Sparrow retired from the battlefield at the height of her powers and couldn’t be persuaded to change her mind. She was done with fighting, armies, blood, death, and taking orders. Now, she ran a salon at the edge of Florelia, Tira City’s entertainment district. Not a lot of foot traffic this far out, but she didn’t need it. Didn’t want it, really. She was retired.

She made Raven Feather as comfortable as she could, for her own enjoyment as much as for her patrons, an oasis in the middle of the city. The artists of Raven Feather were not prone to feats of spectacle. It had no colored lanterns guiding patrons in, no placards showing what they would find inside. Sparrow had simply painted the name on a panel and stuck it on a post at the foot of the front steps. It was a well-painted sign to be sure, but if you weren’t looking for it you might not see it.

The steps were mostly hidden behind a wild-looking garden, with a few flagstones to mark the way. Folk passed a willow tree and swore it was an enchanted grove, the way it muted noise from the city. The cedar floor made the open-air foyer smell like a forest. Stray breezes came in and rustled the scrolls hanging from various posts. Screens could be put up in inclement weather, when the smell and sound of falling rain soothed patrons. Beyond the foyer, tiers of flooring held tables, sofas, and lounges, far enough apart to give each a sense of privacy. People naturally spoke softly, with reverence.

The unlikely garden continued inside, with potted dwarf lemon trees, hanging ferns, orchids on the tables, and the scent of honeysuckle growing all around. In a kitchen at the back, tea brewed and buns baked in a small oven.

Late morning, before the first patrons arrived, Sparrow had the place to herself. She sat in the very middle, on the second tier, and inked new scrolls to hang on the walls. Signs for peace, comfort, protection. Raven Feather had never been robbed; no fights ever broke out here. This was the quietest salon in Florelia, and while some might have said that was a disadvantage, Sparrow was sure it wasn’t.

Every scroll she made for the walls here included feathers in black ink. Sometimes whole wings, graceful arcs with a fan of feathers trailing. Sometimes she added flowers, rivers, mountains, a crescent moon, a pattern of stars, all depending on the season, the time of day, her own inclination. But she never left out the feathers. Some speculated that in her last battle, a raven had saved Sparrow’s life, so the bird became her mascot. The truth wasn’t anything so grand: the feathers helped her remember, that was all.

“Didn’t you just do that?” Perri came down from the back of the house with a broom, sweeping. “You don’t have to redo them every day.”

Was it every day? Maybe she had just done them yesterday. “I like doing it.”

Perri huffed and shook her head, a clear reprimand. Sparrow had done protective scrolls like this every day in the army. Wasn’t she supposed to be retired? Perri went on to sweep the lower tier and front steps—a job she did every day, so surely she ought to understand.

In the years since they’d left the army, Perri’s short spikey hair had gone gray and her attitude had become even more surly. She swept the floors, maneuvering her broom with her left hand, since her right was cut off above the elbow. Sparrow still felt guilty about the arm—Perri had been her sergeant, protecting her, and if Sparrow had just been a little smarter or quicker . . . But no, Perri would say. Both of them had faced danger and soldiers lost limbs in battle, that was all. Could have been a life, and wasn’t.

But Perri lost an arm and Sparrow didn’t.

Perri did the same work she’d done back then as Sparrow’s sergeant, logistics and keeping house. Here, that meant repairing fixtures and buying ink and tea. One could admire Sparrow’s brushwork and the balanced composition of her scrolls all they liked, but it wouldn’t happen if she didn’t get fresh ink and the paper wasn’t pressed.

One by one, the girls wandered in from the apartments behind the salon. Girls—young women, rather, at or near twenty years and coming into their own. Masey first, dark and earnest, hair perfectly pinned back and tunic cleaned and pressed. She lit the coals, started water boiling, got the first batch of coffee brewing, and took from the oven the crisp rolls that Perri had put in earlier.

Tall, lovely Vel next, with her lute, tabor, and chimes. She put a spoonful of tea leaves in a cup of hot water and came to look over Sparrow’s shoulder. “Didn’t you just do new scrolls yesterday?”

