The Dark asha’s letter ended there. The rest of the tale was missing.

“You were always impulsive, Zoya,” the bone witch said, “though I would be a hypocrite to criticize you for something I have always been guilty of myself.”

“Let me go,” Zoya told her, “and I can offer you another refresher.”

The Dark asha laughed at that.

“Why hadn’t you thought to tell us before, little uchenik?” Lord Rahim pleaded. “Why such secrecy? Why did you have to burn a mountain?”

“Because there is a traitor among you. I discovered it only recently, after you had all left the safety of Ankyo’s runic wards. I would denounce the betrayer, but what good would that do? You would have never believed me before, and it was more advantageous for me to keep an eye on her where she was, rather than have her flee once more into parts unknown.”

“Who is it?” Lord Fox was tight-lipped and trembling, the sword heavy in his hands. He raised it toward the Dark asha. She did not move, did not compel him. She watched him instead, and somehow that was worse.

“Do you finally believe me, Fox? You were right. I killed Daisy. I might not remember it, but it was my hand that did the deed. But I was not myself. I did not need someone to compel me, to carry out their orders. I made that discovery far too late.” Her voice fell. “And Likh…”

Khalad wept. His sobs were soft, barely discernible; in the quiet, they could cut stone.

“Tea,” King Kance said in a soft, satin timbre. “Tell us. Please.”

These were the songs they would never play at the darashi oyun, the dances Vernasha of the Roses would have burned along with her books. All eyes were on Lady Tea as she took the stage, and a new tale lay poised at her fingertips, the missing pieces eager to fall into place.

“Let me tell you the rest of the story,” she said.