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Nesta gingerly took the ribbon from Clotho. It was light as air—so light that if she hadn’t been examining it, she might not even have known she held anything. “It’s stunning. Is this what you use down here for your own rites?”

No. It is a gift to the High Lord and Lady’s son. One like it has never been made, and perhaps never will be again.

“Did—did you make it?” Nesta stammered, loudly enough that Gwyn finally looked her way. Her friend’s brows rose high at seeing her, though she didn’t miss a single note of the song. Yet Nesta didn’t fail to notice the slight lines of strain that suddenly bracketed Gwyn’s mouth.

Clotho wrote, It is the least I can offer in return for the home that the High Lord granted me long ago.

Nesta peered at the glittering string. Though no great magic pulsed from it, it seemed . . . alive. Aware, somehow. “They will be very moved,” she managed to say, thinking of Clotho creating this exquisite thing. Either with magic or her agonizingly broken hands, she’d put in the effort out of gratitude and love.

Clotho patted Nesta’s knee again, and in silence, they listened to the song echo through the room. The alto’s voice returned for the last, loudest, most joyful chorus. A Song of Returning. Of lost sisters coming home at last.

At least one sister would be returning to see Nesta tomorrow. Emerie would arrive in Velaris for Nyx’s ceremony, she reminded herself with no small amount of joy.

Clotho was already up and moving toward the dais, and Nesta rose, thinking through the words she’d prepared for Gwyn. A balance between diplomacy and groveling.

But a female voice called behind her, “Nesta! We haven’t seen you in weeks.”

Nesta found Roslin and Deirdre standing with crossed arms. Both of them still wore pieces of their white ribbons woven through their braids.

Gods, where had she left her own? In her closet levels and levels above, she remembered. After that night Rhys had nearly killed her for handing over the Mask, she’d been so disgusted with everything that she’d torn the ribbon off the wrist where she’d taken to wearing it and thrown it into that closet. She hadn’t so much as peeked at it in the weeks since.

What would Emerie say when she saw that Nesta wasn’t wearing it? She still wore the charm bracelet from that happy night they’d woven them upstairs, but Emerie would surely notice the lack of the white ribbon. Her friend didn’t know the full extent of what had happened with the Mask—Nesta hadn’t found a moment to explain it to her. Hadn’t even seen her since then. Would Emerie be as furious with her as the others in the Night Court were? Her stomach twisted with the thought.

Nesta turned to greet the two priestesses. “I’m sorry I haven’t made it to training lately. You’re both still going, right?”

“Every morning, though our instructors also haven’t bothered coming for several weeks now,” Deirdre said, clearly affronted. Nesta didn’t blame her. Cassian had really abandoned training? It was surely because of her. And she supposed Azriel was still pissed off enough about the whole Bryce thing that he didn’t want to see her, either. But to abandon the rest of the priestesses and Valkyries was unforgivable.

Roslin sighed, unaware of Nesta’s brewing temper. “Cassian, I can live without. No offense,” she added to Nesta, who pulled herself out of her anger long enough to chuckle. “But Azriel . . .” Roslin sighed again, fluttering her eyelashes.

Nesta couldn’t stop her snort.

“Wait,” Deirdre said, frowning deeply. “If you’re here now, you could have come to training this morning, couldn’t you?”

“I’ve been preparing for Nyx’s Naming Day,” Nesta lied.

The truth was, after what occurred with Bryce and the Mask . . . she hadn’t wanted to go to training. Hadn’t wanted to be near Cassian’s or Azriel’s anger and resentment, hadn’t wanted to face the priestesses, her fellow Valkyries, and know that she had, in fact, chosen the lives of strangers in another world over theirs. That she hadn’t for one moment considered their well-being or that of anyone else before handing over the Mask.

So she hadn’t gone for a few days. And then a few days turned into a week. And a week into . . . well, weeks. But apparently, her mate and his brother hadn’t attended, either. Which irritated her to no end. Even if she had little right to feel that way.

“I’ll come back soon,” Nesta lied again.

“That’s what she keeps saying,” Roslin said, tossing her red braid over a shoulder as she nodded toward someone behind Nesta. “Come, Deirdre, I want to ask Ananke about the schedule for tomorrow.”

The two priestesses headed for Ananke, leaving Nesta to turn as Gwyn strode down the aisle. She always forgot, somehow, that her friend was taller than her. Only by an inch or two, but enough to be a surprise, even now. Gwyn moved with a fluid grace, probably thanks to her nymph grandmother, and came to a stop before Nesta on near-silent feet.

Nesta braced herself, unsure what to do with her hands, her face, her posture. It was like meeting a stranger.

Gwyn offered a grim smile that suggested she felt the same. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

Every part of Nesta loathed the tension, the caution. But she said as casually as possible, “I had to pick up something for Nyx’s Naming Day.” She held up the shimmering bit of ribbon Clotho had made.

Gwyn’s eyes widened, the distance momentarily shattered by her awe. “That is . . . remarkable,” she breathed, shaking her head. “Sangravah—the town, I mean, not the temple compound—had fine weavers, and they sometimes came to sell their wares to us or even give us classes on how to work a loom, but I never saw anything like that.”

Nesta said wryly, “Our bracelets certainly don’t look like that.” She lifted her wrist slightly, the navy blue and crimson and silver threads Emerie had woven with a small silver charm vibrant in the candlelit space.

Gwyn glanced at her own wrist, at the bracelet still there, despite everything. A small mercy that Gwyn hadn’t taken it off—a shred of hope. Something to build on. Nesta couldn’t help but notice that Gwyn wasn’t wearing her white ribbon either, though.

Gwyn smiled a shade crookedly. “Nyx’s ribbon makes our bracelets look sad.”