Rune’s fingers itched to dig into her money pouch and drop several coins, but it was illegal to directly aid a Penitent. And with Carson nearby, she didn’t dare. So she only smiled a little. The children’s echoing smiles twisted her heart with guilt as she passed them by.

Inside, Rune discovered Carson was correct: the opera was half over. Before her, the ceremonial staircase—divided into two divergent and interwoven flights of steps—was mostly empty. But the cacophony of voices coming from the grand foyer far above was an unmistakable sign that intermission was well underway.

Pressing her hand to the cool marble balustrade, Rune pushed the Penitent children out of her mind and started upward. She felt aware of the men around her as she ascended the stairs, their attentive gazes lingering on her long after she passed, reminding her of a recent conversation she’d had with her friend Verity.

Don’t you think it’s time you picked one?

A suitor, she’d meant. One of the many eligible young men who lined up to take Rune’s dancing ribbons at balls, invited her out on romantic dinners, and took her on long carriage rides. It wasn’t Rune who tempted them. Sure, a few might genuinely be interested in the pretty face she presented to the world. Most, though, were after Nan’s fortune, her profitable shipping business, and her vast estate. All of it “gifted” to Rune by the New Republic for her heroism during the revolution.

Rune had been stringing the useful ones along for over a year—all from well-connected families with access to secrets she needed. Secrets she could often get them to spill in dark corners and shadowed alcoves.

But she couldn’t keep doing it forever. Their patience was limited, and Rune couldn’t afford to make enemies of them.

Verity had made a list of the most valuable suitors and left it on Rune’s pillow the morning after their talk.

She would need to choose one, and she’d need to do it soon.

But not tonight, she thought, hurrying up the steps. Tonight, she would mingle with the sons and daughters of the revolution, stealing whatever secrets she could.

When Rune arrived at the top of the interwoven staircase, the grand foyer stretched out before her, full of opera patrons dressed in muted silks and frothy lace, with cream-colored pearls strung through their hair, all of them illuminated by a dozen pairs of winking chandeliers hanging down the massive hall.

“Rune Winters,” said a voice that stopped her in her tracks. “Sneaking in late, I see. Out on a tryst with one of your lovers?”

Several scandalized giggles followed.

The voice belonged to Verity de Wilde—Rune’s best friend.

Verity stood beneath the lights with her hands on both hips and a playful smile tugging at her mouth. Wispy brown ringlets framed her white face, and her eyes were dark behind her spectacles. She wore a dress the color of sunflowers, with white lace sleeves and a low-cut back—one of Rune’s hand-me-downs from last season. It had originally been sleeveless, but since sleeveless dresses were out of fashion now, Rune had enlisted her seamstress to add them before gifting it to Verity.

Flanking Verity was a group of their fashionable friends. Young men and women who’d dined at Rune’s table and danced in her ballroom hundreds of times—and would do so again tonight, at her after-party.

Friends was perhaps too generous a term, since not one of them would think twice about turning her in if they knew what she was.

“Or perhaps,” said another voice, causing everyone to turn, “Rune has been out rescuing witches all night. They say the Crimson Moth only works beneath the cover of darkness.”

The words chilled Rune, who looked directly into the piercing eyes of Laila Creed. Laila was several inches taller—which always made it seem like she was looking down her nose at Rune—and a member of the Blood Guard.

She was also beautiful, with prominent cheekbones and raven-black hair crowned high on her head. Rune recognized the design of the high-waisted peacock blue dress. It was the work of Sebastian Khan, a popular dressmaker from the mainland whose wait list was almost a year long and whose dresses were the envy of the season. It was impossible to acquire one unless you had considerable wealth and connections.

Rune had two in her closet.

That fact that Laila wore the rare dress and not her uniform meant she was off duty tonight. She likely hadn’t been one of the witch hunters who’d brought Seraphine in.

Rune’s blood ran cold at the memory of Seraphine’s empty house. Of how the Blood Guard soldiers found the witch right before Rune showed up. If she was being spied on, that spy could very well be Laila, who had never liked Rune, for reasons she could only guess at.

Donning her mask—the one she hid the true Rune Winters behind—Rune threw back her head and laughed.

“Ha! Can you imagine it? Me, spending my nights gallivanting across this damned island, with its ghastly weather and endless mud and rain? Think of what it would do to my Minews!”

She pulled up the hem of her skirt to show off the silk shoes, custom made by Evelyn Minew, a couture artist halfway across the world whose designs were one of a kind and never replicated. It had taken half a year for Rune to get in touch with her, and another year for the shoes to arrive.

Take that, Laila Creed.

At the looks of astonishment and envy, Rune dropped her hem and, smiling, entered the circle forming around her, stepping a little in front of Laila to edge her out. Lowering her voice, a little conspiratorially, she said, “Did you hear? The vigilante smuggled her last batch of witches out through the sewers. The sewers! Just think!”

Their noses wrinkled with disgust.

Rune didn’t need to fake her reaction. Her stomach twisted at the memory of it: the putrid odor of raw sewage filling the dark tunnel, sloshing around her knees as she and the twin sisters she’d rescued—they were barely thirteen—walked through the stench for miles beneath the city. A servant had found their bedsheets hidden beneath the floorboards and informed on the girls. The bloodstains weren’t red, but black—the telltale sign of a witch who’d come into her powers at the onset of her first bleeding.

That night, Alexander Sharpe—the same friend who had tipped Rune off to the Blood Guard closing in on Nan—had been waiting on the other end with fresh clothes and a horse that would take the girls directly to the docks, where one of Rune’s loaded cargo ships was ready to set sail. Alex was always waiting on the other end. Sometimes with horses or a carriage; other times with boats. He was the getaway man in their heists, and he never let Rune down.

The cargo ship arrived in port two days ago, and the twins had sent a coded message saying they were safe on the mainland.

“Anyone who prefers wading through poo to sleeping soundly in a soft, clean bed is, well, revolting.” Growing warm beneath her cloak, Rune untied the tassels at her throat.

The surrounding party murmured their agreement. Except for one person—Laila.

“But isn’t that precisely what the Crimson Moth would say?”

Rune’s fingers stiffened as the tassels of the cloak came undone. The garment slipped from her bare shoulders, and before she could grab it, someone stepped behind her, catching the fine wool and folding it over his arm.

“Come now,” said a comforting voice near her ear. “If Rune was the Moth, would she have delivered her grandmother to be purged?”

As the owner of the voice stepped beside Rune, she glanced up. Alex Sharpe. In the presence of her oldest friend—a genuine friend, like Verity—every muscle in her body relaxed.

He looked like a lion tonight, with his golden hair shining beneath the light of the chandeliers. His gaze was warm and steady on her face, but his forehead creased ever so slightly, saying he knew where she’d been, and he’d worried about her.