noroke (v.) speaking fondly about one's sweetheart); going on about one's love affairs.

Khalore's howl chased all of the silence out of the atelier. It was not so awful as any of the screams Ilja had heard before, but it was the angriest. There was pure rage in that sound; there was a fury that escaped words.

Ina shook her head when Ilja went to follow her. He was almost grateful for her stopping him in his tracks like this. What had his plan been? To take Khalore by the shoulder, to shake her, to tell her not to be angry? She was right to be angry. He was angry. They all were. There was an awful tight knot of white-hot rage behind his eyes, practically blinding him.

"She needs to get it out of her system."

"Na –"

"You know Lore," Zoran said. Ilja hated it when they did that - when they spoke like they shared a single thread of thought. "She won't be able to think straight for the time being."

"She can't be gone," Khal was saying, "she can't..."

There was a crash upstairs. It sounded like she might have turned over the bed – Ilja wondered if she had given Pekka the chance to get out of the way first. Did she think that Nez might be hiding under the mattress?

Ina said, darkly, sorrowfully, "we're fucking cursed."

"Yeah," Ilja said, "that's kind of the idea."

She didn't seem to find this as funny as he did.

In silence, they arranged the abandoned house into a semblance of shelter. Chairs were straightened, and plates were cleared, and the excubitors set to sharpening their blades in case the worst came howling to the door in the dark of the night. Åsmund did not waste time observing them, but ascended the stairs in search of a place to while away the watch. It was as the lieutenant had told him it would be: blood, everywhere, the sight of it and the stench of it impossible to ignore, beds left abandoned and bedraggled as though perhaps their occupants had been dragged from their duvets with claws and fangs and screaming.

When he went back downstairs, the captain said, "congratulations are in order, Falk."

Åsmund said nothing.

"I hear that there's going to be a wedding."

Captain Hijikata was a wiry thing, like the best excubitors tended to be, well-scarred, like the best excubitors tended to be. He was well-liked by his squadron, and regarded as a good soldier by the rest of the rank-and-file, and he comported himself like an officer ought: even now, his gloves were veritably impeccable, and his hair was neatly tied back, and his eyes were appropriately sunken, so as to give the appearance of dedication and dearth of sleep.

His one-eyed shadow was less refined – certainly less so than the lieutenant that had preceded her, who had been gamine and game for a laugh anytime she found herself posted on the Wall – but there was something about her that put Åsmund at ill-ease. Perhaps it was the eyebrows. It was as though Oro had been reincarnated in a small brown girl, back again to make Åsmund's life difficult.

Perhaps she was some distant cousin. That was the curse of the orphan, was it not? To never know which of the crowds belonged to you by blood. The same could not be said of the Falks – Åsmund could name most of his fifth cousins.

It helped, of course, that most of them were some variation on Åsmund, Svein, or Øystein. Maryam had been horrified to discover as much. She wanted a little girl named Aïcha and a little boy named Mahfuz and a little Åsmund as well, even if it meant that he would be one of dozens.

"Yes," Åsmund said. "There's going to be a wedding."

"Picked out your colours?"

Red, most likely – Watcher red, fire red, blood red. It suited Maryam better than it suited him. He'd been a late convert to the Wall, a late addition to the major's coalition of conspirators.

Before he said anything, Kinga Kaasik said, "tch. Don't tempt him into bad luck."

That wasn't a superstition Åsmund had ever heard before. From the slight smile on the captain's face, it was a new one for him as well.

"Will we be safe here?" Åsmund kept his voice low. His second question went unasked but clearly heard: should we not head for the Wall? They were in the depths of the druj's territory – for that was what this little hamlet was now. It had been ceded. They had claimed it with a viciousness that they rarely displayed outside the walls entirely. There was a special kind of savagery in the monsters that found themselves among men, as though they were enraged by the mere sight of what they were not.

"Not in the dark," Kane Hijikata said. Though he was no Scholar, he was as much an expert on the art of finding – or evading – druj as any who occupied the hallowed halls of the Schools. "We can't risk light or noise."

