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by Ellis Carrington
The ember-oil lamps do not lie. They only wait for those who do.
Yara Pereira has spent weeks buried in the border mistlands, hunched over silk and wire in a hunting lodge swallowed by mist, stitching grand masque disguises for a court she fled. The ember clergy want her name on a public confession for a harvest rite that failed on her watch. She has no intention of giving it. What she has instead is needle, thread, and a talent for making people into something they are not.
Then the falcon arrives with the wrong ring on its leg, a sealed treasury coffer lands on her worktable, and Rafael Morrow walks through her door — severe, relentless, and the last man in the Ashen Court she would ever choose to be alone with. He hangs three ember-oil lamps that flare at honesty and dim at every spoken lie. He opens the coffer. One ash-weight is missing. The lamps burn very, very bright.
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