“Lost track,” Sparrow said, putting a ribbon at the top of the newest to hang it by.

Bera came in through the front door.

Perri tucked her broom under her arm and chuckled as Bera dragged past, eyes shadowed, hair askew, half asleep on her feet.

“Oh, there she is.” Masey heaved a scolding sigh.

“Coffee would be lovely now, thank you Masey,” Bera said and sat at the table across from Sparrow.

“Well, you’re alive anyway,” Sparrow greeted her wryly. “Dueling again?” Bera donned a slow, sly smile, and Sparrow sighed. “Back-alley dueling isn’t a good look.” Bera already knew this. No good telling her.

“Yes, it is. It attracts business. Builds reputation.”

“If you win,” Vel said, examining the strings of her lute. “Did you win?”

“Always.”

Scowling, Masey brought the cup of coffee. Twenty going on fifty, that one.

Bera took her sketchbook and pencil from her shoulder bag and opened the pages to show Sparrow, who was interested in spite of herself. Bera kept going out late for these things because she was good at it.

The young and hungry poets, painters, and musicians of Florelia gathered sometimes and threw their magic at each other, out-clevering each other, sometimes with an audience and sometimes for their own amusement. Who could break another’s brush, tear a page, render another’s instrument silent. Remove their tools or cause them to stumble, while defending themselves from attacks. Who could render another helpless without them realizing it was the spell that had done it?

It was too much like war, the same sorts of things Sparrow had done in the army, writ small.

Bera showed off butterflies painted in a few quick strokes, a messy sigil encouraging confusion, symbols pointing to distraction. For a moment, her opponent would have simply forgotten what they were doing.

Sparrow hummed appreciatively. “Why a butterfly and not a caterpillar?”

“The caterpillar says potential,” she said. “The butterfly is beautiful but short-lived and never travels in one direction.” And yes, her drawing showed the butterfly in the air, wings blurred to suggest movement.

Masey looked on, brow furrowed. “The butterfly at rest on a flower would speak to beauty and calm. A moment of contemplation.”

“Hmm, I like that idea,” Bera said, making a note. Masey beamed, her annoyance apparently forgotten.

Vel played a few practice notes, and the music seemed to settle the air, to let their lungs breathe easier. Bera and Masey talked a little more, Masey asking questions about the sketches Bera showed, Bera taking it well when the younger woman offered suggestions. A conversation, not a critique. Sparrow made encouraging noises.

They were growing beyond Sparrow. That was the point, wasn’t it? Masey was Perri’s niece; her parents had been killed in fighting. Bera was the daughter of a merchant who’d lost everything in the invasion. Vel’s parents were minor nobility of the outlying regions, whose lands had been overrun. All three were orphans of the war, so young they didn’t remember those fraught hard times. Barely remembered their original families. Sparrow and Perri had found them later, saw their talents, but more their willingness to learn and desire to get away from what they had been. The whole point of fighting had been to win peace for Tira. The city had prospered, after the Delmeer invasion had been driven off. Years had passed, and people finally had money to spend, time for salons and entertainment. Sparrow wanted to do something with that peace, and here she was, speaking of butterflies and strategy.

“And . . . here we go,” Perri grumbled, marching up the steps, broom tucked under her arm. “The lady’s palanquin is coming up the street. You got five minutes.” She continued on past the screen to the back rooms.

They cleared away the morning’s tea and coffee, tucked away brushes and inks, put away pages, swept off crumbs, and prepared the central table for the day’s work. Bera disappeared to the back of the house to put herself together, Masey prepared a tea tray, and Vel settled her lute into a gentle melody.

The day’s first patron ascended the stairs at the foyer, past the towering willow. Baroness Chiyen and two attendants, a man and woman in simple house uniforms, small swords at their belts. The attendants took up positions behind and to the sides of their mistress. Perri reappeared at the brazier where tea brewed, but she kept a subtle watch on the attendants, who didn’t seem to notice her. Maybe they could handle themselves in a fight, but they seemed more ornamental than practical. They might have dismissed Perri because of her missing arm, but that would be a mistake.