As though to punctuate this declaration, he set down his blades. The excubitors carried a peculiar flat-tipped blade, shaped more like a razor than the sharp-pointed broadswords preferred by the heroes which appeared intermittently in the murals of the old world. The blade was affixed in the hilt by a locking mechanism which could be released, just like their sister hooks, so that a fresh, sharp, clean blade could then be harnessed in a single, fluid motion. Razors were so often shattered on the tooth or shell or armour of a druj; it was a canny adjustment that excubitors treated as quotidien. Åsmund could identify which Watchers were resentful of their defensive role by the weapon they carried – it had briefly become fashionable to carry an excubitor's blade, before the major had put a stop to it. Neither he nor Maryam had ever succumbed; Åsmund could rarely be relied upon to change his habits for style alone, and Maryam would not give up Sadiq – the name she had given her zweihänder sword, a graduation gift for which Åsmund and Oroitz had pooled two months wages – for some mere trend.

"In that case," Kinga said. She had set down her blades at the same time as the captain, as though purposefully cultivating a strange reflective effect which made her seem ever more his shadow. "I can take first watch."

Åsmund cocked a brow – sleep? She thought that they would sleep? – but ah, no, Kane displayed no intent on resting. He remained in his chair as Kinga rose and moved towards the door, and then, his voice clear and deceptively soft, said, "you should take a seat, Falk."

"Åsmund."

He had expected this; he had seen it coming. When he dropped into the chair, it was with the exhaustion of one who has been carrying a very heavy load for a very short time, and is silently glad that he will not have to learn to endure this burden.

Upstairs, there was the soft sound of Kinga prying open the window. He said, somewhat defeatedly, "Suero told you."

"He did."

"Did he tell anyone else?"

"It would not be his habit to do so."

Åsmund nodded. That aligned with what he knew of the Scholar. Lorencio Suero was not a prominent member of the military; he preferred a low profile, but he handled matters fairly. Åsmund had first encountered him when he was presiding over the corruption tribunals, six winters ago. He had presided over Daphne Angelo's sentencing, and in doing so, had spared her from the gallows. He had, with a stroke of his pen, saved her life.

It remained to be seen whether he would save Åsmund's. Or Maryam's.

Oro was probably a lost cause by now.

Kane said, "there's more. I can tell there's more."

Åsmund nodded. Yes. There was more.

"An off-the-books poaching expedition," Kane said. "How long has that been going on? On whose orders?"

"Hers."

"The princess?"

"She has some… deal. With Oroitz. A few years now."

"What," Kane said, "does she do with them? With the druj?"

"I don't know," Åsmund said, "I've never known."

"Did Txori?"

Maybe. Åsmund had never asked. Åsmund had never wanted to know. Once you knew, you were a liability, and he didn't trust the princess to deal kindly with liabilities. Maybe. "I don't know."

Kane said, "the winged druj attacked him?"

"Yes." It had been utterly hideous – the sound alone, the tearing of the skin, the crunch of the bones. Oroitz had screamed. Åsmund had never heard him scream before. It didn't sound like a noise which should belong to such a silent man. "Yes. We brought him to the palace –"

Kane was nodding. He would understand. To bring Oroitz elsewhere – to cross the threshold of a house of mercy – that would only inspire probing questions for which there were only uncomfortable answers. "And Asenath took him into her custody. He may be fine, Åsmund. The royals can be secretive, but..."

"There's more."

Kane paused.

"Afterwards," Åsmund said, "when I went to Suero – Maryam went back into the palace."

Kane frowned, and then – yes, he didn't need it explained to him.

Maryam and Salah were identical twins, after all.

"She went to find Oroitz and… " He shook his head. "They have a girl," Åsmund said. "They're keeping a girl. Under the palace. Torturing her, or – I don't know."

"A girl? Did Maryam recognise her?"

"No. One of the Selected, maybe."

The unspoken words hung between them. A human druj.

Kane said, "I see."

Åsmund said, "that needs to stay between us. They can't know. They can't know that they know. They can't know what Maryam did."

Kane said, "yes. We can agree on that." He smiled. "That's a brave woman you have on your hands."

Braver than he. Åsmund knew it. It had always been thus. "She was only doing her duty."

"The kingdom will thank her for it."

Upstairs, a low whistle, and the lieutenant's voice, carried low on the dark air: "we have a pack incoming."

Kane rose. "How many?"

"A dozen?" She had come to the middle of the stairs, from where she could see them. She laced her boots in a strange way, Åsmund noted, not the neat rows traditional in the western parts of Illéa but in a ladder-like pattern, up-and-down rather than left-to-right. "Should we get moving?"

"They may not come this far."

