Contrary to June’s advice, Talia doesn’t manage to get any rest. They arrive at the outpost late in the night, and she spends a few hours tossing and turning on a hard, uncomfortable bed in a guarded room while the wind howls outside like it’s trying to break through the walls.

The next morning, she’s served some sort of strange purple mush for breakfast that at least tastes sweet. She’s just forcing down the last dredges of it when a new man arrives, surrounded by a few Scrys. He’s middle-aged with spectacles perched on his beak-like nose and he’s the first person not dressed in black robes that Talia’s seen in hours.

One of the Scrys is carrying a large box in his arms that he sets on the table next to Talia’s empty dishes.

“This is Dianthus,” the Scry says, and it’s the first name since June’s that Talia has learned. “He is going to help with your fitting.”

“Fitting?” Talia asks in confusion.

But the Scrys are allergic to giving answers because they sweep out of the room without another word. Left alone with the mysterious Dianthus, Talia watches warily as he places a leather bag on the table next to the box and snaps it open with a sharp flick of his wrist.

“Stand up, please, milady.”

Milady? That feels weird.

“Just Talia,” Talia says as she complies, rising from her place at the large dining table.

Dianthus looks displeased by this request, but then again, he looks displeased in general—brow pinched as he extracts what looks like a tape measure and a notebook from the bag. He proceeds to measure her shoulders, arms, waist, chest, legs, and head, pausing after each one to scribble numbers into his book with an actual quill pen.

“What is all this for?” Talia asks as Dianthus presses the tape to the length of her spine.

Fortunately, Dianthus seems eager to answer questions. “For your ceremonial garments, of course. I won’t be able to fully adjust them in the time we have, but I can make a few small alterations to ensure they fit.”

“Ceremonial garments?”

Dianthus nods towards the box on the table. “All Keepers have worn them.”

He moves towards his bag again and to Talia’s shock, pulls an entire partition from the depths of it like he’s Mary Poppins. He unfolds the screen, standing it up to create a small, private area in the corner of the room.

“You can change behind here,” he explains, pushing the box into her arms. “Please move quickly, milady. I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

Head spinning, Talia stumbles behind the screen and pries open the lid of the wooden box. Folded inside is a set of robes more intricate than any Talia has ever seen. They’re made of a deep purple material. . Stitched on the back of the outer robe is a mountain range of white-capped peaks. On the shoulder of each sleeve are red flames, and an intricate white sash ties the whole ensemble together. Talia traces her fingers over the patterns. The color of the robe is the same as the sea in her dreams and there is another flicker of memory, hazier than even a dream: a horizon line filled with mountains that disappeared into the sky.

Unsettled, she shakes out the robe and begins the painstaking process of putting it on.

The outfit is too big, made for someone far taller than her, and Talia has to gather the excess material to avoid tripping over it as she steps outside.

“Beautiful,” Dianthus declares when he sees her.

She feels awkward and strange, but doesn’t comment, letting him whirl around her in a tornado of activity, making adjustments with some kind of contraption. The length of the robe and skirt magically get shorter and the shoulders narrow to her smaller frame.

“This should do for now,” Dianthus says. “Until I can make permanent alterations.”

He looks so earnest about all of this that Talia blurts out, “Thank you,” on instinct.

“You’re most welcome, milady.”

And then, just like that, he’s shoving the screen and his tools back into the Mary Poppins bag and hurrying away. June slips into the room only a few seconds after the door closes behind Dianthus, and Talia hates that for a moment, she’s glad to see him.

He’s dressed in the same black outfit he was yesterday and he pauses when his eyes land on her, a complicated expression flickering across his face before the smooth, professional mask returns.

“You look nice,” he says without any inflection.

“I look ridiculous,” Talia counters. At least she feels ridiculous. There isn’t any mirror in the room that can verify the ridiculousness for her.

June arches an eyebrow. “Those robes have been worn by Keepers for millenia,” he says, tone dry. “I wouldn’t insult them, if I were you.”

Talia glares at him. “I didn’t ask for any of this. Not this title or these robes or this whole world in general. I’ve never actually agreed to any of this.”

June holds up a placating hand. “I know,” he says. “And I’m sure all of this is … a shock.”

That’s putting it mildly.

“But,” June continues and the stern undercurrent of his voice reminds Talia painfully of Polo, “you’re better off playing along for now. Trust me. You’ll get answers later.”

She has no reason to trust him, but she does still need answers.

“Fine,” she says with a sharp exhale of surrender. “But at least tell me where we’re going.”

“The capitol,” June says. “There are a lot of people waiting to meet you.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Talia mutters, but follows June out the door.

***

Several hours in a bumpy, uncomfortable carriage later, and Talia is ready to scream. She can feel it building in her throat, pressing against the backs of her teeth. She’s tempted to let it out, just to see what happens, but they suddenly pull to a stop.

She hears indistinct shouting outside the carriage and shoots a questioning glance at June.

“We’re here,” he says and throws open the door.

He reaches out to help her down, but she ignores him, gathering up the cumbersome fabric of her robes in one hand and hopping to the ground. She’s not sure what she’s expecting, perhaps to be in the middle of a city, but they seem to be on the outskirts of one.

A giant wall rises above her like a skyscraper, extending in either direction until it’s swallowed by the horizon. Directly in front of them, a gate has been carved into the stone—made of shimmering ornate metal—and a bridge extends across an emerald green river.

Another delegation has gathered in the center of the bridge, with vehicles behind them that Talia doesn’t recognize. They’re dressed in the black robes of the Scrys, but one has gold woven along his waist and sleeves and collar.

It’s him who steps forward and greets her with a warm smile.

“Talia,” he says, and Talia startles at the use of her name, “welcome home.”