Isolde smoothed her skirts.

The young woman in the mirror stared back at her. Her blonde hair was gathered in a knot, and her dress — the colour of midnight wine — fell in a waterfall of silk to the floor. A silver mask obscured most of her face, the lace spiralling outwards like the wings of some strange winter butterfly.

Isolde turned side-to-side, watching as the fabric rippled in the candlelight. Malissa had chosen well. The dress was slightly too long, although perhaps that was for the best; if anyone caught a glimpse of her glass leg at the opera that evening...

Well.

Best not to think about that.

Isolde sat on the bed, pulling on her sandals. Julian's bedroom smelled faintly of pine-scented cologne, although even if it didn't, she would have known the room belonged to him; the wall was plastered with sketches — winter hawthorns and bare trees, Yulemas apples and horse-drawn carriages — and a wooden bow leaned against the bed.

Someone knocked.

"Isolde?" Julian called.

"I'm decent." Isolde rose. "Come in."

The door swung open. "Mum wants to know—"

Julian stopped dead. He was dressed in a black suit, his dark hair damp from bathing. His blue eyes roamed over from her feet to her mouth, and Isolde's face grew hot. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Jules?" she prompted.

"Sorry." Julian's throat bobbed. "You look..."

She looked down. "It's a bit much, I know."

"It's perfect," Julian said, and his voice was firm. "You look perfect."

Isolde smoothed down the skirts. "Thank-you." She dropped her hands. "You were saying something? About Malissa?"

"Oh. Yes." Julian paused. "She asked if you want to borrow a knife. And also if you'd like some potato soup and sourdough before we go."

She shook her head. "I'm alright. The idea of eating right now..."

Isolde's stomach churned. She hadn't felt this sick with nerves since the day of her wedding, and even that had seemed more bearable. Julian stepped forward, twining their hands together. His skin was warm from the bath.

"We'll be okay," Julian murmured.

She rested her forehead against his chest. "I know."

"Hold on." Julian pulled back. "I want to give you something."

"What is it?" Isolde asked.

Maybe it was a pep talk, she thought hopefully; or even better, a shot of whisky. Julian must have guessed her thoughts because he smiled. "Turn around."

Isolde obeyed. She watched in the mirror as Julian rummaged in his pocket, producing a silver necklace. He looped it over her head, and something heavy landed between her collarbones. A ring, Isolde realized, reaching up to touch it; the band was plain, although several words had been inscribed into the metal: To You, I Have Always Been As I See Myself.

"It's beautiful," Isolde murmured.

Julian's face was unreadable. "It's my family ring." Her head snapped up, and his smile grew. "Don't worry, I'm not proposing; it's a contingency plan. If we get separated somehow..." His smile faded. "Show it to someone. Say that you're a cousin of the family. They'll help you, if they think there's a reward."

Isolde dropped her hand. "I'll give it back afterwards."

Julian shook his head. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway." He held out his arm. "Come on. The carriage is here."

***

A carriage idled outside the cottage. Snow fell in gentle flurries, dusting the black top like icing sugar, and the horses' breath hung in white clouds. Isolde could hear the tinkling sound of bells as the creatures stamped their hooves. She snuggled deeper into the warmth of her fur cloak, starting down the frozen pathway.

She paused.

An elderly man sat in the driver's seat. He was dressed in a scratchy grey cloak and black gloves; the leather was worn in several places, exposing his bare skin. Isolde slowed, her gaze flicking to Julian. "Jules..."

Her voice was low. She'd assumed that Malissa or Axel would be driving them, or failing that, they'd drive themselves. Julian squeezed her hand.

"Don't worry," Julian murmured. "We can trust him." He raised a hand. "Spiffy!"

The elderly man looked up. "Julian!" He beamed, revealing a set of misshapen teeth. "You're looking very smart tonight, boyo."

Julian grinned. "Just trying to keep up with you, old man." He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "This is Isolde."

"Hello," Isolde said politely.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She thought of the posters they'd come across in every town, the crude sketches of their faces followed by the same words: "Handsome reward for information leading to the capture of the traitorous empress and her companion." Every instinct told her to run. To flee. But she trusted Julian, Isolde thought, and Julian seemed to trust Spiffy. That had to say something.

Spiffy winked. "You're just as pretty as Julian said you'd be." He shifted in his seat. "He spent most of this morning banging on about you."

Isolde relaxed slightly. "Did he now?"

Julian cast his eyes upwards. "Alright, Spiffy. Stop flirting with her." He opened the carriage door. "We'll miss the start of the opera."

Spiffy took up the reins. "Right you are."

Isolde swung into the back of the carriage. Julian followed, and the carriage lurched to life, half-bumping down the snowy road. Julian's face was a study in shadows; the only colour was the winter blue of his eyes. "Spiffy's been with the family since Dad was a kid. He taught me how to cook, how to clean, how to ride a horse..."

"And how to curse," Spiffy called. "Don't forget about that."

Julian smiled. "How's your Margarite?"

"Batty as ever," Spiffy said. "She's mad as a hatter, that one. Taken to collecting seashells, so now our whole house smells like a barrel of fish." The carriage lurched, and Isolde braced herself against the wall. "Gods only know why I married that woman."

Julian — who had retained his balance with remarkable dexterity — squeezed her arm. "And your son?"

"Still a wastrel," Spiffy sniffed.

"And your granddaughter?"

