Cassian's heart had nearly stopped clean in his chest when he'd seen the painting, the rich purple canvas rendered with a woman who was the splitting image of Celeste, her eyes sparkling like starlight. He'd almost hit his knees from the shock of it as he'd forced air into his lungs, willing himself to stay composed as the young painter had watched him curiously.

How many years had it been since he'd seen her beautiful face? Since he had started to lose its impression in his memory, unable to string the details together correctly?

And seeing that portrait, nearly identical . . . he'd almost lost it.

If she was there, if they'd missed her all these years and she'd been right under their noses—the thought had left him dizzy, a knot forming in his stomach that they'd failed her all that time, abandoned on her own-

He'd nearly grabbed the poor painter and demanded she tell him exactly who she'd painted and where she was. The sharp look she'd cut him, full of more grit than some of his own soldiers, had checked him, even as his need to start searching, to tear the world apart to find her again had nearly consumed him.

But it wasn't her, he'd realized as his heart shredded down its seams as the painter cheerfully explained, it was a human woman who'd been painted by the talented hands of her young ashen-haired sister, who knew nothing of the tragedy.

But the resemblance, the fae-like features, the starlight shining in her eyes . . .

He had to check, he had to be certain.

Which was why he now hurried toward the Ruby District, stepping through the almost empty cobblestone streets as he looked for The Orchid, the sun dipping below the horizon. He'd left his things and the portrait at the somewhat run-down inn he had gotten a room at with some of the remaining coin he had after buying the painting, having spent the bulk of the afternoon staring at the piece while he'd sat on his bed.

He'd considered contacting Rhys, considered tapping into the permanent mental link his brother kept strung between their family to tell him might have found her. But if it wasn't her, if it was just a wild goose chase . . . he decided against it.

He would not say until he was certain, he wouldn't open wounds that had finally closed over, not until he was certain there was reason to. Even if he felt he might jump out of his skin.

If she'd somehow landed in Marchedor, if she was working as a courtesan of all things to survive . . . he quickened his footsteps. They'd searched the city top to bottom thirteen years ago, but if they'd somehow missed her . . . He'd never forgive himself, none of them would.

It was entirely possible she might have been adopted, if she'd been taken in as the older sister—she and the young painter certainly looked nothing alike. But how would she have survived it? The sheer distance she would have had to travel to reach Marchedor's shores . . . and they'd had so many eyes looking out for her. And the girl had said she was human, but if she'd lied for some reason—

Why hadn't she come home? Why hadn't she tried to contact them?

And even if his only reward for his search was a glimpse of a woman who looked a bit like her . . . well, he'd consider it a final gift from the Mother, a sign that it was time to move forward and that no one would ever forget her.

The thoughts tumbled and rolled in his mind as he cut around a small side street and strode toward the upscale brothel centered in the middle of the road, exactly where the amused artist said it would be. He didn't bother with pleasantries as he stepped through the arched doors, the main parlor swathed in deep indigos with elaborate golden orchid carvings wrapped around the bannisters, the smell of fresh cut flowers doing little to cover the scent of warm, aroused bodies.

Cassian paid it little heed as he strode up to the powdered woman at the front desk, brown curls sitting atop her head, her eyes lighting up and shoulders curving as he moved towards her. She cut him a blinding, trained smile, easy and well-rehearsed.

"Well, well, how may we assist—"

"I need to see Isabelle."

I need to see Celeste.

The woman didn't even look surprised as she smirked a little before flipping through an appointment book. "Everyone wants the rose."

Blinding wrath, the people who had touched her—he'd level the building, the city if needed.

"Lucky you, the rose is free." The woman turned and swiped a golden key from the wall. Cassian reached to grab when the woman clicked her tongue and shook a finger. "Deposit first, and weapons off too, can't have you intimidating or hurting one of the girls."

Cassian nearly growled his annoyance, half tempted to tell the woman he had zero interest in sleeping with the woman and they'd have more to worry about than his weapons if she was who he thought she was. Instead, he swiftly dug out what was likely more than enough coin, dropping it into the woman's hand.

She smiled like a glutted swine before slipping the coin away and holding out her other hand. "Your weapons."