Baroness Chiyen was an elegant, gracious woman who had risen through social ranks to become one of the great advisors of court, but she had come to Raven Feather today for a personal matter. Wouldn’t do to use the artists of court for a personal matter. Chiyen’s request was sympathetic: her daughter was soon to give birth, and she requested a scroll to make the delivery safe and peaceful. The midwives believed she would deliver twins.

All the power in the world couldn’t guarantee peace or safety in this situation, but Sparrow could impart reassurance, could lend the new mother strength and lessen some of that natural anxiety that surrounded such an event, those conflicted emotions of joy and apprehension. So hopeful for the outcome, so fearful for the dangers.

Much like approaching a battlefield, but Sparrow never made that comparison out loud.

Sparrow’s garments were a uniform of sorts. She might have dressed more finely in embroidered silk, decked with trim and jewelry, to lend the salon a more elegant air. To flatter her wealthiest, most powerful clients. If she were more vain about her appearance, she might. But she was mostly vain about her art and skill. She dressed for comfort in a lined tunic and trousers secured with an embroidered belt, the sleeves and legs loose, all in a plain, dark green. Bera would say that this humility was part of her reputation—if she dressed richly her patrons might think she was compensating, showing off, and not take her seriously. Sparrow was just trying to be comfortable, but she had to acknowledge she was part of the salon’s modest ambiance.

She greeted Chiyen with a bow. “Madam. Welcome.”

Already the lines around Chiyen’s mouth eased. Not quite a smile, but not quite as worried. Sparrow guided her to the table, prepared with a silk runner and candles, an embroidered cushion for the great lady to sit on. None of these details were required for the scroll to work, but a certain amount of theater was expected and appreciated. A kind of magic that had nothing at all to do with power. Sparrow was aware of rivals who sent spies to Raven Feather, to record what color candles they burned and what flowers were put in vases at certain times of year, as if those weren’t simple decoration. Let them think those had some meaning and try to replicate what she’d accomplished here. She was happy to teach those willing to learn, but that was the stickler—they had to be happy to learn the work for its own sake, and not for the power they thought it would bring them.

Baroness Chiyen had a good sense of aesthetics, sitting lightly on the cushion, effortlessly arranging the skirt of her gown around her, maintaining a straight posture that had likely been second nature to her since childhood. Her gloved hands rested lightly on her lap.

Sparrow gestured, and Masey brought out the scroll on a lacquered tray, which she set on the table in front of Sparrow, then bowed herself away.

The tray held a sewn brocade pouch with beading around the clasp. Two hand lengths long, a hand’s width wide. A beautiful object that could rest easily in the pocket of a cloak or a belt. Chiyen stared, even her decorum slipping as she regarded it with wonder.

Sparrow opened the flap and drew out the rolled paper, which she opened.

A sequence of three images was painted in a wash of watercolor, with notes of ink. The first, geese flying. The second, a rosebud about to open. The third, the gray slope of a mist-shrouded mountain peak. The paintings were clearly done with quick, sure strokes, so it seemed the images must have appeared in a flash, rather than through painstaking craft. Beneath the images she had written the spell itself, messages of peace and perseverance.

Her patron was clearly entranced. Chiyen seemed younger, regarding the work. She removed her glove and reached to touch, but drew her hand back, tentative. Sparrow took hold of her hand.

The attendants flinched and started forward. Masey shot them a look, shook her head. Vel’s music never wavered.

Sparrow gently set Chiyen’s hand on the edge of the scroll. This was hers; she needed to touch the art, not treat it with such reverence. The power did not come through reverence. A manicured finger stroked the edge of the paper.

“These are anticipation, love, and strength. Place this in the birth room where the mother can see it. When the children are born, hang it on the wall over the cribs.”

“This is wondrous.”

Sparrow bowed her head in thanks.

Lesser artists might simply send their work with instructions. A transaction rather than a ritual. But this imparted to her patrons the richness of what they participated in. They didn’t simply purchase scrolls and the accompanying magic; they became part of it. The generals used to get so frustrated with Sparrow when she insisted on the rituals and didn’t just hand them a scroll that would solve all their problems. She would never let it be that simple.

