“She can control metal materials through the manipulation of magnetic fields. Magnetron.”

“Whisper.”

“Shadow.”

“Magnetron.”

“Magnetron.”

Down she goes through the line of Maven’s advisers, pointing and naming their abilities with little difficulty. Maven leans forward, quizzical, head tipped to one side in animal curiosity. He watches closely, barely blinking. Many think him stupid without his mother, not a military genius like his brother, so what is he good for? They forget that strategy is not only for the battlefield.

“Eye. Eye. Eye.” She gestures to her former masters, naming them as well before dropping her hand to her side. Her fist clenches and unclenches, waiting for the inevitable disbelief.

“So your ability is to sense other abilities?” Maven finally says, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“An easy thing to play at.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she admits, even softer now.

It could be done without much difficulty, especially by someone in her position. She serves a High House, present at court more often than not these days. It would be easy for her to memorize what others can do—but even Jon? As far as I know, he is lauded as the first newblood to join Maven, but I don’t think many know his ability. Maven wouldn’t want people to think he relies on someone with red blood to advise his decisions.

“Keep going.” He raises dark eyebrows, goading her on. Perform.

She does as he commands, naming Osanos nymphs, Welle greenwardens, a lone Rhambos strongarm. One after another, but they’re wearing colors, and she is a servant. She’s supposed to know these things. Her ability is a parlor trick at best, a lie and a death sentence at the worst. I know she feels the sword hanging over her head, growing closer with every tick of Maven’s jaw.

At the back, an Iral silk in red and blue gets to his feet, adjusting his coat as he walks. I only notice because his steps are strange, not as fluid as a silk’s should be. Odd.

And Halley notices too. She trembles, only for a second.

It could be her life or his.

“She can change her face,” she whispers, her finger quivering in the air. “You have no name for this ability.”

The usual whispers of court end without an echo, snuffed out like a candle. Silence falls, broken only by the rising beat of my heart. She can change her face.

My body buzzes with adrenaline. Run! I want to yell. Run!

And when the Sentinels take the Iral lord by the arms, marching him forward, I beg to myself, Please be wrong. Please be wrong. Please be wrong.

“I am a son of House Iral,” the man growls, trying to break the grip of the Sentinel soldiers. An Iral would be able to do it, twisting away with a smile. But whoever he or she is does not. My stomach drops to my feet. “You take the word of a lying Red slave above mine?”

Samson reacts before Maven can even ask, quick as a swift. He descends the steps of the dais, his electric-blue eyes crackling with hunger. I guess he hasn’t had many brains to feed on since mine. With a yelp, the Iral son stumbles to his knees, head bowed. Samson slams into his mind.

And then his hair bleeds gray, shortens, recedes to a different head with a different face.

“Nanny,” I hear myself gasp. The old woman dares look up, eyes wide and scared and familiar. I remember recruiting her, bringing her to the Notch, watching her wrangle the newblood kids and tell stories of her own grandchildren. Wrinkled as a walnut, older than any of us, and always up for a mission. I would run to embrace her if that were remotely possible.

Instead, I fall to my knees, my hands latching onto Maven’s wrist. I beg like I have only once before, my lungs full of ash and cold air, my head still spinning from the controlled crash of a jet.

The dress rips along a seam. It is not meant for kneeling. Not like me.

“Please, Maven. Don’t kill her,” I ask him, gulping at air, grasping at whatever I can to save her life. “She can be used; she is valuable. Look what she can do—”

He pushes me away, his palm against my brand. “She is a spy in my court. Aren’t you?”

Still I beg, speaking before Nanny’s smart mouth can get her well and truly killed. And for once, I hope the cameras are still watching.

“She has been betrayed, lied to, misled by the Scarlet Guard. It’s not her fault!”

The king does not condescend to stand, not even for a murder at his feet. Because he’s afraid to leave his Silent Stone, to make a decision beyond its circle of empty comfort and safety. “The rules of war are clear. Spies are to be dealt with swiftly.”

“When you are sick, who do you blame?” I demand. “Your body or the disease?”

He glares down at me and I feel hollow. “You blame the cure that didn’t work.”

“Maven, I am begging you . . .” I don’t remember starting to cry, but of course I am. They are shameful tears, because I weep for myself as well as her. This was the beginning of a rescue. This was for me. Nanny was my chance.

My vision blurs, fogging the edge of my sight. Samson raises a hand, eager to dive into what she knows. I wonder how devastating this will be to the Scarlet Guard—and how stupid they were to do this. What a risk, what a waste.

“Rise. Red as the dawn,” she mutters, spitting.

Then her face changes one last time. To a face we all recognize.

Samson falls back a half step, surprised, while Maven gives a strangled sort of cry.