Lifting his cloak, he showed the woman that he had no visible blades on him, the single broadsword he wore strapped down his spine discarded at the inn. There was no sense in telling her about the other twenty pounds of steel he had strapped beneath his clothes or the power of the red syphons that he could summon at a moment's notice.

She took it as acceptable and nodded toward the stairs.

"She's the third room on the right, make sure you knock, gets a bit pissy if you don't."

Cassian nearly froze, thinking on another temperamental little girl who became furious if you didn't knock before entering. He swallowed hard and nodded.

If she were here . . . he'd beg for forgiveness, from now until the darkness claimed him.

"Well, off with you, and do have fun!" A wink.

Disgust filled him as he took the stairs two at a time, hoping against all hope at what he would find.

Sleep had evaded Celeste as she'd rolled back and forth on her bed, worry gnawing at her as she thought about Isabelle, dwelling on the mysterious man Anelisse had sent to her. She'd lasted all of an hour before she was upright and dressed, heading into the shadowed streets. She had to be certain her friend was all right.

But first she needed to find her first mate, as she certainly didn't intend to wander the dark alleys of the less savory parts of the city in search of an unknown man without backup. Unfortunately, Gandriel appeared to have conveniently slipped off for one last night on the town when she'd gone to ask him to go with her. She'd honestly been surprised Anelisse hadn't joined him, having instead found her sister soundly asleep in her own bed.

At least someone had the sense to prepare for their trip tomorrow.

Though she wouldn't have wanted her company anyway, Ithaca had disappeared days ago without warning, as Celeste had discovered she was prone to do. With any luck she'd still be gone when they set out.

She had no doubts where her first mate had wandered off to either, reveling in his last days on land before he was so tragically cloistered on the sea for a few months. If she were wise, Celeste noted with no lack of amusement, she'd just leave him to his partying and head off on the Loreley alone.

It'd certainly teach him to be on time for once. Though the whining that would follow would dampen the lesson she'd hope to teach.

Dodging through the still-busy main square, Celeste quickly passed through the milling crowd bathed in fae-light, a mix of all races laughing and chattering, and made her way toward the array of inns in the more upscale part of town.

There were several she'd have to search through, the Mermaid Scale, Lark's Song, and Gold Herring were good places to start though, being Gandriel's preferred stomping grounds.

Stepping up onto the porch of the Scale she slipped into the dim interior and began her search, vowing to hit him once for every inn she had to search and didn't find him in.

For every battlefield he'd stood on without an ounce of fear Cassian felt like a stupid child standing before the ivory door in front of him, filled with a terror he'd never known.

If she was in there . . . what would he tell Rhys? Feyre? . . . Everyone?

His heart hammered once, painfully, in his chest.

What would he tell her?

And with his wings still glamoured . . . would she even recognize him? Remember him?

That violet-eyed little mischief maker who'd bested him at every turn, who gave him more hell than the entirety of the rest of their court. How would he explain who he was, that she had a family, a place where she belonged wholly, that she didn't belong in this shit hole of a profession.

Would she even want to see him? Would she be so furious that they'd given up the search, so jaded and lost from a family that would have seemingly abandoned her to fend for herself?

Panic, raw and searing unlike he'd ever felt filled him, how could he explain that all their leads had run dry and they'd given up . . . that'd they'd left her for dead.

What if she had been avoiding them intentionally, if she wanted nothing to do with them—

There was no point in dwelling, he would face it as it came. He lifted a fist to knock, preparing himself for what he would find when the sound of scuffling resounded from the other side of the door, the crash of smashing glass—

Cassian barreled the door down, courtesy be damned, and found himself in a dimly lit room face to face with a masked assailant who held a knife pressed to the throat of a dark-haired woman, her mouth covered with a dark glove.

Celeste.

Caught off guard, the man froze, loosening his grip in surprise, just long enough for the woman to jab her elbow directly into her captor's groin and tear loose, ripping his arms off her and immediately rolling to the side.

Cassian would have known that move anywhere, he'd taught her that.

Instinct drove him as he quickly maneuvered around her and dodged the sloppy knife work of the masked male, weaving around the flying blade. He caught the man's arm and easily tore the weapon free.

The woman scrambled away from the scuffle, pushing herself up the wall and standing clear. There was no need, it was over before it began. Cassian disarmed the male and threw him to the floor, catching his arm in a lock and digging his face into the carpet. He torqued the arm.

