The Thief and the Dark

by Amaryllidinae

For as long as anyone could remember, there had only ever been one Darkling—one person in all of Ravka who could summon the power of the shadows. No one, not even Esfir herself, expected that century-old truism would unexpectedly be proven false, and especially not by a common thief.

6. Chapter 6

Six

In the week's time before the ball celebrating the return of the King's youngest son, Prince Nikolai, I made little progress in my training with the Darkling. As with my previous lessons with Bahgra, I could manage small summoning feats—calling a pool of darkness to my hands, making the shadows in a room swell and dance, disappearing into the dark at will—but nothing more. Of course, that didn't stop the Darkling from making good on his promise to try and send me to the infirmary at every chance he got, hoping that these no-holds-barred 'sparing' sessions (Botkin would die to hear such a thing) might help me get past—if not at least realise—what was holding my powers back. They didn't. Instead, I wound up with nothing to show for my training (in addition to my bruised shoulder) but some cracked ribs, a twisted ankle, a black eye, and several chances to better get to know Geir, the Healer who had helped stabilise me after the attempt on my life.

"This would be easier if you stopped squirming," the massive Fjerdan Corporalnik scolded as he tended to my latest (and worst) injury: the third cracked rib the Darkling had inflicted on me in as many days.

"I wouldn't squirm so much if you would hurry up," I grumbled testily. The burning and itching caused by Geir's work was hard to bear on the best of days but was practically insufferable when coupled with the discomfort of holding my arm out of the way so he could access my torso.

"Do you want me to fix you up or not?" He asked flatly as he diligently continued to work, despite my complaints.

"I'd say not to bother," I griped into the mattress on which I lay, "but that stupid to-do at the Grand Palace is tonight."

"It would be an excuse to stay behind," Geir suggested impishly in his heavy accent.

"Believe me. I thought about that," I winced as the Healer's hands grazed the worst of my fractured bone—the epicentre of where the Darkling had struck me with his power.

"Dejl, Esfir," Geir cursed quietly as he carefully began to work through mending what lay beneath the angry bruise that had blossomed down my side, "you really took a beating: your rib is crushed."

"That would explain why this token of the Darkling's favour hurts more than the others did," I tried to laugh but stopped for the pain that shot through my chest. "You can still mend it, though… Right?" I hedged somewhat nervously. The last thing I wanted when appearing before the King and his courtiers was to be visibly injured. Those narcissistic stuffed shirts would eat me alive at the first sign of weakness—real or implied.

"Of course," the Fjerdan expat soothed, his bedside manner exceptional as always. Although I was still a little unsettled about being mended so unnaturally fast by a Grisha, Geir always seemed to put me at ease while he worked to fix me up. "After all the practice you've given me with mending complex fractures these last few days," he laughed softly, "it won't be a problem. It just might take longer than I originally thought."

"Fantastic," I grimaced, flinching under Geir's slightest touch.

"Is my company that horrible?" The Healer chuckled, trying to distract me from the discomfort of what he was doing.

"No, I'm just starting to think you enjoy seeing me suffer."

"If I wanted you to suffer, I'd use one of your bone fragments to pierce your lung."

"… Point taken."

"Not that I'd ever do that; I'm no Heartrender," Geir said absently as his hands shifted slightly away from where they had been lingering, taking some of the ache that had sat in my chest wall with them. Recognising that as my cue to let the Healer concentrate as he solved the puzzle of my rib, I fell silent and waited, however impatiently, for him to finish. "There," he said after a long, long while, his hands finally parting from my flesh as he sat up straight in his chair, "you should be good as new."

Instantly, I knew he was right. The terrible pain that had brought me back under Geir's attention was gone, and I could breathe deeply once again without trouble. Sitting up on my sickbed, I twisted this way and that, raised my arm and stretched it, and examined myself once satisfied I felt properly put back together. As I expected, no trace of the massive purplish-black welt I had arrived with remained, and the broken bone in question was no longer sitting at several awkward angles beneath my skin. "Thanks, Geir," I said earnestly as I reached for my shirt and kefta, which lay at the end of the bed.