Eagerly, Chiyen rolled the paper herself and slipped it back into its pouch. She stroked the silk, tracing the beaded pattern, taking in the tactile pleasure of it. Making herself part of the power. Sparrow would be happy to work again with such a patron, who seemed to understand what she received here.

Masey brought another tray with a pot and two small cups, smelling richly of tea, perfectly hot and steaming beautifully, another work of art in a sense. The two women drank, and the ritual drew to a close, but for one more item.

“My lady, a request? With your patronage, I could make scrolls to bestow on mothers who would not otherwise have access to my work, to give them ease in their labors.”

Chiyen hesitated, one hand almost closing into a fist.

Vel played a new chord, a simple harmonized note. Chiyen’s hand opened.

“Of course. Certainly.” She smiled at her own generosity. “You think of everything. It’s admirable.”

“Thank you, I’m honored.”

Sparrow always worked this thread into her scrolls, so her patrons would be amenable to such suggestions. This was so much nicer than battles in every respect.

When they had finished the tea, Sparrow walked Lady Chiyen to the foyer.

The male attendant stepped forward, and Masey slipped to Sparrow’s side to accept the pouch containing payment.

Decorum, all around.

“Thank you again, Captain,” Chiyen said.

Sparrow flinched a little at the title. Her loss of composure passed quickly. The baroness and her attendants were already departing through the willow forest, back to the bustle of the town.

Masey lingered. “Do you need anything, ma’am?”

She smiled back tiredly. “No. Just something to drink that isn’t tea, I think.”

• • • •

People came to Raven Feather simply to drink and talk, to maybe practice a bit of poetry and music. The place was popular with poets and painters, some of whom dared to ask the proprietor and her protégés for advice or commentary. The salon had a reputation for quiet, for conversation. You came here and, listening to the willow whispering, the trickle of water pouring from teapots, forgot you were in the city.

Nobody marched into Raven Feather; they stepped quietly. So when footsteps pounded up the steps and across the cedar floor, everyone looked. A large man wearing an impressive black uniform stopped in the middle of the first tier, blinking in what must have been unaccustomed confusion.

Sparrow, washing cups and arranging them on shelves at the back, met his gaze across the space and stared in shock.

“Major Kin,” she greeted him wonderingly. It had been a long time. If asked, she would have said she didn’t miss him, but she felt a surprising gladness, a desire to sit him down, give him a pot of her best, and make him talk about the old days.

She stepped down to greet him as he tapped the rank stripe embroidered on his shoulder.

“General,” she corrected, a little too wryly, so that her tone sounded mocking rather than impressed. He’d expect no less of her, she hoped. “What can I get you?”

“You look well, Sparrow.”

“Thanks.”

“May we speak privately?”

This didn’t bode well. “I’m at your service. Here?” She gestured at the table in the farthest corner. No one else was around, no one would hear them.

He raised a brow like he didn’t believe her. Ah, it was as if no time at all had passed. They’d handled one another just like this in the old days.

Perri circled him skeptically. “You got fat,” she announced, waving her half-arm at him.

Kin chuckled. “Nice to see you too, Sergeant.”

“Don’t be rude, Perri,” Sparrow said, but Perri was right—the man had filled out. Then again, so had she.

Kin replied, “It’s from sitting in one place and making people come to me.”

“As long as your horse doesn’t mind.”

“My horse is in good health. Very strong.”

Oh, she really had missed him. She found Masey, caught her gaze. Masey nodded back and went to make up a pot for them. Bera had emerged at some point and had an audience at the opposite end of the house, several painters with brushes in hand, leaning in to watch her work. She glanced up, narrowing her gaze. Sparrow hoped her answering smile was reassuring.

Sparrow made Kin wait until they’d both had sips of strong coffee before letting him explain. His request was predictable.

“I need your help.”

No doubt his request was flattering, but she didn’t want to be flattered. “You have a dozen artists in your ranks who can do this work.”

“You don’t even know what I need. And none of them are you.”