"Not sure I like those odds, boss."

"Me neither, but the alternative is total exposure."

Kinga curled her lip but nodded. As Åsmund excused himself to take a look at the threat for himself, easing past Kinga on the stairs, he heard distinctly that she had waited for him to move into the bedroom before murmuring, "a girl?"

"I truly," Kane said, "do not wish for Lorencio to be proven right."

Her count had been accurate: there were thirteen in all, an uneven dozen, and ugly bastards at that. They came through the shadows slowly, slipping off the darkness as though shucking a shroud. They were bipedal, with caprine backwards joints so that their legs folded forward with each step, and they each had a set of enormous antlers, green and sharply forked, upon which the viscera of previous battles hung, black with blood and gore. The face below – did druj have faces? – were similarly animalistic, the pointed snouts of something like a wolf, with exposed mandibles so that, even from here, their bones glinted in what little light the stars offered.

They moved slowly. Maybe they would not attack. Maybe they would not realise that the tagma were here at all.

"More." Kinga had appeared behind him, quite silently. "There, to the east –"

She was correct. The druj to the east were fewer in number, but gargantuan by comparison – not quite the behemoth of the stone golem, but large and unwieldy. He fixed his eye on the individual beast leading the trio which had just crested the hill. Its legs seemed too thin to carry it, its broad frame belied by the fact that Åsmund could count each of its ribs from over a mile away. It had a ridged spine and a thickly muscled elongated neck that it was holding high, as though searching the way they had come. And then that neck turned, and the face came into view – a human face, vaguely human, human enough. Like a human face had been stretched over the skull of something much more monstrous, and stapled roughly into place, contorted into an eternal scream-and-snarl.

"How good do you think its sight is?"

In this gloom, her eye was an open grave. Kinga said, "we might be about to find out."

She smiled. Why would she smile?

She said, "I was sorry to hear about the major."

He shook his head. "Officially," he said, his words coming out gravelly at the way she said it – like they were at a funeral, like there were condolences to be offered, like he was bereaved. "You haven't heard."

"Even so. You were friends."

Not initially. "He was in training with my… with Maryam. They were very close. They are still."

She said nothing, only raised an eyebrow.

Åsmund shook his head. People never tired of wondering. "Not even remotely. He frustrated her. She only got close to him to try and wring his neck."

"I can understand that," she said. "I had – yeah, I had a friend like that. He always got the last hit in."

Åsmund chuckled.

"Everyone thought I was half in love with him," she said. "I just wanted to be him. Or beat him. Maybe both."

"Did you ever beat him?"

"No," she said. "I'm going to wait until he's old and grey. Bash his head in with a bedpan. You know. Work smart, not hard."

"Careful, Kunegunda." Kane had joined them. "You're beginning to sound like Morozova."

"In that case, kill me now," she said, sweetly. "Well? Are we running or are we fighting?"

"A little disappointed that you have to ask."

Åsmund turned. If he strained, he could just about glimpse the Wall, written on the horizon in greyscale. It would be a journey of many hours, even sprinting most of the way. In the dark? The excubitor was right. They had to stay. They had to, if necessary, make a stand.

Once again, he would have to trust Captain Hijikata with his life.

Ah. Alive again, or some semblance thereof. His lungs burned when he drew his first breath, the air scorching all the way up his throat, as though he was trying to breathe in bile. There was a sheen of sweat clinging to every inch of his skin, his hair plastered to his forehead, as though he had been doused entirely, as though they had baptised him in anticipation of his slipping from this world to the one beyond, where he would be beyond the grasp of even Priscus.

Aviram was delighted to disappoint.

Peeling his eyes open was a travail, but one for which he was swiftly rewarded: he had only managed to glimpse a tiny sliver of the cornflower blue canopy when there was a soft gasp, somewhere to his right, and her face swam into view – for a split second he mistook her for her mother, for they shared the same delicate features, the same ivory skin, the same lovely dark eyes. Both of his children had turned out beautiful – that had been Kasimira's doing. He could not take much credit.

"Papa?"

She helped him to sit; the world swam and wavered in front of him. The air scorched iron-hot on the way in as well; he swallowed it deep, like a fire-breather might, and felt it warm and tighten his chest, testing the strength of his ribs. He wanted to gasp for oxygen. He felt like he was drowning in air. "Darling Sena," he said. The air was warming his blood, but his voice was thread-thin, worn scratchy by his silence. "Your brother..."