"Any time," he smiled back, his icy-blue eyes alight with energy. In fact, his whole person seemed to glow now, the tremendous effort he had to expend to heal me invigorating him.

At that moment, as I straightened my underclothes and slipped on my shirt, Genya burst into the Little Palace's infirmary like a firestorm of auburn hair and stress. "This is where you've been?" She asked shrilly as she strode angrily over to Geir and me, her ocher eyes flashing murderously. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Well, here I am," I said cautiously, unsure of why she was so furious with me without provocation. "What do you need?"

"You!" Genya barked as she glared at me from the foot of the bed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

I cast a pleading look to Geir, who merely shrugged back at me. He was just as lost as I was. "No… ?" I said slowly, doubtful if it was wise to have even answered at all.

"You were supposed to be back in your rooms to get ready nearly an hour ago," the Tailor replied strongly.

"That's my fault," Geir interjected bravely as he rose to step away from the bedside and give me room to stand. When Genya turned her ire on him, he hurriedly justified himself. "It took longer than expected to mend Esfir's rib," Geir admitted, looking rather small (an astounding thing for someone who was over six feet tall and built like a brick shithouse).

Genya was still fuming visibly, but a little of the heat driving her fury seemed to have dwindled. "I suppose I can't be upset about that—she needs to be in one piece for tonight. But," she clucked, focussing her temper back in my direction as I stood and shrugged on my kefta, "at the very least, you could have told me what was happening."

"If I'd known I was supposed to see you at all today, I would have," I countered dryly. "I thought you'd be tending to the Queen, so I figured that—"

"—That you'd what? Go to Nikolai's ball as you are?" Genya laughed, her sarcasm biting.

"Yes," I sniffed petulantly. "What's wrong with how I look?"

"Nothing… If you want to be laughed out of court before you even set foot in the Grand Palace," she fired back crisply.

"Okay, firstly: ouch; that was rude. Secondly, I don't want to go to 'court', so that's not a threat," I growled.

"Attending court isn't about 'wanting' to be there," Genya huffed as she strode briskly around the bed to cart me away by my elbow, "it's about being seen."

"And what if I don't want to be seen?" I grumbled as I followed passively in her wake.

"Unfortunately, my dear, this isn't about what you want," Genya stated as we raced out of the infirmary.

Although I could have easily stopped Genya from towing me along, I let her drag me away. Because, when it came down to it, I knew I didn't actually have any say about either matter. Whether I liked it or not, Genya was going to work her magic on me, and then I would attend the most ridiculous and exorbitant party I would probably ever witness in my life—end of story. It was easier for everyone if I simply resolved myself to Genya's will.

"Thanks again, Geir," I called over my shoulder as Genya forcefully led me out of the infirmary.

"Have fun!" The Healer called after me. Though, as I stumbled after the redhead at my arm, I couldn't quite tell if he was serious or not.

o-o-o-o

"I don't understand why you always have someone else wash me," I groused as Genya schlepped me out of the bathroom and steered me (roughly) towards the Vezda Suite's dressing table.

"Because I know those shrews do a wonderful job in a short time," the Tailor murmured as she deposited me in the familiar chair waiting before her chest of wonders. I had half a mind to sprint back into the bathroom and disappear, but instead, I straightened the folds of my black velvet robe and waited for her to tell me what to do next. It was no use to resist her once she'd set her mind to something. "Tell me you're not happy with your hair after Polina's handiwork?" She asked with a smirk as our eyes met in the dressing table mirror.

"I guess I can't complain," smiled as I ran my hand over the freshly-shaved side of my scalp, only to have Genya swat my hand away.

"Don't distract me," she chastised as she held up bits and pieces of reagents to my hair, deciding which one she liked best. "I have to make up for all that time you were lounging in the infirmary with that Corporalnik—what's his name? Gora?"