"Are you all right?" he questioned the woman, the male thrashing beneath him with fae strength. Panic flooded Cassian, she'd been so damn close to being killed—

Silence.

"Are you all right—" he looked up and finally caught sight of the woman's face, of her pale skin and soft blue eyes-her human features, "-Celeste."

She wasn't fae and she certainly wasn't Celeste.

She looked at him wide-eyed before barely nodding, her body shaking from the shock.

The hope he'd strung together collapsed down around him, numbing him as he kept the male pinned, the sliver of light he thought he'd found vanishing. This was stupid, so damned stupid—

"Bitch," the male snarled from the carpet, his blonde hair spilling from the hood he'd worn, "you won't win this." A crunch sounded, as though the male was chewing something before his body tightened and immediately went slack, his arm going limp in Cassian's grip.

He didn't even bother to lay it down gently, instead letting it fall with a thump to the floor. He looked to the woman, sorrow swallowing him whole.

"You're not Celeste."

"Dear," the woman replied in a lilting accent, her eyes still wide in terror as she glanced down at the body on her floor, "I can be anyone you want me to be after that daring rescue."

Her face, while beautiful, wasn't fae. In the dim light Cassian could see her eyes were a soft blue, not liquid starlight, and her hair was more of a dark brown than a true black. Her sister had certainly taken some artistic license, although he could see the resemblance. He couldn't even bring himself to laugh at her proposition, instead scrubbing at his face as an ancient, deep exhaustion took him.

"Are you injured?" She took a tentative step towards him, adjusting her silken robe around her as she looked him over.

"I'm fine." He needed to head back to the inn, to end this pointless, bullshit pursuit he'd so foolishly set out on, "care to explain this?" He gestured vaguely to the corpse.

"He came in through the window," she looked towards the opened glass, "If you hadn't come when you did—" She fixed her gaze on him, frowning. "Why are you here?"

"Your sister in the market, there was a painting . . ." Cassian felt a pain erupting between his eyes, one that only came with the greatest distress. " . . . You look like someone I knew a long time ago. I thought you might be . . ."

"My sister?" She paused only briefly, then recognition, "You mean Anelisse? Is she selling my portraits again? Girl is a deviant if I've ever met one." She'd composed herself quickly, contemplating, " . . . You said Celeste, was that her name? Are you looking for her?"

"There's no point," Cassian muttered, standing and moving toward the shattered door, suddenly done with the evening and this cursed city. "She's dead."

It'd taken Celeste seven inns before she'd found Gandriel slouched across an abandoned card table in the rundown Brown Hen of all places, snoring louder than a boar with a handful of cards and several tankards of mead surrounding him.

"Need any help corralling him, miss?" The innkeeper inquired, his bushy brows knotting in the center.

"Unless you have a knife with which I can stab him and be done with his stupidity, no." She handed the barkeep a handful of coin for his trouble and for his silence. "But I will get him out of your way, so if you'll excuse me."

She swept up Gandriel's nearly full tankard of mead and dumped it over his head before kicking the chair out from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor. The male came to immediately as he hit the wood, spluttering.

He squinted red-stained eyes at her.

"Heyyy Celeste," he slurred, recognition dawning as he saw her. He gave her a toothy grin. "Looking good, my friend." She rolled her eyes. Because he could certainly see her features beyond the dark hood she wore. And he hadn't even bothered with her alias.

"Get up." She pointed at the door. "We're leaving now."

"But I was playing cards." He rolled over onto his hands and knees, swaying. "Was winning too."

"You mean before you fell asleep and they took all your money?" She pointed to his now empty coin pouch. "Get up."

"All right, all right, no need to be angry," Gandriel grappled with the chair, sloppily pulling himself upright. "I promise to drunk I'm not sailing." He caught sight of one of the barmaids and waggled his brows at her from his position against the seat of the chair. "And you, lovely, you're almost as pretty as my Anelisse. Almost."

Celeste was half tempted to kick him to the floor again just for good measure.

"We need to go down and check on Isabelle, let's go."

He was still leaning on the chair, his eyes fluttering closed as a snore escaped his lips. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him upright with ease, ignoring the loose-jawed stare of surprise the barkeeper gave her.