"Safe, Papa, safe."

It had been the one thought which had consumed him, when he caught sight of the explosion from the corner of his eye – that Silas was standing too close.

He had been fast enough. If there were gods, he would have thanked them.

Asenath, blessedly, was intact also; she was her usual ethereal self, her long lace dress in a blush-pink matched perfectly to the veil which she was wearing over her long, inky hair. Not even a bruise – how long had he been unconscious? Looking down at himself, he found his eyes lingering on the black handprint left on his arm, where someone had grabbed him, and held him fast in this world. Some dark magic, but it did not taste of Priscus; it did not have the sweet scent of Kasimira.

Asenath leaned forward and gently rang the bell on the bedside locker. When the maid appeared, her orders were short: "fetch the queen."

Aviram said, "what of the attack, then?"

Asenath shook her head. "He slipped us."

"He?"

Her eyes were brimming with something dark and wonderful. "The xrafstar."

"Another xrafstar? Are you quite certain?"

"Priscus confirmed it."

So it was true.

The kingdom was under attack.

"But." She leaned forward, though they were alone with the walls. "We have – Txori brought it – You won't believe me –"

"Darling." Aviram had never heard her so delighted, the words tumbling over one another in an excited torrent that was quite unlike his daughter. "What is it?"

"A new weapon," she said, "a new xrafstar of our own."

That could not be. The Selection was still raging. Priscus was still making his choice. They were still deliberating. Trying, desperately, to atone for Aviram's very first mistake.

He had loved Kasimira too much.

"A new…?"

Did she mean the maid? But the maid would not turn, not yet; she was young, and she was pliable, but she was not theirs. Not yet.

"Death." She whispered it, like Kasimira might whisper the word Aviram; it hung in the air, spun in his mind. Death. He gazed again at the black handprint. "The curse of Khoschei, reclaimed anew."

Theirs again, after two hundred years. Could it be true?

Then there had been three enemy xrafstars on the island. A veritable onslaught.

"Who?"

"Txori took it for me." She smiled. She looked like Aviram's sister when she smiled; Tzipora had been about Asenath's age when she had been tithed. She said, "I thought it was best to give it to someone we could control."

"As wise as ever, my dove."

He raised a hand slowly to his face, and watched Asenath's eyes cloud over as he did so. She knew what he would discover. His flesh – for it was flesh, not skin, it was too raw for that – raised tiny flashes of agony wherever he touched it, tacky to the touch with the strange hard stick of blood. His daughter stood, and went to the vanity to retrieve a mirror. They worked well together, he and Asenath; they were a pragmatic pair. She said nothing, and merely showed him what he had become, turning the mirror gently in her hand to best catch the light as the king set eyes upon the ruination which had been visited upon him.

He said, at last, "unfortunately, your mother will have to learn to love me for my mind."

Asenath smiled and set the mirror down. "That may strain even her prodigious talents." She shook her head. "It will heal. I am sure of it."

"I never thought I'd consider you an optimist, Sena."

She smiled. "I have been buoyed by recent events."

That was only right; they should cling to joy, to hope, where they could find it. They were facing into dark days. "How many dead?"

Her smile faded. "They have tallied one hundred. The count may rise again."

"Please," he said, "have a list left to me. Of the names. The casualties."

"Of course, papa."

"Some paper as well, if you get the chance."

"Condolences can wait until you are recovered."

"They ought not."

She nodded, and rose. At the precise moment that she did so, the doors to the bedroom burst open and Kasimira Schreave strode into the room, as she might have once entered a battlefield. She caught sight of her husband, sitting, speaking, breathing, and though no smile crossed her red mouth, she moved quickly to his side, her dark eyes intent and intense.

"Aviram."

She knelt beside his bed, taking his hand gently in hers and pressing a soft, whisper-light kiss to his knuckles. Something like dew clung to her eyelashes; he gently brushed it aside with the edge of his thumbnail. "You didn't have to rush over, Mira."

"Oh," she said, with a short, barked laugh that sounded oddly strangled. "Sauer was trying to start a discussion on border taxes. I was glad for the excuse."

He chuckled. It hurt. Asenath had excused herself; she was her father's daughter. There was business to attend to.

She rose, and perched on the edge of the bed; if she noticed what had happened to his face, she did not so much as bat an eye. Instead, she ran a finger gently along his jaw and said again, softer, "I was glad."

