It occurred to Etta that the woman was literally and figuratively stripping her, trying to make her feel as vulnerable as possible, and that she shouldn’t simply let her do it without a fight. When she tried to twist away from her, Winifred shoved her off-balance, dropped the corset over her head, and began to lace it up before Etta caught her next breath. The woman handed her another thin, sleeveless top to pull over the corset. Etta resented the little cheerful pink ribbons on it almost as much as the woman’s smirk.

“You poor creature. You’ve your mother’s sorry figure.”

“Touch me again and I’ll show you how alike we are,” Etta spat out.

Winifred had already turned away, retrieving the blouse and newly let-out skirt from the maid. She threw them at Etta’s feet.

“With haste, you stupid child,” she said, when Etta did not immediately do as she was told. “The Grand Master won’t be pleased if he’s kept waiting.”

Etta’s temper flared at the word child, singeing whatever restraint she might have had left. That was the only explanation she had for why she said, “Cyrus Ironwood is the Grand Master.”

The slap came so suddenly that Etta could not have dodged it if she had enough time to try. She careened back onto the bed, pressing her hand to the burning skin on her face.

“Look what you made me do,” the woman growled. “Such insolence! And after I cared for you! Washed you! Tended to your courses! And with nary a complaint. If he hadn’t asked it of me, I would have smothered you from the start.”

“You are insane,” Etta informed her, fists already clenched. “Hit me again and your friends will be picking pieces of you out of the rug!”

The maid blanched, but Etta didn’t care, she didn’t—she was shaking now with the full force of her fury, embarrassment, and resentment. She tried to quell the hurricane of emotions swirling in her chest as she finished dressing and was forced to sit at the vanity and have her hair braided. She avoided looking in the mirror, unwilling to see the throbbing red mark across her cheek.

“Hardly acceptable,” Winifred said, once the ordeal was over, “but follow me.”

Etta knew she needed to go with her if she wanted to confirm the Thorns had the astrolabe, but obeying this woman felt like swallowing seawater: it incinerated her throat, choking her.

“I think I’ll stay,” Etta said, crossing her arms over her chest.

The woman’s hand reached out, and Etta instinctively struck her arm out to block the hit—only, the woman wasn’t aiming for another slap. Her other hand came up and fisted into Etta’s braid, twisting so tightly that Etta yelped in pain. “Let me go!”

Instead, the woman dragged her across the room, never once breaking her stride as Etta kicked and scratched at her to release her grip. The door opened to the other guard’s wide-eyed shock, and, as he fumbled for his words, the woman continued on her path, letting Etta’s bare feet drag and burn across the carpet, down the stairs.

There really was some sort of party happening on the first floor. As Winifred hauled her across a gallery hallway, Etta could hear the excited chatter and laughter, even as a man poured himself into playing a jaunty tune on a piano. The smell of liquor and perfume permeated the air as they passed the door to the library, with Julian’s amused face peering out.

“Attagirl,” he called after them. “Keep fighting, kiddo!”

“Stop calling me that!” she snarled back, gritting her teeth as his laugher chased them down the hall.

And, finally, to another door, this one guarded by three men in fine suits. Winifred released her grip on Etta’s hair, and Etta righted herself. Two of the men blanched at the sight of her. The other twitched a heavy brow in her direction, struggling to swallow his laugh as he gave Etta a pitying look.

“Come now, Winnie. She’s just a girl. Have a care.”

“Her girl,” Winifred said, pounding on the door. “Never forget this.”

“Come in,” came the immediate reply.

Not an invitation, of course, but a command. Etta had arrived ready to fight, her pulse raging as she huffed. Calm down, calm down, remember the plan—she had to find out if they had the astrolabe, and try to figure out how to get it away from them to destroy it once and for all.

The guards fell back as Etta was pushed inside by the older woman, her hand twisted in the loose fabric of Etta’s blouse to ensure, she guessed, that she didn’t try to make one last run for it. Instead, she passed through the threshold at her full height, trying not to glare.

This office had been decorated in a similar style to the library—all masculine dark wood and jewel tones. It aimed to be impressive, and hit the mark. The window captured much the same view of the crippled landscape, along with the first hint of dawn brightening the sky.

There were already four people in the room, seated around the stately desk at its center. Etta’s eyes landed on the woman first, taking in her tailored skirt suit and the dark hair she’d curled and twisted into victory rolls. The older man beside her wore plain linen trousers and a tunic, both almost entirely hidden beneath his leather chest plate and sword belt. His long gray hair was slicked back from his bearded face, with small silver beads braided into several of the strands that grazed the fur pelt draped over his shoulders. To his right was a young Asian man, wearing a kimono in a shade of blue usually found only in the deepest heart of the ocean.

An incredulous laugh bubbled up inside of her at the sight of them.