More flattery. “That’s an obvious line.”

He sighed and studied the room a moment, giving himself time to think. “My ranks are compromised. I have a spy.”

Well, that was bad, trying to solve a problem when you couldn’t trust the people who were supposed to solve your problems. She was glad she got out before anyone tried to give her any authority. “And you need someone to flush them out. Like a quail.”

“I know you can do it.”

“Have you followed them? Tracked them? You shouldn’t even need magic for this. A general—you should have a whole staff that can manage this.”

“Yes, and we’ve done all that. We’ve tried all we can without rounding up suspects en masse. You are my last hope.”

She was afraid of that, and she glanced down. “I’m not what I was. I find lost kittens now, not spies.”

“Your reputation persists.”

Could one exist in society without having a reputation?

“And,” he added. “I trust you. Still.”

Already in spite of herself, she was turning over the problem. Identify an unknown spy. Draw them out without alerting them. Be subtle. Think about not just how to solve the problem, but how to do so in the most elegant way possible.

This wasn’t a problem she wanted to solve.

The lute faltered. Sparrow resisted looking back, to see what Vel was up to. Resisted drawing attention to the moment of silence. The notes, the sonorous vibrations of string and air, a melody alluring in its simplicity returned quickly enough. Vel might have only been distracted by a bird fluttering outside the window.

Kin noticed, but also didn’t acknowledge it. He raised an eyebrow, a question. Waiting for an answer. She didn’t know what to tell him.

A spy meant trouble. Tira had relaxed into a dozen years of peace, but not because its enemies were defeated. Their belligerent neighbors might only be waiting for an opportunity. For the right information. This was another reason why the generals, why the king himself, had begged her not to leave the army. Telling them no ought to still be easy. But Kin had come here himself, and asked so politely.

“Come back this time tomorrow,” she said abruptly.

“And then what?”

“I’ll decide.” A deadline, a boundary. The enemy, approaching a defensive line.

“Sparrow. I know you can do this. It’s just a matter of convincing you that you want to.”

“Tomorrow, Kin. Please.”

He stood from the table and delivered a bow from the shoulders, the kind one might give to a commander who defeated you in battle.

He was being ridiculous.

“Kin, it’s very good to see you,” she said, a peace offering. “I’ve missed you.”

He nodded, which was the bow one gave to a friend. Then, he retreated.

When Sparrow went to the back of the house, all three girls and Perri were waiting for her.

“What are you going to do?” Bera asked urgently, eagerly.

Sparrow glared. “Were you all eavesdropping?”

Masey said, “We just were watching over you. We were afraid he was going to bully you.”

“Just because he’s wearing a uniform?”

“Yes,” Bera said, straightforward.

Vel added, “You two left the army for a reason, after all.”

Wasn’t bullying that had taken Perri’s arm.

“You don’t think I can take care of myself? He’s an old friend, and you see, he didn’t bully me.”

Perri made a growling noise. “Not literally, but this is just what he did in the old days, he’d sit you down and look at you with those sad dog eyes—”

“We both had jobs to do in the old days. It wasn’t personal.”

“Ha,” the old sergeant grunted knowingly.

“It’s a relatively simple problem, I think,” Bera said. “A variation of the Damselfly Sequence.”

Bait, food for all kinds of fish. The kind of spell used to attract suitors for silly young members of the noble class. “I don’t want any of you working on this. I don’t even know that we—I—should do this at all.”

“But why not?” Vel said. “It’s important. If there’s a threat, and we can help—”

“Not we,” Sparrow stated. “This is politics. It’s dangerous.” General Kin’s mere presence here would draw gazes to Raven Feather. She would need to make the protective scrolls over again, to guard against the attention.

Bera said, “The point of being part of a salon like this is so we can watch over each other.”

Perri gave a brief nod. The four of them were arrayed against her.

“I’ll take care of it when Kin returns tomorrow.”

“But you’ll do what he asks?” Masey said.

“You will not concern yourselves with this matter.”

Bera snorted. “Such bureaucratic language is unbecoming of a poet of your stature.”

