★ "The fast-paced plot and resonant emotional beats organically explore pervasive, harmful patriarchal and misogynistic beliefs, choice and control, and resistance and revenge. Brief interstitials present vignettes from secondary characters’ perspectives and ephemera that further the immersive worldbuilding. The leads read white; the cast overall is broadly diverse in representation. Heart-pounding action and romance anchor timely themes of agency and self-actualization."—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

– CHAPTER 2 – A Shadow Doesn't Have to Fear the Dark Sayer sways to the music, making her stolen dress glimmer. Its sequins flash with the light of the candles, all trickster-kissed to burn a sultry red. Each dancing girl wears a feathered mask with dark mesh over the eyeholes. Sayer swore she would never put one on again. Yet here she is, playing at being a Nightbird. The irony isn’t lost on her.  When the Nightbirds disbanded, the system that once kept their secrets safe unraveled. Old clients started talking. An anonymous lord even sold a tell-all to a newssheet: My Evening with a Nightbird. Now that all of Simta knows about the elite girls who once gifted magic with kisses, everyone wants a taste, real or not. Hence this new type of amusement: a so-called Nightbirds party. The evening’s host, a House Rochet lordling, has brought his friends to an establishment on Smoky Row to celebrate his impending nuptials. The evening started with them going through the bawdy house’s parlor, where a woman calling herself Madam Crow took their money. She introduced each girl by a code name: things like the Swallow, the Wren, and the Flamingo. None of these girls were ever Nightbirds, but that doesn’t matter. The evening wouldn’t be as thrilling unless it followed the entirety of the script. The guests—all men—hover at the room’s edges. A few are moving in, swaying and tipsy, doing their best attempt at the Deepwater Creep. The girls are doing a passable job of pretending to enjoy it. Sayer keeps her eyes on Iona, the girl she came for. Leta heard, through her web of spies and whispers, that she wants out of this brothel, but apparently her Madam has other ideas. After all, a girl like her is worth a fortune. This Madam Crow has promised her clients there is a truly magical girl at this party, a gold coin hidden in a stack of copper naves. The first to find her gets to claim her. Sayer’s got to get her out before they do. This house, this city, isn’t safe for girls with magic, especially those with no family. Pipers harass them, the church’s Wardens arrest them, lords like these see them as fair game. So Leta uses her wealth and connections to help find and rescue girls who need it. Sayer spends her nights as their unforgiving blade. Still, for every girl she helps, another seems to slip through her fingers. For every man she makes pay for his crimes, another walks free. We can’t guard them all, Leta tells her, and punish every villain who deserves it.She thinks of her sire. Anger crackles inside her. It’s always there, a dark heart between her ribs. Watch me. Sayer dances closer to the girl they’re calling the Flamingo. She flinches a little every time someone touches her, wiping a hand on her deeply pink dress. Sayer is almost there when a boy wedges in, blocking her view. “Pleasant evening,” he says, thin lips framed by a goatee that reminds her of a hedge maze. “What’s your name again, sweetling?” She tilts her head coyly. “The Egret.” Lucky Sayer and the actual Egret have similar coloring. The girl was happy enough to let Sayer take her place tonight. His hand snakes around her. “Tell me, little egret. Are you the one with magic?” Sayer makes herself smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He laughs, though it’s more of a bray. “Aren’t you charming.” If only he knew she has a knife under her dress. “I have to talk to one of the other girls,” Sayer says. “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.” Hedge Maze squeezes her waist. “Wouldn’t you rather find somewhere private to continue our . . . conversation?” Sayer finds herself wondering what Matilde would say to him. She often leans on her friends—in thought, at least—borrowingtheir charm or guile or kindness. She has to do it from memory, since it’s been months since they spoke. Æsa is in Illan, as far as she can get from Simta. Matilde is cloistered at the palace, playing politics. Fen avoids her like some form of the pox. She pushes that last thought aside. Matilde, she decides, would go on the offensive. “I have a better idea. Let’s play a game. You close your eyes and count to one hundred, then come find me.” With a grin, the boy dutifully closes his eyes and starts counting. Sayer turns, but the Flamingo is gone. The boys are starting to disperse, following the dancers into closets and other shadowed corners. She curses under her breath and goes on the hunt. She slips down the main hallway, which is lined with gilded mirrors. She doesn’t look at them as she creeps up the staircase, calling on her magic to muffle her steps. Her air magic isn’t as powerful as it was when the four of them were still together, not nearly, but her control over what she can do with it has grown. She can sharpen her hearing, deaden sound, and make herself invisible, though she doesn’t want to risk it here—not yet. The house’s upstairs level is dark enough that it’s hard