in the stands because no one has invited me. I don't want to have to watch from without. I don't want to stare through the windowed gallery only to see voiceless mouths. I don't want to guess at what they're thinking, planning, plotting.

When this is over, I won't simply be out from under the hand of the shamans. I'll be free in the way a peasant never could be. I will make these women respect me, and I will earn a life for myself after the shamans' deaths.

I drift from drawing room to drawing room, looking for one that includes any of the women from the Table. The ceiling mural in this one boasts strategically placed glowstones, but my eyes catch instead on the room's inhabitants. Here, a crowd of prominent Ladies sits on various couches and loveseats, holding several discussions over their teacups. Triumphant, I slide over and alight in an empty seat.

"Oh, Solitaena," one of the younger women says, crossing one leg over the other. Her skirt is so long, the hem doesn't even lift enough to offer a peak at the platform heels she must be wearing. "You mustn't be so downcast. We'll avenge your Tiaerens here, when our soldiers give those savages the defeat they deserve."

I recognize the woman she's speaking to as the only one of all ten High Ladies who didn't raise her voting emblem yesterday. Solitaena's grip tightens on her cup, but she otherwise remains impassive. "Yes, Temmarelle, I'm sure handing the Kadranians our men all at once instead of bit by bit will destroy them quite thoroughly."

I hide a tight smile at her polite tone by pouring myself a cup of tea. Compared to the drinks in Kadran and northern Draó, it's surprisingly weak, and I love it. The cream they add sweetens it, and I force myself to only add a little bit. Too much, and I might look uncultured.

"You are uncultured," the voices titter.

Temmarelle rolls her eyes and leans against the arm of her seat. "I think you all are taking this too hard. N'veauvia can't fall. It never has before."

Solitaena's eyes harden, and she leans forward. The other conversations hush to follow this one. "And Tiaeren had never fallen, yet the messenger that came to inform the castle of the impending army reported to me. She spoke of waves of soldiers, tearing through and destroying everything in their path. You speak in arrogance, girl."

Temmarelle uncrosses and recrosses her legs the other way. "Well," she says. "Better than speaking in despair."

Solitaena shakes her head, setting down her tea. The cup clinks against its saucer. She stands and gives a tight, dark smile. "At least you're good at business." She sweeps away.

After a moment of tense silence, the many conversations resume as if nothing happened, but I'm sure they'll discuss the matter more when they don't think Temmarelle is listening.

Maids come forward to take Solitaena's plate away. That's a much nicer loss than everything else that's been taken away from her. Did the Kadranians sweep through her villages like they swept through mine? Did the shamans make pets of her interesting children and murder the rest? Did they burn her land and tear down her homes and destroy everything she'd ever known and loved? As soon as I can, I leave the tea and look for her.

No matter how many years I've lived among them, I have no reason to align with the Kadranians. They are not my people. My people were attacked, and I was taken away from them. For the shamans, though... the Kadranians are their people, and they deserve to lose everything they care about.

I find Solitaena with several low-station courtiers. I drift through the room, stealing glances at the High Lady. The girl talking to her finally moves away, and I slide over, gaze on the crowd. She doesn't spare me a glance.

"What do you think of all this?" I ask, still looking at the other women.

In the corner of my eye, she frowns. "You mean people pretending that when they look outside, they don't constantly see funeral smoke?"

"The Kadranians wouldn't have trekked across Draó if they didn't think they had enough men to destroy Morineaux."

"All reports imply they don't have enough to take Tiaeren, N'veauvia, and the other provinces." She's looking at me now, eyes narrowed.

One shoulder shrugs lightly. "If I were them, I would have sent enough of a force to break through, take the capital, and put fear into the other provinces." Across the room, someone laughs. "While that was going on, I would have started mobilizing a second wave, so that I wasn't throwing away all available men if the first one went poorly. None of that would matter, though, if I couldn't count on help from within my quarry."

She turns to face me. "And what makes you say that?"

"Everyone knows Kadran has problems with food and other supplies. And whatever they ravaged from a wintry Draó can't last them as long as it takes to overthrow a third of Avadel. Where will they get supplies from? How will they feed their troops? If they don't have help from one of the provinces—one less place to attack, one more source of food—then they'd just die out here."

She regards me, and I wonder if I've said too much. She'll peg me as an outsider. Or maybe she'll dismiss my information as the rambling of just another girl. I know I'm right, though.