"The kingdom still stands," he said.

"Despite my best efforts."

"And you?"

"Underground when it happened," she said. He was glad. He rarely worried for her – he would not have loved her if she was not as strong as she was – but he had, on this occasion, made an exception. "Asenath told you? About the Txori boy?"

"She did. Let us hope she keeps a tight hand on his leash."

"We did not raise her otherwise."

Aviram sighed. "What does it all mean, Mira?"

"A fight," she said. "It will be worse before it is better. We will have to accelerate the Selection."

"If that is what you think best."

"There are more," she said. "More xrafstars. The kingdom is riddled with them."

Could it be so? The ancient curses had returned. How had Priscus not felt them? How had he not sensed them, creeping in the dark?

Perhaps his age was finally catching up to him.

"We will smoke them out," Kasimira said. "We can take them back."

Take them back? Could it be so? A return to the time of Ezer, to the power the Schreaves had enjoyed at the head of the Kur empire, to the completion of Priscus' blueprint –

The mere thought of it was enough to terrify. Aviram Schreave was not a strong man, and he did not trust himself with the kind of sheer destructive power of which his wife now spoke.

She said, softly, "we can make ourselves untouchable. We can keep ourselves safe."

He said, softly, "lie with me, Mira?"

She kicked off her shoes, and curled up next to him, resting her head carefully on his shoulders, avoiding the worst of his wounds. It was not a display of affection which came naturally to her, but he knew that, in his devastated state, she would not deny him this small comfort. It reminded him of their courtship, when she had crept into his room late at night, evading Selected and guard alike. There had been nothing untoward about it – though he would not have protested if there had been – she had been too much a professional, too devoted to intellectualism. What had she said to him?

I might never love you. But I will be a perfect wife.

I can be your Kasimira.

It was probably the only time that she had ever been wrong.

Her hair smelled like matthiola and zandik, that peculiar peppery scent, rich with a spicy undertone; her heartbeat was slow and even. She said, softly, "I thought you were dead when they brought you in."

He said, "I wouldn't leave you like that."

"I'll hold you to it." She turned her face, to touch her lips very gently to his collarbone. "I'll chase you down."

"Death is ours, is it not?"

"That is true. You couldn't get away even if you wanted to."

How fortunate that he did not want to.

In the alcove, it rather felt like they had shut away the rest of the world. Evanne was holding the edge of the curtain firmly in one hand, while Belle perched on the edge of the windowsill to obscure her shoes from sight. It felt like she was back at the academy. Like she was playing hide-and-seek with Mielikki again, on one of their rare evenings without sparring. Like any moment now, Ragnar would pull back the curtain and say a bit obvious, Seo, or Myghal would call them out of hiding for their dinner, or Azula would tumble into the same spot with a gasped shenearlyfoundme.

"It's weird, though, right?"

"Weird," Belle agreed. "Very weird."

"And it was definitely Pjotr." Evanne sounded like she was stranded between awe and fear. "It was definitely him. And he… I mean, look at my face. It could have been so much worse. It should have been so much worse. But he protected me."

Belle was silent for a moment. Then, at length, she said, "Well."

"Well?"

"If I'm honest," Belle said, "it doesn't particularly look good for you."

Evanne laughed. "No," she said, "it doesn't."

"You're looking," Belle said, "rather suspicious."

Evanne nodded earnestly. "Thank you for still associating with me."

"You're welcome. I'm sure I'll call the favour in eventually." Belle smoothed her skirts around her knees. They were muddy at the hem where she had dismounted from the horse into a damp part of the garden; she had tracked dirt across two corridors in the palace, before she had managed to discard her shoes. Good that she had. It would have rather defeated all of Evanne's attempts at secrecy if there was a path of dried soil leading straight to their hiding place; they had intended to speak in Evie's room, but had dodged out of the way of Reiko Morozova and wound up here, huddled behind a corner like they were children who thought that they were invisible as long as they couldn't see you. "But, Evie, they still let you out with Silas. Alone. You can't be under so much suspicion if that can still occur."

"Not quite alone," Evanne said. "You were there."

Belle didn't particularly count, though. Commandant used to say a room with only Belle in it probably qualified as empty. "Adeline as well."

"Poor Adeline." Evanne paused. "Well. Perhaps not poor Adeline. She had the good sense to leave this circus."