to see in front of her. No matter. A shadow doesn’t have to fear the dark. There’s a shuffling in a room down the hall, a murmur of voices. Sayer stalks closer. She doesn’t have to strain to make out their words. “That is quite a gift,” a male voice says. “How fortunate I am to be sampling it.” Quick as a breath, Sayer makes herself blend into the shadows, body and clothes all shifting to match the hall, part invisi­bility, part camouflage. She eases open the door and slips slowly inside. No one notices her entrance. The masked client is standing by the balcony door, flung open to the night. This bawdy house is on the end of Smoky Row, near the canal. Sayer can hear the water slapping gently down below. The client pulls Iona close, hands sliding around her. Something about the way he touches her, almost proprietary, sends Sayer’s mind tumbling back to that day she saw a man pin her dame to a wall. Wyllo Regnis was hungry for her dame’s magic once, too. Sayer’s estranged sire took and took, then left them both in the gutter. Thinking of him has her pulling out her knife. It’s mostly for show: These days, she doesn’t need it. She can do more damage with her magic than any blade, however sharp. But it reminds her who she was before she could bend the air and sink into the shadows. That even without it, she would still hold a lethal edge. “What is it?” the man says as Iona pulls back. “I told the Madam I would give you my magic. No more than that.” “Yes, but I’ve heard that more than a kiss is required to fully transmit it. The more contact there is, the longer it lasts.” Sayer frowns. The city’s rumor mill has churned out all sorts of tales about girls with magic lately. Some call them wanton, selling body, magic, and soul to the highest bidder. Others make them sound like vampiresses out for blood. They’ll give you magic, but it will cost you. They will drink your soul given the chance. She busted a piper the other day selling a vial of blood, which he said held the same magical properties as the girl it was drawn from. A dangerous lie. This one is, too. “That isn’t true,” Iona insists. “A kiss is plenty.” “For you, perhaps. But I expect more.” She hates that men like this think they can take what they want without consequence. She hates that this girl, any girl, feels powerless to stop it. Sayer edges forward, ready to fight if she has to. Then the man smooths his lapels. “Ah, well,” he says, turning toward a sideboard. “I’ve rushed you. Let’s have a drink and talk some more.” She watches him take off his mask and put it down beside the line of bottles. With a jolt, Sayer recognizes his face. He’s the boy who tried to feel up a maid at Leta’s Season-opening ball all those months ago. A part of her wants to stab him just for that. “I could take you away from all this, you know,” he says. Iona grips the back of a chair. “What do you mean?” “I believe you owe the Madam quite a sum. I could pay it off for you. Set you up in your own house with an allowance, plenty of finery. All I would ask is that you give your magic to me—only me.” “I . . . don’t know,” Iona hedges. “My Madam would be angry.” “I will persuade her, don’t worry. I do hope I can persuade you, too.” As he talks, he pours their drinks. His back is turned to Iona, but Sayer can see his hands in the reflection of a mirror. He surreptitiously takes a small tin out of his pocket and pulls something free. It looks like a lozenge, about the size of a shill coin, but sickly yellow. He drops it into a glass, where it dissolves. “Here,” he says, holding it out to Iona. “Drink up. It will relax you.” She clearly doesn’t want to, but takes it anyway. What choice does she really have? Sayer moves, plucking it out of her hand before she can drink it. Iona gasps, eyes on the cup that seems to hover as if floating on the air. “What devilry is this?” the client says, going crimson. “The kind that will stab you if you move. So don’t.” He sucks in a breath, his eyes trying to find her. “You can shout for help, if you like,” Sayer tells him, voice cold as steel. “But no one will hear you. I’ve made sure of it.” At that, the client’s face goes from blotchy red to pale. “I know who you are.” “Oh, yes? Who am I?” “The one who’s been causing us all so much trouble. The Storm Witch.” She lets her invisibility fall away. Her mask will conceal her, and she wants him to see the knife she’s holding. “I’m glad my reputation precedes me. That should save us some time.” “Why are you here?” he says. “My dealings don’t concern you.” His voice is steady, all bravado, but his trembling hands betray his fear. Good. “I beg to differ.” Sayer sniffs the drink. It smells of char and algae, mixed in with something sweeter. It reminds her of the potion the zealot tried to give her on her last night as the Ptarmigan, sending a nasty shiver down her neck. “What did you put in this drink?” His jaw ticks. “I don’t know what you mean.” “Try again.” He doesn’t speak, lips pinching. Then he turns and makes a dash for the door. Sayer concentrates until she can see the air, shimmering in bands of grey and blue. With a thought, she wills it to thicken around him, pushing him back into the chair. He grunts as he tries to pull his arms up, only to find them fixed to it as if by manacles. She has made sure the bands of air are good and tight. “How dare you,” he sputters. “Do you know who my sire is? He will—” She cuts off his air, just to