Lysa had been watching from the window since dawn, her stomach knotted with dread as the eastern carriage arrived at noon. Seren was standing beside her. She squeezed her hand.
"She's just a child," Seren said.
"She's a child who hates me."
"You don't know that."
"I wrote to her. Rowan wrote to her. She didn't respond." Lysa's voice trembled. "She's been ignoring us for weeks. And now she's here."
Seren squeezed her hand again. "Whatever happens, I'm here. Rowan is here. You're not alone."
The carriage door opened.
Iris stepped out.
She was thirteen, big for her age, with dark hair and sharp features. Her mother's eyes; Lysa recognized them from Rowan's description. She wore traveling clothes and a scowl that could curdle milk.
Rowan approached her. "Iris."
"Father." The word was flat, empty. "You said I should come. I am here."
"I'm glad."
"Don't be." She looked past him, toward the palace, toward the window where Lysa stood. "Is she here?"
Rowan nodded. "She's inside."
