Seliza's tent was a cathedral of red silk, incense smoke curling from a dozen brass braziers around it. In its center stood a low table set for six, every cup on it smelling faintly of death.
Vella paused in the doorway to count the cups, then the poisons, then the exits.
'Foxglove in the blue, nightshade in the green, sleeping poppy in the white, wolfsbane in the pink, the woman has a sense of humor.'
Servants lined the silk walls in smooth white masks, hands folded, as silent and still as painted furniture.
"Is this a dinner or a trap, Auntie Ring?" Hajin whispered, ducking under the flap behind her.
"Yes," she whispered back, "but first give me that arm, kid, a claw scratch goes bad faster than a promise."
Gold light spread from her palm in a slow wave, knitting the torn flesh of his forearm beneath the bandage. Garden of Mending bloomed around them in tiny floating petals, the sort of magic she only ever used for him.
"Thank you, Auntie Ring," he said, flexing his fingers.