"His name is Geir," I corrected pointedly, "and I wasn't lounging."

"No?" Genya drawled as she considered a black opal against my locks before putting it back in her trunk. "Looked like it to me."

"No," I confirmed. "He's been tending to me this past while. Training with the Darkling has been…"

"What?" Genya asked absently as she examined a piece of rich, navy goldstone against my bedraggled locks. Still not quite satisfied, she quickly exchanged the sparkly gem for a chunk of obsidian.

I sighed heavily, debating whether or not it was a good idea to say anything more. "Training with the Darkling has been… Difficult," I confessed. "After our training sessions, I end up in the infirmary more often than not."

"And you expected anything else?" Genya questioned absently as she held up a raven's feather to my hair for a brief moment before abandoning it for a jar of silver dust. Her mind made up, she set it down on the dressing table before me.

"I'm not sure," I murmured as the Tailor then, with a casual flick of her wrist, willed away the wetness that drug down my hair. It now cascaded over my one shoulder in a waterfall of thick curls.

"He pushes you because he cares," Genya sighed as she then retrieved the jar of silver and sprinkled some over my head. "If it was anyone else—"

"—If it was anyone else," I seethed, irrationally upset, "they would be training with Baghra."

"Yes," Genya agreed as she stoppered the tiny vial and put it away. In its stead, she quickly produced a bone comb. "But you're not anyone else, are you?" She asked knowingly.

That struck me silent for a moment. "I'm no one," I insisted quietly, wishing what I said was true.

"Please," Genya smiled as I watched her, through the mirror, slowly comb my hair, weaving tiny threads of silver throughout the strands. "I don't like it when you lie to me, Esfir," she teased before placing the instrument back in her chest.

I couldn't look at myself anymore. Instead, I scowled sullenly down at my hands, which curled restlessly over one another in my lap. Eventually, I found the ring on my left middle finger and fidgeted with it to calm myself. "What am I even supposed to do tonight?" I blurted out, suddenly peeved with the apparent lack of control I had over my life. "I've never been to a formal dinner before, let alone one for a prince," I worried in a rush. "I'm going to make a fool of myself."

Here Genya laughed and paused in her work to wrest my hands from my lap and take them in hers, holding them tenderly to her chest. "You need to go and drink shampanskoye* and eat zakuski* and ptifur* and have fun," she pled, her golden eyes molten with kindness and hope. "Besides," Genya deflected as she abruptly—almost apologetically—let go of me to return to rifling through her trunk, "most of the aristocrats are going to be too absorbed with Prince Nikolai to even talk to you. Just keep to the Darkling's side, and you'll be fine."

"Right," I scoffed, going back to playing with my favourite ring. "Because that's served me well so far."

"Hasn't it?" She asked purposefully as I watched her reflection weigh a jar of silver dust followed by a smoky brown gemstone against the colour of my eyes. Liking neither, she opted instead for the piece of obsidian she had considered previously for my hair.

Decidedly, I didn't answer and instead considered what Genya meant. Ever since my path crossed the Darkling's, nothing had been the same. He'd taken me away from the only home I'd ever known, thrown me into the lion's den of the Little Palace, forced me to supplicate myself before royalty, and nearly had me killed (twice)… And yet, the longer that I stayed in his presence, tucked behind the walls of his stronghold, the more I was beginning to feel like I belonged here—even if I was no closer to being a 'true' Grisha than I was being able to fly to the moon.

"Regardless of how you feel about the Darkling," the Tailor said after making up her mind and turning my face towards hers, "he won't let you fall. Now, close your eyes."

I wanted to glare at Genya and tell her I didn't trust the Darkling as far as I could throw him, but instead, I sighed heavily and did as I was told. Next, I felt the sweep of Genya's fingers as they crossed over my eyelids, each movement she made exact.

