The river smelled like old timber and fish and a cluster of spices that had traveled half the coast. Flags along the quay snapped like a chorus, blue and gold and the green of Lyrhaven’s merchant houses. Men and women elbowed for a view; children perched on shoulders, their tongues stained with sugared almonds. At the far end of the long wooden pavilion a dozen benches waited beneath fluttering pennants—seats for magistrates, for petitioners, for the eyes that watched who rose and who stayed low. Colette stepped from the sedan and the world angled toward her. Her gown caught the light in a thousand bright seams. It was not silk alone but a work meant to be stared at: feathers stitched into a fan at the back, tiny scales of dyed goose and peacock arranged like a crest. Each feather had been treated by Lyrhaven’s best dyer until the colors made small private sunsets. The skirt whispered at her calves; the sleeves clung to slim wrists like the skin of a river eel. There were gasps, the smooth rustle of gossip. Lucien Fontana, the city's wide-shouldered merchant, walked beside her with the loose grin of a man who had spent his life buying impressions. “My girl,” he said as cameras—no, not cameras, but ledger-boys with ink and quick hands—jotted, “Make us proud.” She lowered her chin. At thirteen the gown outweighed the girl it wrapped; she felt both buried and emboldened. Colette