On the other hand, that pronouncement was stingingly well done. Sparrow tilted her head. “Are you judging my words?”

“Mere observation.” The girl tapped her temple in a salute.

“You girls. Get back to it, then.”

They did, but their brows were furrowed and their gazes hooded with concern. If war returned, none of them were safe.

• • • •

Late at night, crickets hummed and the air fell still so that the scent of jasmine rose up, inspiring love and drunkenness. This hour, they put away the coffee and tea and brought out the plum brandy. Perri deftly clutched the bottle and two cups between the fingers of her one hand, each set down and released where Sparrow sat near an east-facing window, watching the moon rise.

“What will you tell him?” She poured and pushed one of the cups toward Sparrow.

“That I left all that work behind. I don’t want any more conflict.”

“If Kin is worried, then this is a problem.”

That was the crux, wasn’t it? She trusted him, still, as he trusted her.

“I have other responsibilities, now. I can’t involve them.” Anything involving the salon would spill over onto the girls.

“What are you training them for, if not this work?” Perri asked.

Sparrow tipped back the cup of brandy, downed the whole thing, which hit her belly like fire.

A thin, high note from a flute sang out. At first, Sparrow thought it came from an owl, hunting. But a chord from Vel’s lute strummed under it. Vel and Masey sat at the front window, playing an accompaniment to the swaying of willow branches.

This was a picture. Sparrow ought to draw this. She pulled her sketchbook and pencil from her pocket and made the lines, the way Vel’s hair was braided over her shoulder, the way Masey’s head tipped back as she drew breath to send through her instrument.

Bera was with their last patron of the day, an older man seeking to remember his wife, who died last week. She painted in gray ink on a cream card with gilt edges, making a sign for peace.

An old man’s grief could drown in memory as he tried, impossibly, to grab hold of what he’d lost. A cramping of the soul, the way fingers cramped, holding on to an impossible weight. No one could tell him to let go, but perhaps they could make the weight feel lighter. A comfort rather than a burden. Show him the sun—the shadow cast by the light remained, but they both existed together, and the sun was warm.

At one time in her life, in the old days, Sparrow had found poetry in the movement of armies, in the flex and swoop of a soldier raising a sword. She had found power there, and then . . . it went away.

Flushing a spy was a strange bit of work. Like capturing a bird of prey. Give it something it wanted, lure it. In her younger days, Sparrow relished that kind of magic, misdirecting enemy troops, foiling raids. Now, older, she got more satisfaction in keeping what she loved close, protecting them, making their world safe—

It was a matter of scale, really. Safety, protection. No good having a strong house if a tsunami struck the whole beach. If your country were invaded again. Protecting one space sometimes meant expanding the protection outward. A child, a family, a modest salon, an army, a nation. The principles were the same. It was about scale.

Her cup was once more filled with brandy. She studied the ruby, gem-like color against the perfect ivory porcelain of the cup, how it drew the gaze into depths, combined with the soft music, and the strokes of Bera’s brush against paper, its own whispering. The patron, the old man, was gone. Bera now painted on a series of cards, for practice. Amber ink, gray ink. Signs of persuasion, of clarity.

“What did you put in the brandy?” Sparrow asked Perri.

The woman gazed out. “Just a bit of honey, to sweeten the mood.”

Sparrow raised her voice so that they all could hear. “I’ve trained you well, haven’t I?”

The music stopped. Bera set down her brush. They gathered around, and Perri produced three more cups from a pocket, as if she had known she would need them. A good sergeant. They sat and drank together.

“This wasn’t to convince you to help the general,” Masey explained quickly. “Do you see that?”

Sparrow nodded. “This was to help me see what we’ve made here. That we all keep each other safe.”

“To take some of the weight from your shoulders,” Bera said, as kindly as she’d ever said anything.

Vel picked at the pegs of her lute as if she tuned them, but really to give her an excuse not to look up. “Say yes to Kin. We’ll help.”

“All right, then.”

• • • •

She told General Kin to send two officers to be on hand when the trap was sprung, for the physical work. People he trusted, who could follow directions and blend in. And who wouldn’t moon over the girls. Kin nodded, no hesitation. Done, just like that. He didn’t argue with a single one of her instructions.