show him she can do it. From nearthe balcony door, Iona sucks in a breath. He chokes once, twice, before she lets him breathe freely again. “I’ll ask you nicely one more time.” She circles, a tigren stalking her prey. “What did you try to drug this girl with?” He wriggles in his chair, sweating now. “It’s a party drug. Something to enhance the mood. That is all.” She slips the tin out of his pocket. He yanks at his restraints, his pupils huge. “Put that back,” he grits out. “Do you know how much it’s worth?” Sayer snorts. “I’m sure you can afford more.” “They’re dashed rare. My sire will murder me if he finds out I wasted them both.” She opens it to see one yellow lozenge tucked in waxed paper. It’s etched with a wilted-looking flower. “What is it called?” He doesn’t answer. Sayer runs the tip of her knife across one of his hands, leaving a thin red line there. He jerks but is helpless to pull back. “I recommend you spill,” she says, all menace. “Unless you want to leave this room a lot less pretty than you entered it. I won’t be shedding any tears over your fate.” His mouth works. “Sugar. It’s called Sugar. It’s meant to make a girl more . . . biddable.” And he waited to put it in Iona’s drink until he knew she had magic. A suspicion creeps through her, spreading like a stain across cloth. “It only works on girls with magic. Is that what you’re saying?” The boy grinds his teeth. A sinister wind cuts through the room, smelling of storm clouds. Iona gasps, but Sayer’s gaze stays fixed on the client. “It’s . . . yes,” he growls. “It only works on girls with magic.” “And where did your sire get it?” “A friend of his. An important man.” His lip curls. “One day soon, I hope he becomes your keeper. Someone needs to put you on a leash.” The church says girls like her are some great, corrupting evil. They post flyers portraying her, Matilde, Fen, and Æsa with wings and fangs and claws, as monsters. But it’s boys like this who deserve to be shamed. As he speaks, his voice twists, becoming someone else’s. Suddenly it’s Wyllo Regnis in the chair. Sayer remembers the feel of his hands around her wrists on Leastnight, pulling a rope tight. Men like him—like this—are never made to suffer. Why shouldn’t it be her who makes them pay? Her fury spills over, almost blinding. Quick as lightning, she brings her knife down. It sinks into his hand, biting into the plush velvet of the armrest. He screams, high pitched, and yet it isn’t enough. She presses down, imagining it’s Wyllo panting in agony. Her rage is a storm that never dies. “Please. Don’t,” Iona whispers. Sayer sucks in a breath and steps back, pulling her blade free. The man screams again, then starts cursing. She gags him with another band of air. “The Storm Witch,” Iona breathes. “It really is you. What are you doing here?” “I’m here to get you out.” “But my Madam. If I run, she will find me.” “She won’t.” She takes Iona’s hand. “I promise.” A moment passes, then another. At last, Iona nods. “I have a few more questions for this one,” Sayer says, nodding to the client. “But then—” The doorknob rattles. “Little Egret,” comes a slurred voice from the hall. “Are you there?” Dash it: the client she left counting downstairs. She’d forgotten him. Just as she forgot to lock the door . . . It swings open, and the drunken lordling stumbles into the room. Sayer pulls Iona behind her. There’s a moment as he takes in his friend bleeding in the chair. She reaches out, hoping to muffle his voice, but it’s too late. He shrieks loud enough to wake the dead. “Witch!” He lunges. Sayer uses her magic to push him up against a wall, pinning him there like a butterfly. The boy in the chair fights and writhes to get free. He is still bound, but it’s getting harder to hold him now that she has two bodies to manage. Without the other girls near, her magic tires more quickly. It has limits, and she’s stretched it too thin. Footsteps pound through the town house. More boys are coming. She sheathes her knife and backs Iona toward the balcony. “Can you swim?” she asks. The girl’s eyes are dark spheres in the moonlight. “Yes, but the canal’s too far. We won’t make it.” Sayer looks out over the railing to the cobbled street below. She’s right: Even with a running start, which they won’t have, they should hit stones rather than water. Or they would if she wasn’t the Storm Witch. “Trust me.” They scramble over the balcony’s railing. Sayer clings to it with one hand. “On three, we jump.” She will have to drop her fraying hold on the two boys before she tries this. The one in the chair has already broken free. Sayer pulls a small orb out of a pocket and throws it. The glass breaks on the rug, and both boys start itching madly, yelp-ing as the alchemical makes welts spread like fire across their skin. That should keep them busy. “One . . .” She lets the last bands of air around the boys drop. “Two . . .” Sayer grabs Iona’s hand, concentrating, tongue tasting of rain and wind and iron. “Three.” A hand grazes Sayer’s shoulder, but they’re already falling. Sayer throws her concentration out into the night air, asking it to shape and bend. The air beneath them hardens, turning smooth as glass. They slide along it, arching over the street and toward the water. “Gods.” Iona’s eyes, which had been screwed shut, shoot open. “Are we flying?” More like sliding, but still. Sayer lets herself soar on the thrill of it. “That’s what clever birds do.”