“No,” she hissed. This was always what happened. If her mind didn’t veer off toward Aeduan, then it spun toward Safi. Or to Prince Leopold and the layers upon layers of secrets he hid beneath. Or sometimes to Evrane and the strange possession that had controlled her at the Monastery.

With a groan, Iseult pushed away from the table. She needed clarity. She needed a focus item, just as Eridysi explained—something that would give her guidance.

Then it hit her: a new angle she could try. A different approach that hadn’t occurred to her before. It was a long shot, but at this point, what more did she have to lose? Besides, Trickster or Wicked Cousin was watching over her today.

Maybe they still had some blessings yet to give.

* * *

Iseult stared down at the dead man. He had looked peaceful in his final moments, when resignation had swept in. If not for the blood and entrails, he might’ve been asleep.

It was midnight; the moon was high and full. A Threadwitching night, Iseult’s mother would’ve called it. When Moon Mother’s glow washes away all color, leaving only Threads. Leaving only our work.

Little good that had done Iseult. She had been no Threadwitch then, when she’d wanted it most, when her mother had wanted it most. And she certainly was no Threadwitch now. Even her Weaverwitchery was no use here. The man was too dead to reanimate (not that Iseult had tried that magic yet), and he lacked the Severed Threads of the Cleaved.

He was nothing more than a cold corpse who had something she wanted.

With a steeling breath, Iseult knelt beside him. Her gloves, stolen from camp, were intended for a larger person, but it was better to be clumsy than risk touching the chain before she was ready.

Touching it not only hurt, but it connected her in ways she didn’t understand to Emperor Henrick. She’d discovered that entirely by accident after a Hell-Bard kill one week ago. And since, in theory, all Hell-Bards were bound to Henrick, and Henrick was bound to Safi, then perhaps …

Please, Iseult prayed as she slipped her fingers around the gold chain. The corpse’s skin was stiff behind it. With a small knife from a thigh holster she’d found at camp, she set to sawing. She sawed and sawed and sawed. She yanked, she twisted, she pulled. But to no avail. The noose was like the wooden heretic’s collar: it could not be removed.

Iseult had known this might be a possibility, even if she’d fervently hoped otherwise. And she could not let a squeamish stomach get in her way. Qualms and regrets belonged to the old Iseult. The one who had hidden within scarves and hoods. The one who’d let everyone else decide who she was, who she should be.

That old Iseult had ruined countless lives. Whatever she’d touched had unraveled. Whomever she’d loved had been cleft in two.

But no more. She was the Puppeteer now, and Puppeteers felt no regret. Now Iseult unraveled what she wanted. Now she chose whom to cleave in two.

Sever, sever, twist and sever.

Yes, the weasel purred in her mind, and for once, Iseult did not push her out.

After replacing the knife at her thigh, Iseult unsheathed her sword. His sword. A few cautious swings to line up her aim … Then she swung with all her might at his neck.

Shock waves boomed up Iseult’s arms, but she managed to sever the spine and get the blade almost out the other side. His head flopped sideways and hung upside down with eyes staring. Only a few strands of muscle and sinew held it on.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, though she didn’t know why. She’d killed the man, after all, and had not apologized then.

Two more practice swings, then she arced the blade through once more. It slid easily this time. The head finished its gruesome fall beside the Hell-Bard’s thighs, and he did not look like he was sleeping now.

Iseult stoutly avoided his dead stare while she hooked her thumb beneath his noose. It slid upward, past the tattered edges of his neck, past the pointed remnant of his spine. Then it was off completely. After scrubbing away blood with her gloves, Iseult tucked the chain into her cloak’s pocket and set off for camp.

She did not look back.

Soon enough, she was in the hut once more, before the table and before the diary pages. The weasel glared at her from her spot beside Owl. She’d wanted to join Iseult, but Iseult had made her stay behind to stand watch.

“I have a new plan,” Iseult told her as she sank onto the stool. Instantly the weasel’s glare melted. She scampered toward the table, shimmied up a wooden leg, and came to a stop beside the lantern. Her excitement was palpable. She was bright and bubbly, as she often had been in her human life.

Or maybe that was Iseult’s own excitement. Her heart hammered. Her hands, for some reason, trembled, and heat gathered on her back and in her face. This was going to work. She was certain of it.

The golden noose glittered on the table, winking in the lantern’s uneven glow. The hut had grown hot from the stove; Iseult peeled off her outer cloak. Comfort, Eridysi’s notes said, is critical. One must be able to relax the body, and relax the mind.

After draping the chain over her thigh and removing her gloves, Iseult repeated the steps she’d tried before. Breathing in, breathing out. Staring into the lantern’s flame, focusing on both the light and Safi’s face. Until finally, she placed her hands over her thighs, over the chain. Breathe in, out, in, out …

Cold crashed into her. Her lungs compressed. Her whole body sharpened, even as her hand seared. She did not let go. Hell-Bard ice could not stop her. Safi, Safi, Safi. In. Out. In. Out. Safi, Safi, Safi—

The world fell away.

It was the Dreaming. Iseult knew that right away—only in the Dreaming was there so much gray, so much empty space with nothing inside. But this was different from what Iseult had experienced before, when she’d first communicated with Esme. Or when she’d met the Rook King in her sleep. There was movement in this great expanse. Pulsing and writhing. She saw it, she felt it, like a riptide bearing down, gentle at first. Then rougher, harder, as each frozen breath passed.

The magic was working.

Safi, Safi, Safi. In. Out. In. Out.

Pressure increased around Iseult. Her ears popped. Her breath fogged. She felt brittle and thin, like she was being stretched out, her very soul pulled taut as a bowstring.

Safi, Safi, Safi. In. Out. In. Out.

That was when the voices began and the figures appeared. One moment, nothing spanned before her; the next, a stampede of shadows rammed into her.

They poked, they grabbed, they dug into her flesh and yanked her hair—all while they whispered in tongues she could not understand. She tried to ignore them at first, even as faces began to form, made of Aether and Threads, sparkling, bright, colorful. Yet also tainted by the shadow of Severed Threads.

The deeper she pressed, the more each face looked human, and the more she tried to scan them as they rushed against her. Because even in all this madness, the logical, detached part of Iseult’s brain knew where she was.

This had to be the Hell-Bard Loom. She was inside the Hell-Bard Loom, and somewhere amidst these thousands of souls, thousands of ghosts, her Threadsister waited.

A shadow slammed into Iseult, grinning and hungry. It bellowed wordlessly, frozen fingers scraping into her skin. Then another shadow came from behind. From the left, from the right, until she was surrounded. Trapped. She could not move and could not see.

Safi! she screamed, though no sound came out. Only fog that crystallized and disappeared.