She guessed he wasn't accustomed to the strength of full fae females. She frankly didn't give a damn and would happily throw him through a wall too if he wanted to tussle. Her patience was running thin. Gandriel, now fully awake, flashed her a sheepish grin.

"Are you going to walk out of here on your own or am I going to have to carry you like the infant you are?"

"I'll walk," he squeaked, immediately getting his feet under him, only to heave and lurch over again. Celeste rolled her eyes and shoved him toward the door, swiping up a mop bucket and dumping its contents as she followed after him. She tossed the bartender another coin.

"For the bucket."

She pushed Gandriel once more out into the cool night air, watching him stumble down the stairs. He stayed upright, barely, his arms wheeling.

"See that? Didn't fall—" He gagged again, making a horrendous retching sound. Celeste shoved the bucket into his hands.

He immediately up-chucked, missing the bucket, the contents of his stomach splattering on the ground. Celeste wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Be polite and at least puke in the bucket, you heathen," she hissed as she dragged him over to one of the benches outside the inn, the sound of music and revelry still creeping through the window. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

This time he vomited into the bucket. He blinked bleary eyes up at her, reeking of alcohol.

"Vomiting?"

She rolled her eyes, glancing around her as she took in the empty alleys. Everyone was either at home or in watering holes like the one she'd just pulled Gandriel from.

"I mean what the hell are you doing out? We have to leave in a few hours, you know."

"Had to get one last night on the town," he coughed dangerously, as though he might heave again. "Was collecting intel."

"You're absolutely full of shit and we both know it." He began retching again, and Celeste's patience flagged.

"You know what? Go home!" She pointed toward the cobblestone street that led directly to their apartment. "We have to leave in five hours and I expect no complaining in the morning. And for the Mother's sake, don't fall in a ditch on your way there."

Gandriel saluted her, completely trashed. "Aye aye Captain! Right away."

She didn't even bother replying as she stomped off into the night, knowing that her hopes for a full night's sleep and potential backup should something go south were now entirely in vain and that she still had to head down to the Ruby District on her own to check on Isabelle.

Fuming, she started out on the main road, the easiest route to The Orchid, and suddenly felt that odd tug, the invisible thread. She froze, wondering if she'd imagined it before she took another step down the road and felt it again, more insistent this time, as though it wanted her to go elsewhere.

She quirked a brow. That guiding thread never led her wrong before, should she not take that route? Curious, she stepped to the left, toward the longer, more complex route and the tugging ceased, a sense of calm settling over her.

Not questioning the guidance, she quickly set out down that path, passing under faelight lanterns, a feeling of dread beginning to fill her as she thought on Isabelle. Something wasn't right, and that invisible tether . . . she needed to hurry.

Cassian slowly made his way down the winding alleys back to the inn he'd gotten a room at, the Brown Hen or some nonsense. The city, still bright with life despite the late hour, hardly registered as he walked through the shadowed streets.

He barely noted the revelers partying around him, enjoying the night much the same way they did back home. Except with more drunks, he noted as he watched a couple stumble into each other, laughing as they strolled up the path.

How foolish could he have been to have believed she was alive? They'd tried to save her and they'd failed. That was it.

She was gone.

Cassian scrubbed at his face, feeling terrible even though he'd saved the woman, upset that she wasn't who he hoped she'd been, and that portrait . . . part of him wanted to incinerate it, to put this entire shitty night behind him as a bad memory. But the other part . . . he wanted to keep the painting, if for no other reason to have something to remember her by.

Something to keep her features alive in his mind, even if they weren't of her.

He'd thought on it and decided he wouldn't show the others, out of shame or to protect them he wasn't certain, but it was something for him. Perhaps he'd collect some Highland roses, the ones she'd loved, and press them to go with it.

The night breeze curled around him, the smell of lavender and dogwoods wafting through the air as he strode down the cobblestone path.

He was nearing the street that the inns were packed on when he caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered high fae male stumbling up the path, his hair pulled back in a low blonde ponytail with a bucket clutched in his hands.

Cassian was half curious as to what he had in the bucket when the male suddenly gagged and the stench of vomit saturated the air as he puked into the bucket.

Oh, so that's what it was.

Wrinkling his nose, Cassian stepped to the side, making room for the male to pass him.

He'd decided his original opinion of Marchedor was wrong, this city was terrible.