"Open," Genya said after a minute or so. As I looked up at her, she smiled, extremely pleased with herself. "Perfect," she winked before directing me to turn back to face the dressing table mirror. Looking at myself, I had to agree with her. Like when I had first gone to the Grand Palace, Genya had leached the colour of the stone onto my face, leaving a delicate but sultry shadow about my eyes. I didn't know if it was a trick of the light or something to do with Genya's skills as a Tailor, but the hint of darkness made my irises burn like chips of the deepest amethyst.

"The Queen is going to take one look at me and know what you've been up to," I teased as I admired how my hair subtly glistened as I moved.

"After what I went through today to get her ready, I don't give a volkra's ass," Genya whispered into my ear. We then shared a giggle as she went back to rummaging through her kit.

"I'll just have to keep my distance—for your sake," I smiled as she surfaced from one of the trunk's many tiny drawers with two pale pink begonia petals.

"If she's as afraid of you as you say," Genya smiled as she placed a finger over my mouth to hush me, "you shouldn't have to try too hard to avoid her." Then, with a few careful sweeps of her thumb, she leached the flower's delicate blush onto my lips and cheeks, a process that never ceased to amaze me.

"No one should be afraid of me," I muttered as Genya turned her attention back to my hair.

"Now that's an understatement if I ever heard one," she said wryly as she moved my curls this way and that, trying to choose how to arrange them.

"Well, it's true," I sighed. "I can't do a damn thing—at least not anything useful or frightening."

"Maybe not at the moment—"

"—Maybe not ever—"

"—I doubt that. You're training with the Darkling. If anyone can help you, he can."

"If anyone can break my ribs on the regular, he can," I grumbled sourly.

Genya laughed to herself as she wove my hair into an intricately side-swept waterfall of curls and braids, fastened in place by a silver band, engraved with a sun in eclipse. "Give yourself time," she implored, meeting my glower with gentle eyes via the mirror.

I couldn't stop myself from sighing somewhat dejectedly. Desperate to change the subject, I ran a hand over the artfully arranged tresses of my hair. "It's hard to believe, but you've outdone yourself again," I said thankfully, knowing full well that Genya wouldn't be able to resist basking in my praises.

"I have, haven't I?" She beamed before helping me up from my seat and directing me towards the privacy screen and my clothes. I quickly ducked out of sight and dressed, reappearing a few moments later to find her waiting expectantly for me, my travelling cloak draped over her arm. "You are a sight to behold," she crooned, complimenting both herself and me at once.

"Hopefully, I don't take too much attention away from Prince Nikolai," I laughed, feeling oddly self-conscious.

"Even he won't be able to take his eyes off of you," she grinned proudly as she took my arm to lead me out of the room.

My oprichniki bodyguards followed Genya and me to the front doors of the Little Palace. Surprisingly, however, they stopped short of going outside with us into the evening and approaching the Darkling's waiting carriage. Inexplicably, I felt unusually exposed with only Genya on my arm, but at the same time, I was glad to be rid of those two dour shadows for a short while.

"I'll find you at the Grand Palace," Genya assured me as we hesitated a few paces away from the coach door and the grey-clad footman waiting beside it. "The Queen won't have much use for me now, so it shouldn't be hard for me to get away for a while," she explained as she deftly draped my cloak over my shoulders and fastened the clasp.

But Nikolai's ball and the Grand Palace were suddenly far from my mind. "Is he… ?" I asked absently as I stole a nervous glance at the carriage. When I'd last seen the Darkling earlier, he had sent me off to the infirmary in what felt like anger. The worst part was that I couldn't be sure if, at the time, he was upset with me, with himself, or with both of us. Even so, I was worried that he might still be frustrated—or worse, disappointed—with me failing to (yet again) meet his expectations.

Genya rolled her eyes when I looked back at her. "Yes," she answered indulgently, "the Darkling is waiting for you, so you'd better stop dawdling."