She shifts her weight. "Where did you come up with all that?"

I meet her gaze, holding myself subserviently but steadily. "Observation." I smile. "And study." She doesn't need to know that that's observation of the shamans and studying their hand-drawn plans when they weren't looking.

"What's your name?"

"Lady Idielle, my lady."

She raises her eyebrow, and I realize she's waiting for family and parent names. "Idielle Allawyn." That's close enough to Alaarward. A memory drifts to the top of my mind, and I confidently finish, "S'Piret S'Valetta." The shamans might have stolen my and my sweet sister's names, but I still have my parents'. Piter and Valda.

"What did you need a name for, anyway?" the voices hiss. "You are the slave of Alaar." Anger flares in my chest, and I fight to keep my expression constant.

At the same time, Solitaena says, "I've never heard of that family."

"I only moved to N'veauvia a couple months before they attacked. I've been in my room, ill, until recently."

She nods slowly. The voices whisper that she knows I'm lying. I want to argue with them but manage to keep my mouth shut.

"Why doesn't the rest of the Table see the danger the invaders pose?" I ask.

Her arms cross, and she looks at the rest of the room again. "Some of them do see it, but are too busy thinking they know how to handle it to listen to others' input." In another group, someone's playfully mocking voice rises over the polite hubbub. "Some of them see it and have no idea what to do, so they lean however everyone else is leaning, and some of them just think we'll win, like this is some sort of epic theater play."

"What's going to be done?"

She's silent, watching the other conversations and tea. "I suppose the Princesse will take the advice of whomever she finds most sound."

My lips twist. I thought she might have real suggestions, but the calm, inscrutable look on her face tells me she's not going to spill them to someone like me. "Yes, my lady." I duck a small curtsy and go. I told her what I wanted to anyway.

Besides, everyone knows the Queen's not long for it. If I want to make use of the opportunity that provides, then I need to get on with my other business.

I have most of the materials for the two spells—arcanum powder, five feathers none the same, blood, and the bird's claw, but I still need to obtain a handful of fresh earth and three pinches of fennel. And I still need shaudacerise poison for the final bit of my trick.

The potion I'm making for the dungeon guard will be simple enough; it just has to brew for exactly nine hours with a renewal spell every three. I'll start it as soon as I have the last ingredients. I've cast it at the shamans' bidding often enough. It's a spell the kra'kaa teacher I had as a child taught me. She would use it when someone was injured badly, to put them in a deep sleep as she tried to help them. I've never been quite so skilled with it—not travel, not transformation, not oaths. For me, the person who drinks it sleeps as if they had simply started taking a nap at that time. Loud noises disturb its effectiveness, and it lasts shorter the more well-rested the target already was. A strong bottle of liquor might be more soporific, but this is quieter and also blurs the memory.

The second spell, though—that has been growing inside my magic through years and years of revenge-driven nights.

I should wait until tonight to get the fennel and shaudacerise from the infirmary. For now, I walk the halls until I reach the second-floor courtyard. Pockets are mandatory in each day's newly-made dress, but since the Ladies think them indicative of the laboring class, I keep them hidden in the folds of my skirt. I kneel on the stone pathway, at the edge of the dead grass in the courtyard and withdraw my silverglass from one such pocket. With the broader end, I scrape away the grass and dig out dirt from the cold-hardened ground, making a small pile on the stone beside me.

Finished, I push the dead grass clumps back into the hole and scoop the dirt into my pocket.

When I get back to my room, I empty the pocket onto the table, then duck down into the kitchens. I approach a servant, one of the ones ordering other people around. "Maedimoielle?"

Over the hubbub of the place, she doesn't seem to hear me. I repeat myself, louder and more impatiently.

She looks, then gapes. "What can I do for you, milady?"

I smile at the reverence. "I just need an empty bottle." She can think the request odd all she wants to, but there will be nothing she can figure out from it. Even if some eavesdropping maid gossips to a Lady, what can she do other than find it strange?

"An... empty bottle."

I nod.

Her brow furrows as she frowns. "Yes, milady." She hurries over to another maid and points somewhere else in the kitchen. She comes back, obviously forcing a smile. "If you'll just tell us where your room is, I'll have someone bring it right up to you."

Getting the feeling that they're taking it from the waste, washing it, and not wanting me to see, I tell her and leave. It's wonderful how things from the trash heap can turn into marvelous instruments of trouble.