At that meeting, they drank cups of tea together, so that anyone watching would think he was just visiting with his old friend from the army.

“You do anything to this?” he asked, nodding at the cup. “You work a spell to make me agreeable?”

“I just make a good cup of tea, my friend.”

Thoughtfully, he ran his fingers around the rim of the stoneware cup. “I’ve often wondered, even in the old days, how much of what you do is magic and how much is just . . . persuasion. Convincing the world what you wish it to be. Imposing your will—however gently you might do it.”

She’d often wondered herself. “It’s just practice. Just living long enough for the practice to pay off.”

Sparrow’s one stipulation was that she be the public face of this, so that any repercussions would fall on her alone. As expected, Bera tried to argue, but Sparrow stopped her. “I need you to look after the house, if this goes wrong.”

If the spy discovered the lure and counteracted their work. Bera, who dueled for fun, understood what could happen if things went wrong. They didn’t know who the spy was, what their resources were, or if they had their own artist working for them.

Three days of preparation later, Kin’s two officers arrived early. They were steady, good-looking, focused, hands resting on sword hilts. They didn’t gawp around the salon like it was strange. Perri took them into the back to dress them. They came out disguised in ordinary tunics, their swords hidden under long jackets, their hair mussed. Bera sat them down with a pot of tea and told them a story that made them smile. Then, they looked like patrons.

Time to set the lure.

Sparrow didn’t wear her old uniform, mostly because she’d gotten rid of it years ago, handing it over to a fresh young officer who could use it. But she thought about it, whether that would lend conviction to this exercise. After consulting with the girls, they all decided no. She was simply the proprietor of a well-regarded salon. Their quarry had no reason to suspect they were being hunted. Instead, she dressed well, in a fine embroidered jacket and silk skirt. The clothing made her feel elegant; they made her look powerful.

She carried a lacquer box to the central table, facing the door. Set it down and sat before it, resting her hands on it. It was shining, black, with stylized coils of ivy painted carefully, precisely on the sides. Too green, too symmetrical. Formal ivy, attractive yet unattainable.

She removed the lid, set it aside, and drew out the scroll on which she had painted a dozen images and symbols. A dozen of them for this complicated task. The Damselfly Sequence, as Bera had suggested. Each of them painted images in different styles. One carefully done in colored washes, another in black brush strokes, the third in the shape of a sign of summoning. Sparrow’s work depicted the insect alighting on the surface of a pond, ripples traveling out. All the power of the house, together.

Those ripples, signaling to a fish that a prize was near.

The next step, preparing the hook. Some poets might do too much at this stage. A show of force, a cage to trap, spikes to hold fast. But there was never a need to kill a fly with a hammer. Better to let the basic nature of this place be the weapon. This meant music, the smell of baking, the rustling of leaves. The one place in all of Florelia that seemed to have fresh air, encouraging one to breathe deeply, and thereby settle one’s nerves, relax the shoulders away from the ears and marvel at the unclenching of muscles in your back that you didn’t even know were there. Convince the quarry that they wanted to be here. That they wanted to stay. That they needed this peace.

The sequence showed an open gate, a sign for bounty, a rusted sword. Entreaties to lower one’s defenses. There was no danger here. Come and rest.

When she had opened the scroll completely, she looked to the foyer.

A middle-aged man ran up the stairs, breathing heavily, and stumbled to a stop. He looked around with confusion as if he had not expected to find himself here. He was dressed well, in a tailored suit in serious, formal blue and gray. His dark hair was well trimmed, his graying beard fashionable. He gave the appearance of a senior clerk of court, a bureaucrat trusted with the work of governing, who could move easily between the nobility, the merchants, the military, setting them at ease, gathering information. He radiated intrigue, for one who had the power to see it.

Gazing around, he noted the patrons. He acknowledged the music and took a breath full of the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. He sighed with relief, it seemed. The peace of the house, entering him. However he found himself here—he might never understand why he had come here—he let himself believe this was a refuge from his cares.