Seemingly oblivious, the male trotted up the path beside Cassian before stopping and puking once more, the sound echoing loudly off of the building. Someone had been partying a little too hard.

Cassian considered asking the male if he needed help when he looked up at him, tawny eyes shining blearily in the lamplight.

Something about the male's features set a bell off in Cassian's mind, but as he was about to peer closer the male stumbled straight up to him and slammed the nasty bucket into his hands, the smell of stomach bile assaulting Cassian's nose.

"Feliz cumpleaños."

The male patted him firmly on the shoulder and burped before trotting off, a bit more pep in his step as he started humming.

What the hell did that even mean? Cassian stared down at the vile bucket in his hands in disbelief before chucking it off to the side, sending its contents spilling down the road.

He hated this city.

Celeste sat down on Isabelle's bed as she looked at the body sprawled across the floor, adrenaline rushing through her system. She'd nearly ran the entire path there, cursing her own foolishness for taking the back roads. She'd missed the skirmish by minutes.

"You're certain he wasn't trying to harm you?"

"Not at all, Lily," Isabelle replied, sitting next to Celeste, her shoulders still shaking from the attack. Celeste cursed her own foolishness for not coming sooner and wasting so much time looking for Gandriel.

"Did you use the maneuver I taught you?" She'd given Isabelle the basic tidbits of self-defense she'd always known.

"Yes," she shuddered, wrapping her robe tighter around herself, "but I told you, he didn't attack me, on the contrary actually. He did say he was looking for a woman though, one that looked like a painting your sister gave him."

"It has to be the same man then." What was his motive then? He'd somehow had the foresight to get to Isabelle before her attacker could kill her. "What is he getting at?" Was he one of Fallon's new agents?

"It was strange for sure, he left right after without so much as a word." Isabelle grew quiet, picking at her nails. "He said he was looking for someone he knew a long time ago but that'd she'd died. He said her name was Celeste."

Celeste halted, blinking as fear began to flood her. The pieces clicked into place. She had an idea who was looking for her.

"He said she was dead?"

The question took Isabelle aback, confusion dancing across her features. She nodded.

"I'm certain, muttered something about leaving this city and left right out the door." She flicked her hand towards the hallway. "I wonder who it could be," the courtesan fanned herself, her feet propped up on the bed, "he seemed pretty torn up about it."

"I don't know," Celeste muttered, rising from the bed, her mind spooling back into itself. Surely, they wouldn't have tracked her to this city? And if they thought she was dead-coincidence, pure coincidence-

Pain spliced through her head, her vision swimming.

"Lily, are you all right?" Isabelle's soft hand fell on her shoulder, "You went pale all of sudden."

"I'm fine." She rose, her knees shaking beneath her as her head pounded. She needed to get home, then back to the Loreley as quickly as possible. "You need to go into hiding while we're gone, you've been compromised."

"I know," the courtesan's lips downturned, "I sent a letter out to Fallon already, she and a few others are to move me to a safehouse tomorrow so I'll be looked after while you're gone."

"Good." Home, she needed to get home and out of this city as soon as she possibly could.

"Lily," Celeste looked back to Isabelle, her lovely face full of worry, "please be careful. I have a bad feeling about all of this."

You've no idea.

Celeste's head was still throbbing by the time she got home and the sound of Gandriel's drunken singing from the couch was certainly not helping. It was doing nothing to calm the fear that had spliced through her, the terror that had saturated her. She took a few deep breaths, struggling to placate her wheeling mind.

They thought she was dead, and if they thought she was dead they wouldn't try to track her-

"Can you please stop," Celeste muttered, yanking her boots free as she tried to stay upright, the room spinning around her.

"It's a traditional ditty," Gandriel slurred from the couch, his feet propped over the arm. "Thought it was pretty." He paused, then cursed as though he'd suddenly remembered something. "I gave my puke bucket away!"

Celeste didn't bother to address him as she bolted the door behind her and made for her room, dizziness filling her. Sensing her unease, Gandriel sat up, more sober than she'd expected.

"Hey, are you all right?" Concern filled his tone. She waved him off.

"I just have a headache after having to deal with your shit all night." She gestured toward his room. "I'd suggest getting some sleep. I want to leave as early as we can."

Upon realizing how early they'd have to depart the male groaned, dropping back to the couch.

It served him right.