"Ah," Belle said, "but if you left, it would probably look like you were running."

"Well," Evie said, "hopefully they're secure in the knowledge that I don't run particularly fast these days."

Belle coughed out a laugh. It still surprised her how easily the former tagma joked about it. The lesser equivalents with which she had been raised – Myghal's ruptured eardrum, or Eifion's limp, or Ragnar's missing finger – had been a matter of hush and averted eyes, not to be mentioned or riffed upon unless you were very close. So Belle never mentioned them.

Only Ilja could ever be relied upon to bring some levity to the physical frailties and foibles which threatened, at all times, to remove the candidates from contention; he would, when reviewing some essay of Pekka's or a written memo from Khalore, put on his glasses with a dramatic flourish and declare, "on closer inspection, this is still illiterate nonsense."

I'm not fu-ck-ing illiterate, Schovajsa.

Hämäläinen, you tried to spell "fire" with a "y".

Zoran had laughed a little too hard at that, though Belle couldn't tell whether it was because Pekka was the brunt of the joke or because Ilja seemed to be enjoying himself a little bit too much. Pekka might have taken offence to the Czarnecki boy's reaction, but then Ina had laughed as well, and everything was okay after that.

What must that feel like? Such influence?

Belle said, "the golem probably figured that you were too easy of a target."

Evanne laughed. "Right! Like, it would have been unfair. I didn't even have a fighting chance."

She paused, her smile fading.

"The golem," she repeated. "Pjotr."

"A human druj," Belle said, carefully. She had laced Ghjuvan's teeth together, and sewn them into the hem of her shift; she still hadn't found the chance to initiate. What if something went wrong? What if the Schreaves could detect her? What if she was discovered? "Do you really think..."

"I don't know." Evie sighed deeply. "I have no idea."

"But you want to find out," Belle said.

There was a glint in Evie's eye. It was the same look Ina had on her birthday, when a complicated chain of bribes and xrafstar recklessness resulted in a new stack of books beside her bed when she woke, each one signed on the inside cover with a simple P.

Most of the time, Belle would inherit the books after Ina was done with them; she had always been deeply appreciative, though she had rarely found a way to express as much.

"Yes," Evanne said. "I want to find out."

She paused.

"The coast might be clear now. Should we try and get back to our rooms?"

The curtain was ripped back. Neither girl jumped, though Belle could tell that it was an instinct upon which Evanne only barely managed to tamp down. Mirabelle Yannis said, "I was so hoping one of you would be Silas Schreave."

Evanne smiled. "Good to see you too, Mirabelle. I was beginning to worry."

"The world has tried to bring me down," Mirabelle said airily, "but it needs to try harder. Oh, darling, your face."

Belle said, "I didn't think I looked that bad."

Evanne hid a smile, looking appreciative for Belle's quick interjection. "It's fine, Mirabelle. There are bigger losses at sea."

Mirabelle shook her head. "Why they haven't eliminated you..."

Belle caught Evie's eye as she jumped down from the windowsill. "Don't take that personally."

Evie said, quickly, beating the velvet curtain out of her way as she followed Mirabelle down the corridor, "we had a date today."

"Oh?" Mirabelle blanched. "With… the prince? With the prince?"

No, with Reiko Morozova, Belle thought drolly. Who else would they be allowed to date – who else would they be expected to date in pairs? But Mirabelle sounded so honestly excited, it was difficult to keep much sardonicism in her thoughts. Evie smiled and said, "yes, with the prince."

"Oh, that is fantastic. That would make you the first. How was it? Was he kind to you?"

Had he been? Was that kindness? He had been kind to Adeline – he had sent her away.

Was that the only kindness a Schreave could show?

They had raced afterwards. It had been fun. It had felt like she was one of a select group, like they were together a gang of friends, like this was, would be, one day of a thousand just like it. But he had not been kind. He had been dismissive and rude and cynical. She had found it amusing, how determinedly he clung to the facade.

She trailed behind Evie and Mirabelle as they were brought back to their room. There had been a lockdown ordered; there was something afoot in the palace. No danger – no physical danger, at least – and it was, apparently, nothing to do with the Selection. Were the Warriors attempting another attack? It wouldn't have surprised Belle. She was being kept painfully out of the loop.

She had still thought Pekka was dead.