I looked again at the waiting horses and felt my stomach clench nervously. "Wish me luck," I breathed, my eyes now trained on the Darkling's sigil etched on the glass of the doors.

"You don't need it," Genya whispered into my ear before giving me a little push forward.

I didn't look back at her. Instead, I took my small, stumbling step in stride and marched myself towards the coach. Although the footman opened the door and offered his hand to me, I ignored the help and instead thanked him quietly before nimbly ascending the short ladder into the saintsforsaken coffin on wheels.

The Darkling was, as Genya said, waiting for me, seated regally to my right as he had the last time we had travelled together. As the door closed behind me with a sharp snap, I plunked myself down unceremoniously in the middle of the empty bench across the aisle. And even though I pretended not to notice, I could feel the Darkling's eyes on me—charting everything from the small shift of my weight as I crossed my legs to the gentle touch I gave my hair to ensure it was still presentable.

"You look lovely," the Darkling said politely, in a breath as if the compliment had slipped out unconsciously. When I met his gaze as the coach lurched forward, I found his usually cold, grey eyes softer than I'd ever seen them. It was a relief that no trace of his earlier displeasure seemed to be left in him now, but I wasn't sure this was necessarily an improvement. Because as confident as I was in my ability to bluster my way around the Darkling's mercurial moods, I was at a complete loss for how to react to his kindness.

"Genya didn't have time to do much," I deflected somewhat awkwardly, fighting against the flattered blush that was rising in my cheeks.

"From my experience, she's nothing if not deliberate," he replied with a small smile.

"Yes, she is," I chuckled demurely as my fingers instinctively found the ring on my left middle finger.

"I'll tell you the same thing as when the King last summoned us," the Darkling said evenly, his focus shifting briefly to my restless hands, before he turned the full weight of his piercing gaze back on me, "you've nothing to be worried about."

"I'll remember that when I find some new way to put my foot in my mouth," I said satirically as I forced myself to quiet my hands and fold them more primly in my lap.

The Darkling laughed at that, the rich sound filling the coach like summoned shadow. "Truthfully, I'd encourage you to insult as many of the puffed-up sycophants who hover about the Royal Family as you can."

I couldn't stop myself from gaping at him. "What?" I asked in disbelief. "But you told me—"

"—I told you not to insult the King," the Darkling interrupted with a sly grin. "However, Ravka's gentry is utterly useless," he then snorted derisively as we entered the wooded tunnel that separated the ground of the Little Palace from those of the Grand Palace. "They walk around like peacocks, flaunting their wealth, but are good for little else."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you resent them," I observed playfully.

"I resent anyone who overestimates their worth," he answered lightly, though I could tell by the hardness in his eyes that he meant every word.

"Well, good thing no one here has that problem," I muttered disparagingly as I turned towards the window, unable to look at the Darkling any longer.

A heavy, stifling pause overtook the space between us then. I was happy to let it exist as I watched the walls of the greenhouse shining in the distance, but it didn't live long before the man across from me shattered it—rather unexpectedly. "Geir reported that he was able to mend your rib without issue this afternoon," the Darkling said reservedly.

"'Reported'?" I repeated sceptically, still looking out at the palace grounds as they passed.

There was another loaded pause before the Darkling responded. "It's important I keep apprised of how you're doing," he clarified a little too clinically.

I suppose you should since you need to know if your handiwork has been undone. "There are better ways to say you're sorry," I drawled blandly.

The Darkling sighed sharply. "I won't apologise for pushing you to be all that you can be," he said determinedly. "I told you that as much during our first training session together."

Incensed, I couldn't stop myself from turning to glare at him. I found him watching me intently, his eyes guarded. "You'll understand that I feel otherwise," I growled, simultaneously taken aback and troubled.

"And for that, I am sorry," the Darkling confessed nearly inaudibly, his voice raw to match the concerned knit of his usually perfect brow.

