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She would do that right after she found somewhere to throw up and maybe have a long cry.

There were only six more days until the festival of the moonless night, which wasn’t a lot of time when they were all so busy. They had to take advantage of what little pockets of time they had to prepare.

Most of the clan, and a few villagers, had been chipping away at the festival preparations while Iryana had been gone. Tonhald and Edvar were slowly clearing their courtyard of snow, which was an arduous process with new blankets of white falling nearly every other day. Aunt Emadya and some of the younger unforged were preparing treats and candies early in the morning before breakfast had to be started. Uncle Dinhal was teaching a few of the cousins how to play the songs on the instruments they had, and how to craft makeshift ones where they could. Kladara and Darsha were teaching everyone dances after dinner.

Iryana sat in Hadima’s room again late that evening as they worked on crafts for the festival. She was exhausted, but she wasn’t about to give up the time with her sisters.

Hadima’s room was simple. A wooden bed, a small table and chair, a nightstand. But it was cozy and warm. She had a quilt stitched in blues and greens laid across the bed and simple wall hangings with embroidered shapes of botanicals.

They had pulled the chair over from Iryana’s room too, so Hadima and Iryana could sit at the little table while Misha spread out on the bed. Lanterns sat on the table and nightstand, casting just enough light to see their work. They’d already dressed for bed, wearing simple nightgowns and warm leggings mostly covered by the thick woolen shawls wrapped around their shoulders. Iryana and Misha had brushed out their hair, and it fell down their backs in the same golden waves. She’d rebraid it for bed, but for now, it felt nice to leave it loose. Hadima’s hair was still braided, but she let it fall over her shoulder instead of being wrapped around her head.

It was so familiar, so intimate. Misha and Hadima had never felt more like her sisters.

Iryana took a break from the small stitching she was doing on the headdresses she was making with Hadima for the women to wear, stretching out the cramps in her fingers.

Misha was stringing together paper flowers they’d folded into garlands they could hang along the gate, muttering and cursing each time she pricked her fingers.

“I have thimbles,” Hadima reminded her.

“I’m fine,” Misha insisted stubbornly, glaring at the growing pile of red, orange, green, purple, and blue dyed paper.

Hadima pointed a threaded needle at Iryana. “She gets this stubbornness from you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Iryana tried to hide her smile.

It felt good to sit with her sisters. Since she’d told them everything, she’d felt closer to them than ever. Like there was something shared only between them, and not the rest of the clan. Perhaps that was selfish and possessive, but Iryana liked having secrets with her sisters.

And things with Misha had turned around completely. There was still some hesitation and pained looks, but Misha seemed to set it aside.

Hadima picked up the headdress Iryana had finished. It was a creamy color, cut to the shape of an almost-full moon, the missing side an opening that would fit over the head. Hadima was stitching beads and embroidering stars onto the headdresses as Iryana finished.

“You two are so much better at this,” Misha complained, shooting a glare at her needle as she jabbed herself again.

“Mother taught us,” Hadima’s voice fell. “I suppose you were too young, Misha…”

Misha frowned deeper at the needle, but Iryana froze. “I don’t remember that.” She had no memories of learning, she just thought she’d always known how.

“You don’t remember Mother sewing with us?” A pained look crossed Hadima’s face. “In Klees? She’d have us work on it almost every night after dinner.”

Iryana shrugged. “I don’t—” But glimpses of a warmly decorated room were coming to her, of her and Hadima sitting on either side of her mother. Soft, gentle words encouraging their stitches. “Maybe a little. It was a long time ago.”

Hadima swallowed tightly, and there was pain in her eyes. But before she could ask, Misha changed the subject.

“You know,” Misha said in a tone that Iryana couldn’t quite interpret, “you haven’t told us how things are going with Pyetar.”

“I told you that I’m focusing on being Third and being with the clan,” Iryana said quickly, grabbing more stiffened fabric to stitch together.

No one in the clan had said much about what had happened in the square when she’d killed Karvek. They’d whispered about the way Pyetar had looked at her, at what Karvek had said, but when Iryana refused to comment on it, they stopped asking her. They seemed to assume it was all a part of the game Iryana had played to earn her place there.

“So?” Misha demanded. “Are you telling me that you saved his life, rescued him, put him in power, and spent weeks alone with him on multiple missions, and you feel nothing?”

“Why are you asking about this now?” Her voice was a bit strangled. “It’s been three months.”

“Because I want to know.” Misha stared at her, chin raised. Iryana knew she wasn’t going to let this go.

She didn’t want to talk about it, but it wasn’t often that Misha showed interest in Iryana’s life. She found herself hesitating.

“I’d like to know, too.” Hadima looked at her expectantly, those graceful brows arched high. “I didn’t want to rush you before, but with everything that’s going on now… there’s no reason not to tell us.”