As they reached their corridor, Mirabelle stopped in her tracks; Belle nearly walked straight into her. Peering around her elbow, she was mildly amused to see that the reason for Mirabelle's apparent petrification was the grey man standing in front of her door. Did Ilja Schovajsa really have such an effect on women who didn't know him?

It took her a moment to realise that Mirabelle was probably more concerned by the presence of Ilja's protectee: Silas Schreave was wearing a dark grey peacoat with a half-turned collar, his hair dishevelled. It was almost comical, Belle thought, like he had taken one look at Ilja's general chaotic style of dress and thought yes, yes, that's the missing ingredient.

"Your Highness," Evanne said; Belle echoed her words. "Hi."

Hi. Were they all morons?

Silas looked rather nonplussed. He said, "hi."

He looked past her, at Belle. Over his shoulder, Ilja was hiding a smile. Belle could have killed him.

"Hi, Belle."

Hi, your highness.

She said, "is something the matter?"

He said, "you forgot this in my room."

He held out one hand; hanging from one finger, the little velvet bag in which Ghjuvan's teeth had been delivered to Belle. She was keenly aware that Mirabelle and Evanne were watching her very closely indeed. She probably should have blushed, but – what would be the point? She stepped past Mirabelle, and approached the prince to accept the proferred memento.

She said, quietly, "I feel like this didn't require a personal visit."

"I'm avoiding my sister."

"In that case," she said, "procrastinate away."

Mirabelle had herded Evanne further down the hall, purposefully placing herself between Silas and a clear view of the wound to the Selected girl's face. Ilja watched them go, purposefully crafting the air of one who has been distracted from the conversation occurring a few inches away from him. Belle could tell that he was veritably counting the vowels in anything she or Silas said.

Belle paused. She remembered how lonely Silas had looked during their outing – lonely and cruel and sick. She said, keeping her voice light, "why are you avoiding her?"

"I didn't get permission to eliminate Adeline." The corners of his mouth tightened – was that a smile, or a grimace?

"I thought this was your Selection."

"You'll be disabused of such notions quickly enough."

Belle said, "should I be cosying up to your sister instead, then?"

"I welcome your attempt."

Belle couldn't imagine she would be an easier of a target than her strange, unfriendly brother.

He said, "in any case, it was on my way."

"Another date? Busy man."

"Jealousy isn't attractive, Eunbyeol." It was only a funny sentence because there was transparently not even a hint of jealousy in either of them; he was simply trying to make her laugh. His use of her full first name did not escape her notice. Were she and Evie his first friends? Were they even his friends? She had spent less than two hours in his company, but he had paid more attention to her than his grey-garbed companion, whom Belle had known for close to two decades. "What are you and Lady Obušek getting up to this evening?"

"Nursing our egos, I imagine." They had lost the race, of course. Evanne had blamed it on Silas' blatant cheating; Belle had been comfortable in the notion that she simply hadn't tried too hard. A spy ought not bring too much attention to themselves. "And you?"

He smiled. "You'd laugh at me."

Belle feigned shock, and then relented. "Yes. Probably."

"Then it shall remain a secret for a little longer. I hope your egos recover swiftly."

"They've had worse wounds."

"I'll do better next time, then."

He raised his voice, only slightly; his words bounced off the walls and ceiling of the cavernous corridor in which they were conducting this odd, impromptu meeting. "Good night, Evanne."

Evie called back over the soft, horrified squeak that Mirabelle uttered at the sound of her charge's first name in the mouth of the crown prince. "Sleep well, sir!"

As they moved away, Ilja mouthed something at Belle that she could not understand. Neph? Had they organised code-words? Or was he just mocking her? She thought the latter was highly likely.

Retreating into her bedroom with a soft goodybe to Mirabelle and Evie as the hour for the lockdown came near. The velvet bag Silas had brought her was heavier than she had expected it to be, but only slightly; as she locked the door behind herself, she gently tipped its contents into her hands.

It was a tiny piece of shiny stone – Belle did not have the expertise to determine whether it was a gemstone or merely something cheaper, like crystallised amber – into which had been frozen a tiny, perfectly formed zandik flower, no larger than a baby's thumbnail, each petal a perfect yellow crescent.

It was such a strange gift that, for a split second, Belle wondered if that was even what it was. Was this some veiled threat? A trap? Some Illéan tradition?

Or just some small, beautiful thing in a palace full of monsters?