Unable to speak, I held his gaze for what felt like an eternity. His eyes were like chips of clouded glass: sharp, cold, unyielding. But behind the indifference and the harness was a yearning that I didn't understand. And that frightened me more than anything. "I'm not who you want me to be," I whispered, trying to reassure myself more than anyone else.

"Don't lie to me, Esfir," the Darkling smiled sadly yet, at the same time, understandingly.

"Well, you'd better get used to it," I said bitingly to hide the shame and embarrassment that constricted my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye, I registered we were now passing the living walls of the hedge maze. We were getting nearer to the Grand Palace and my waiting humiliation.

The Darkling held my spiteful stare for a while before his eyes flicked once again to my hands. "Why that one?" He asked out of the blue, his voice less restrained as if he was truly asking a question out of curiosity.

Shocked, I looked down at my hands to find myself absently fiddling with my favourite ring. Realising the Darkling had caught me red-handed, I defensively pushed the lunar-emblazoned ring back into place and folded my left hand strategically under my right. "'Why that one' what?" I questioned back, feigning ignorance, as I met his stare again, though I should have kept my eyes averted.

"When you're nervous or upset, you play with that ring more than any of your others," he observed matter-of-factly, his grey, crystalline eyes easily piercing through me.

"Really? I never noticed," I tried to deflect with a shrug.

"Why that one?" He bluntly asked again, not falling for my act.

I held his stare for a long time, my hand still curled defensively over my mother's ring, protecting it. I knew I shouldn't say anything—that it wasn't the Darkling's privilege to know so much about me… But, for some foolish, girlish reason, I wanted to tell him the truth. After all, what (or who) could it hurt to illustrate the difference between an orphan and a founding? "Do you remember when you interrogated me back in your tent in Kribirsk?" I asked.

"How could I forget?" The Darkling smiled, fracturing the stone walls of my heart just a little.

"Then you remember when you asked me about my parents," I pressed, suppressing the tide of butterflies that tried to overwhelm me from within.

"Yes," he nodded. "I asked you if your parents were Grisha, and you gave me some flippant answer about assuming they were a man and a woman."

I smiled to myself, recalling that exact moment as if it had happened only yesterday. "I also told you that I'm a foundling," I tacked on.

"Isn't that just another term for 'orphan'?" He inquired in full seriousness.

"No, there's a big difference," I replied with good humour.

"Enlighten me, then," the Darkling urged, but not unkindly.

"Orphans are the product of tragedy: war, famine, disease, the Fold," I explained analytically. "Foundlings, on the other hand, are the product of choice."

The Darkling let out a tiny yet heavy sigh, his eyes softening infinitesimally. "You were abandoned," he inferred, his voice more gentle than I'd ever heard it before.

"Yes," I nodded soberly. "But what makes me a foundling is this ring—my token," I expanded reverently, unable to stop myself from touching the thick gold band, my thumb rubbing back and forth over the diamond at the apex of the moon's cycle. "When I was a babe, my birth mother left it with me when she… Entrusted me to the kindness of strangers," I said carefully, "so that, if we ever met again, I would know her from anyone else. As you might imagine, this ring is extremely special to me," I concluded as the hedge maze fell away in the wake of the carriage.

"Have you ever tried to find her?" The Darkling asked after a small, trepidatious hesitation, his stare once again intense.

"Now that's none of your business," I replied pointedly, turning my gaze away to watch the Grand Palace loom into view. There was no way that I could keep my wits about myself if I continued to return the Darkling's attention: I'd spill my guts to him for sure. Something about the cunning lurking behind the fervency in his eyes made me suspicious. He was plotting something.

"My apologies," he murmured sincerely, falling silent as we rounded the last corner before the main entrance to the King's palace.

We sat in uncomfortable silence until the coach rocked to an abrupt stop. And when the door opened barely a moment later, my stomach dropped into my boots. Unlike the last time I had been to the Grand Palace with the Darkling, tonight the gaudy façade was uplight like a cathedral. Every inch not occupied by a statue, gilding, or scrollwork was festooned with royal blue banners of all sizes, each bearing a glittering gold Ravkan double eagle. Somehow, such pageantry made the palace look even more obtuse than before, but, at the same time, it also made such a show of unbridled wealth seem more threatening.

