She motions for me to follow her to the bed, where she lays out the gowns excitedly—they’re all bright-colored, skimpy, frivolous, or all three. Ina is already choosing a garment of blue silk that looks alarmingly small in her hands. She passes it to me, and I have a hard time believing this light thing is a dress, much less something I could wear outside the castle in cold weather.

But now Ina’s standing with her hand on her hip, with Caro a little behind her, her head cocked to one side and a mischievous glint in her eyes. I have no choice, so I reach up behind my neck to unclasp my dress. I remember Ina waltzing around in her underthings the other day, trying on wedding dresses. But Ina has an effortless beauty I could never match. In front of them, I feel gawky and awkward, all elbows and knees and sharp angles—a body that grew up hungry.

Caro’s eyes flicker over me and her forehead creases a little, but she doesn’t say anything. Meanwhile, Ina’s oblivious, shaking the dress at me. I lift my arms and allow her to pull the dress over my head while Caro comes around behind me, lacing up the back.

Ina tugs me to the vanity. Already scattered over its polished top is a mess of paints and kohl and vials of things I can’t name, open and boasting rich browns and blacks and reds for Ina, and coral and rose and bronze for Caro. Their powdery scent wafts into the room. Ina takes up a powder puff, Caro a wooden hairbrush. I close my eyes and let them work.

When I finally look, my face in the mirror fills with surprise. I still look like me, but the shadows beneath my eyes have gone. My hollow cheeks are filled out and glowing. Outlined in kohl, my brown eyes reveal strands of amber that I’ve never seen before, and Caro has swept my hair up into a deceptively simple-seeming bun at the nape of my neck.

The dull skin and tired eyes have vanished. Realizing those are not a part of me, my heart lifts a little.

“Ina,” I say, “you must be magic.”

She laughs and squeezes my shoulder.

While they put finishing touches on their own faces, I’m overcome by curiosity, and give in—another small rebellion against Liam Gerling’s insistence that I keep to my own path, a servant’s life. I take a sip from the green bottle on Ina’s nightstand. The liquor tastes of fruit and honey and fizzes on my tongue. By the time Caro and Ina are ready to go, I feel warm inside, ready to smile at anyone who passes, my heavy thoughts a distant memory.

Laughing, we make our way to the stables. Distantly I register how strange this is—sneaking out of Everless in the company of the princess and her handmaiden. When I notice the jewels that adorn Ina’s neck, Addie’s face flares in my mind like a flame, then quickly dies.

As soon as we duck into the stables, someone clears his throat off to the left. We look over to see a handsome but plain black carriage, a footman I don’t recognize lounging in the driver’s seat. Ina turns delightedly to Caro, who just smiles mysteriously. Its slight, thin, curved shape reminds me of a crescent moon.

“Ina,” I exclaim, “let’s hope this outing is more successful than . . .” I intend to remind her of the trip to the orphanage, of course. But she turns to me quickly, her eyes wide, shaking her head slightly. I swallow my words. Caro cocks her head. I remember how closely Ina guards the secret of her curiosity—not even a footman can hear of it.

Everything is easier with Caro’s organizing hand. The footman, a young man about Caro’s age, is clearly in on the game. He flashes Ina a toothy grin as we clamber into the carriage. “Feeling restless, Your Highness?” he jokes.

Ina volleys an easy smile back at him and shakes a mocking finger. “I’m going to live in a stuffy palace my whole life.” The footman nods tightly, as if he’s afraid of incurring the Gerlings’ wrath for the slander that so easily falls from Ina’s lips. Caro watches her with something like longing on her face. I wonder if Ina knows what’s to come—the Queen’s death. “I may as well have a little fun now, while I still can.”

In the carriage, a tiny oil lamp overhead illuminates velvet seats and paneled walls. Ina casts her gaze out the window. In the dim light, her eyes take on a sudden sadness. Discomfort prickles inside me, too, puncturing the lightness from the drink. While Caro speaks to the footman, I follow Ina’s stare, trying to see what she sees—the high walls of Sempera’s palace, the gilded throne, the tight, claustrophobic ribbing of a formal dress.

Her past—her birth—flits through it all like a shadow, only to vanish when you bring a light to it.

Caro falls back onto the seat next to me. I tear my eyes from the window and avoid Caro’s, afraid that meeting her gaze will reveal what I’ve just understood about Ina—that it’s the orphanage and her traitorous thoughts about the Queen, not this tipsy midnight excursion, that would be scandalous, maybe deadly, if her adoptive mother found out.

The liquor in my veins shields me from the cold as we ride out into the night. All that’s gnawed at me since I started at Everless—my fear, my discomfort at not fitting in, and even my constant, desperate desire for justice, for answers—has receded to the back of my mind as I watch the road go by outside the window. Ina’s knees brush mine as we’re jostled by the ruts in the carriage road; she chats with Caro, no trace of sadness in her features. I suppose she must have learned to snatch moments of privacy as a child learns to steal treats from the pantry.

Soon, the scattered lights of Laista are glowing before us. The carriage deposits us in front of an unmarked door of polished wood, on a narrow but well-kept street. We’re in the good part of Laista, on the side of the road closest to Everless. When Papa was the Gerlings’ blacksmith, he used to take me to Laista’s summer carnival every year, to see strange animals and eat shaved ice flavored with honey. Even after we moved to Crofton, I begged to go again—but Papa refused, saying he would still be able to smell the smoke from Everless.

Though nearly empty, the streets are just as I remember. The clean cobblestone rings out underneath our mares’ hooves, and torches light up the street at intervals. Even the snow on the rooftops is clean. It covers the row of buildings like a blanket, unmarred and shining. While Caro pays the driver, Ina points out the wreaths that dot Laista’s doorways. My eyes stop on a pane of fogged glass—behind it, a slim, curly-haired figure works her rag around a kettle . . .

She raises one hand to clear the moisture from the window, then peers through the glass, directly at us, before suddenly receding. A spark of familiarity flies through me.

“Ina, Jules!” Caro’s already walking away, gesturing for us to follow. When I turn my head again, all trace of the girl is gone. I walk toward Caro’s beckoning hand. She leads us inside one of the taller buildings and down a set of stairs, narrow but well kept.

The tavern I worked at was a dingy, hopeless place, filled with men and women with prematurely lined faces and cloudy eyes, burning their time for another mug even as they drank to forget how little life they had left. But this is another world—not luxurious like Everless, but comfortably elegant. Moneyed. I’m reminded that in this world, people drink to enjoy themselves rather than to dull the sting of a hard life.