"I've said all I need to say." She shrugs, shaking her head. Swallowing down what resentment still burns in her chest. It's hard not to look at Zoya the same way she looks at Ivan—people who made her life harder for no reason, people who saw specialness in her and hated her for it, either because of what they wanted from her, or because of what it made them think about themselves.

She's not quite generous enough to set all that aside.

"I'm going back to the festival." She looks over her shoulder. "Good luck settling in. I hope it goes as well for you as it did for me, in Os Alta."