"Nothing is expected of you tonight, Esifr, except for your presence," the Darkling said quietly, drawing my attention from the yawning openness of the carriage door. When I looked at him, I found him regarding me curiously, his expression somewhere between sympathetic and aloof.

Even from outside, I could hear the hum of comingling voices and orchestral music. The crowd gathered to receive Prince Nikolai must have been massive. "I'll try to remember that while I'm insulting aristocrats on your behalf," I scoffed, faking confidence once again—as I always did when I didn't know what else to do to protect myself.

"Just stay by my side, and you'll be fine," the Darkling said faintly before swiftly exiting the coach.

As with the last time, before I jumped out to risk my neck before Ravkan aristocrats, I was left stunned by his words. Recovering a little quicker this time around, I centred myself and exited the coach, an unexpectedly ungloved hand waiting to assist me at the door. I'd seen those hands enough times in the last few days, raised against me in summoning, to know to whom they belonged. And, for once, I elected to take the help down the short step awaiting me.

The sensation of the Darkling's hand in mine was like holding onto the sun.

Stifling the gasping breath that nearly escaped me, I maintained my composure as I gracefully—surely—descended to the outside. But, internally, I was a riot. It was as if every particle of shadow, every minuscule bit of dark matter around me, began to sing as our bare skin touched, begging for me to call on them. And for a split second, I almost gave in. But as my boot made contact with the gravel and the Darkling released his fleeting grasp on my hand, the impulse faded, leaving me feeling empty and ashamed.

"Once more unto the breach," the Darkling whispered into my ear, his closeness making my heart stutter. But just as his breath grazed my face, he was gone, walking away from me as if he owned the palace he approached.

Trying not to scramble to catch up to him, I quickly strode to walk at the Darkling's side with my chin held high as we passed the armoured guards at the entrance. As before, two porters dressed in cream-coloured livery fell into step behind us as we entered a foyer featuring two opposing staircases identical to those that lead to the throne room. The only way I knew we had entered into a different part of the Grand Palace than before was the fresco that graced the ceiling. Instead of the Saints weeping overhead in the gruesome stages of their martyrdoms, they were now wreathed in aureolas of gold to signify their eternal glory. As before, the Darkling and I ascended one of the symmetrical sweeping staircases and then proceeded down a short, mirrored passageway, the cadence of our footsteps punctuating the tumultuous and growing background din of music mixed with hundreds of different conversations.

At the end of the hallway, a massive antechamber seemed to yawn open. The high, vaulted ceiling was alabaster white and trimmed with gold scrollwork and moulding. Servants stood impassively, lined against the walls and bearing platters burdened with everything from crystal flutes to bite-sized foods. Men and women dripping with gems and dressed in every colour imaginable milled around the space, talking in clusters. As with the palace's exterior, rich blue banners hung strategically above us, the cloth of gold used for each double eagle glittering almost as brightly as the two crystal chandeliers that flanked the double doors on either side of the room.

After crossing the threshold, the porters paused momentarily before retreating away down the hall. The Darkling and I were only alone for a moment before two footmen appeared. Unsure of what to do as they hesitated beside us, I glanced nervously at the Darkling.

"Your cloak," he muttered before undoing the clasp of his own and then laying it carefully over the waiting arms of the servant on his left. Feeling laughably green, I did the same. And no sooner had I relinquished my mantle to the young man on my right did the two cream-clad servants rush away, leaving me feeling naked and exposed.

At that moment, I realised a low rumble of whispers had begun to swell up within the antechamber, underscoring the merry mix of music, laughter, and chatter that permeated the air like the threat of distant thunder on a sunny day. Every so often, even though they tried to be discreet, I caught sight of men and women alike stealing glimpses at the Darkling and me, their eyes full of disdain and fear. I tried not to pay any notice, but it felt like an unwelcome precursor of things to come.