“Welcome,” Sparrow said, donning a gentle smile and turning a graceful hand to offer him the seat across from her.

He stepped toward her, hesitating, wondering. As a moth to a light, he caught sight of the scroll and came close to study it. He sank bonelessly onto the opposite seat.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sparrow saw one of the disguised soldiers start to move. Bera put her hand on his, to keep him planted.

Sparrow lifted the pot at her right hand. “Would you like a cup? Some say our tea eases the nerves.”

“Who . . . are you?”

“I am the mistress of this salon. And you . . . are seeking peace, I think?”

“I, I don’t know.”

She poured into the waiting cup. The stranger, the spy, gazed at the amber liquid longingly, but he had just enough suspicion left to be wary.

Sparrow poured into a second cup, set down the pot, lifted the cup. They had done nothing to the tea; they didn’t need to. She drank. Then he did, resting the cup on his lips, sipping carefully, like a man used to being at court.

Vel played a song; the water pouring from a pot whispered.

Not yet, not yet, Sparrow thought at the general’s men. However well trained they were they must have been trembling, barely able to hold the bow strings back any longer.

The man took a second drink, longer, and slouched. “I have a confession,” he said. His eyes were moist, shining. Tears gathered.

“I would be honored if you would tell me.”

“I am assistant to Minister Kulong, who has the king’s ear. I know everything—or I know how to learn everything. They trust me, you see. With the king’s own seal at my disposal, why wouldn’t they trust me? And I feed it all to Delmeer.”

The last image in the sequence showed a sun blazing over a pasture full of flowers. Expansive bounty. Truth.

“May I ask why? What is your truth?” Her voice never changed from the soothing tone. Vel’s playing continued, restful. Even now, speaking his own doom, the spy’s manner was heavy, hands loose around the cup.

“I . . . I have debts. I live outside my means. I need the money. So prosaic, isn’t it?” he whispered. His voice cracked, and finally he met her gaze. “And what is your truth?”

“I’m working for General Kin,” she said gently.

Only then did his tears spill over.

• • • •

The soldiers arrested him. He didn’t resist. Kin was waiting outside with a cart. Still in an expansive mood, lulled by the peace of Raven Feather, the spy talked. Told everything. It wasn’t enough to capture him—they had to learn everything he’d done. And so they did.

Sparrow closed the salon for the rest of the afternoon. They were more tired than they expected and needed some of that peace that they had nurtured. Got just a little bit drunk on the plum brandy.

Kin returned that evening, not in uniform, just a man out for a drink in a salon. He thanked each of the girls, who nodded politely back at him. Perri held out her good hand. Wryly, he gave her a crooked smile and put the pouch with their payment in it.

He joined Sparrow at the table in the far corner, where they wouldn’t be overheard. Well, mostly wouldn’t be overheard. The girls never missed anything.

“Masterful,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought of coaxing a confession from him. Are you sure you don’t want to come back to work for me? Even now that it looks like the peace will hold?”

“I’m sure,” she said. “Though I’m glad it worked. I think you can see that I’m . . . comfortable here. And I need to be comfortable, now.”

“Yes.” He glanced toward the back of the house, where Masey and Vel were arguing quietly over a song, and Bera was sketching a wren that had come to perch on a ledge. Wren: flight, freedom, sweet songs.

“What about one of your students?” He raised a brow. “Would one of them like a change? A bit of travel with my troops?”

“That’s always the line, isn’t it? See the world? But they never warn you about the food.” He chuckled at this, and she smiled wryly. “They are their own people. You’ll have to ask them.”

“But you would not mind if I asked?”

She had a thought, a premonition maybe, that Bera would say yes to joining the army, if Kin asked her personally. And when she was finished with that, she would always have a place here. “I might mind a little. But not enough to stop you.”

He bowed with his head, in friendship. Then he got nervous, tapping the side of the cup, ducking his gaze. “Sparrow.” His voice stumbled.

“Hm?”

“May I come see you again? Socially, I mean.”

“Personally?”

“Yes.” So hopeful.

“Yes,” she said. “You may.”