There was a pause. Spiffy's hands tightened on the reins.

"Some days are better than others," Spiffy said. "Her lungs are getting worse. But she managed to climb a set of stairs yesterday, so that's something. Wasting Plague," he explained, glancing back at Isolde. "She had it when she was a wee little thing, and the effects never went away. We've been saving up to buy her a treatment, but our home was bombed during the battle. Had to spend it all on a new roof."

A lump rose in her throat. "I'm sorry."

Spiffy lifted a shoulder. "Is what it is. No sense in moaning about it." The carriage jerked to a stop. "Here we are."

Isolde looked out the window and stared.

The opera house loomed over them. The brick façade was dusted with snow, and the outside was ringed by pine trees decorated with red velvet bows and tinkling bells. The entire thing would have given the impression of a fairytale gingerbread house, Isolde thought, if it wasn't for the guards with swords stationed outside.

Julian hopped out of the carriage. Isolde leaned forward.

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

Spiffy's brow furrowed. "Keep him safe, alright?"

She smiled. "I'll do my best."

Julian helped her from the carriage. Isolde adjusted her mask, her heart slamming in her chest. Someone checked their tickets — who, she didn't see — and then they were ushered into a large entrance hall. Thick red velvet curtains tumbled from the ceiling. Violin music drifted through the room, along with a low guffaw of laughter. Waiters carried trays crammed with canapes of every sort: potato cakes with smoked salmon and cream, truffle honey-roasted figs, a crab blini with lemon and dill...

Isolde's grip tightened. Julian tensed.

"What is it?" he murmured.

She shook her head. "All this food..." Her stomach rolled. "The whole kingdom is starving and they're not even eating it."

They watched as a woman took a smoked salmon biscuit, nibbled the edge, and then crumpled the rest of it into her napkin. Julian squeezed her arm.

"We'll fix it." His voice was low. "That's what we're here for."

A lump rose in her throat. "I can't watch this."

"Come on," Julian said, steering her towards the door. "Let's go in."

They found their box. The main stage was illuminated by candlelight, making the golden pillars gleam like melted starlight. The ceiling was painted with a scene of Lestia dancing with her maidens. Isolde stared at her lap. Would anyone recognize them? She didn't think so. But she'd clocked the exits, just in case. And if anything went wrong...

Her throat felt dry.

Well. They'd deal with that later.

The crowd applauded as a woman walked onto the stage. The first song began, and Julian leaned closer, his blue eyes fixed on something.

"There," Julian murmured. "That's them."

Isolde scanned the crowd. "Where?"

"To your left."

Isolde squinted; she could just make out two blond middle-aged men sitting in a box, along with the amber shine of a bottle of whisky. Julian's breath was hot in her ear. "Edgar's on the left. Devan's the taller one."

"What's the plan?" Isolde whispered.

Julian's mouth was a flat line. "Better to speak with them while the opera's going on. Everyone will be distracted."

"Now?" Isolde asked.

He shrugged. "No time like the present."

They slipped into the corridor. Julian — who had been to the opera several times before with Halson — took the lead, guiding them through a series of twists and turns. Eventually, they paused outside an archway with a guard standing in front of it. The tall man glowered as they approached.

"What?"

The guard's voice was terse. Julian smiled.

"I need to speak with Mr. Lund."

The guard shook his head. "He's not taking visitors this evening."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "I haven't even said which one I need to speak with."

"Didn't you?"

The guard matched Julian's pleasant smile. Judging by the man's tone of voice, Isolde heavily suspected that the Red Brothers never took visitors, and certainly not strangers. Julian leaned forward, dropping his voice.

"Pity," Julian said. "It's come to my attention that the Lund brothers have been spiking the drinks they serve with dream somnium to keep gamblers at their tables. Now, I could have a quick chat with them, or I could get in touch with our emperor." His pleasant smile was still in place. "Which option do you think your bosses would prefer?"

There was a beat. The guard scowled.

"One moment," he said.

The guard disappeared beyond the archway, dropping a red velvet curtain behind him. Isolde raised an eyebrow. "How did you know that? About the dream somnium?"

Julian shrugged. "I don't. But it's hardly a stretch. And even if it isn't true, it would be enough to damage their reputation."

Isolde waited to be surprised, but she wasn't, of course. This was Julian. He could talk a priest into sinning. "You said mister Lund. They're not lords?"

Julian shook his head. "Halson's very particular about who he grants titles to. Only those from ancient families can lobby for one."

The velvet curtain shifted. The guard jerked his head.

"Go through," he said.

Isolde passed through the arch first. The box smelled faintly of cigar smoke and whisky, along with something like butter and brown sugar. Dream somnium, she realized; the brothers must be taking it recreationally. Both men looked up as she entered. The taller one — Devan, she recalled — held out a hand.

"Well, sit down," Devan said airily, waving his cigar. "There's a long list of people waiting to threaten me. I haven't got all day."

Isolde sat. The iron ring around her neck was so cold that it burned. Julian took the last chair, and there was something dangerous about his posture. Something that reminded her of a snake rearing back to strike.

"I have a smoke bomb in my pocket," Julian said, his voice low. "If you alert anybody to our presence, I will throw it, slit your throat, and take your purse for good measure. Do you understand?"

Edgar's eyebrows flew up. "Well, I'll be damned. Julian Winterthorpe." His mouth curved. "What a delightful surprise."