"Pay their clucking no mind," the Darkling instructed quietly, drawing my attention. I found him regarding me calmly, almost smugly, with a ghost of a smile playing on his beautiful lips.

"Easy for you to say," I scoffed breathlessly, looking away to focus on the double doors at the other end of the room. I didn't want anyone to catch me staring at him for too long. "I've never been to a… Spectacle like this before," I muttered, suddenly nervous about what might be waiting beyond the distant, gilded barrier.

"This may be your first brush with suffering the aristocracy on such a pretentious scale, but it won't be your last," he replied with a hint of humour. "You'll get used to the attention. Shall we?" He then asked, the pleasantness in his tone unusual.

Despite myself, I looked back to the Darkling and found him extending his arm to me—as I had seen so many gentlemen do for their ladies in the 'better' areas of Kribirsk. Not knowing what else to do, I gingerly entwined my arm with his, placing my hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. Taking the lead, the Darkling guided me confidently across the room, carving a path through the scattered pockets of lingering men and women. It was easy to hear their furtive whispers and feel their eyes on my face and back as we passed. And as much as I wanted to meet each rudely lingering stare, I kept my gaze forward, trained on the doors we approached.

Drawing to a stop, an older gentleman in cream livery stepped out of the wings to hover before the golden door handles. Without missing a beat, he dipped his head respectfully towards the Darkling and then turned to me. The dispassionate look he fixed me with somehow reeked of haughtiness. "Your name, miss?" The butler asked blandly. Apparently, the Darkling needed not to identify himself.

"Esfir," I answered easily, uncertain of why he even wanted to know such a thing.

"And your last name, miss?" He asked with thinly-veiled annoyance.

"I don't have one," I replied astringently.

"Please, miss," the butler chuckled so condescendingly I almost gagged, "I cannot announce you without your full name."

"Well, you'll just have to make an exception," I hissed at him, my nerves and patience already wearing thin.

"I insist, miss."

"And I insist that you mind your own business."

"As required by royal ed—"

"—Fine," I snapped in hushed tones, desperate to shut the absurd man up before he could launch into whatever lecture he was beginning. "Kosilov. My name is Esfir Kosilov," I muttered tersely. I could feel the Darkling's eyes boring into the side of my head, the mixture of curiosity and surprise he wore palpable. I didn't acknowledge him.

"Thank you, miss," the butler said with a self-satisfied smile (it took everything in me not to smack it off his face). After a small bow, he turned to pull open the two large doors, revealing a massive ballroom brimming with people.

Solid gold pillars topped with intricate, foliage-like capitals lined the walls, supporting an equally glittering gallery festooned with state banners. Up above, the vaulted ceiling seemed to reach a dizzying height, its great white expanse adorned in moulding and scrollwork identical to the antechamber at our backs. Four behemoth crystal chandeliers ran down the centerline of the space, the hundreds of candles they supported casting a warm glow over the sea of bodies beneath them. Everywhere I looked, there were people, people, and more people, each dressed just as ostentatiously as the last. The women were dressed in lavish, flowing ball gowns of every colour imaginable and absolutely dripping with pearls and precious gems. The men were done up in fine black tuxedos with luxurious satin lapels or the bedazzling military dress uniforms of high-ranking officers, complete with gold-and-gem-studded aiguillettes. Again, servants in cream livery peppered the crowd, some bearing gleaming platters overflowing with bite-sized delicacies, while others supported crowded trays of drinks in sparkling crystal glasses. Lively orchestral music filtered over the sound of a hundred conversations, and, somewhere, I heard the rhythmic sound of people dancing, their shoes tapping in sync on the elaborately patterned parquet floor.

Vaguely, I heard myself gasp, the small, sharp sound making audible the feeling of the bottom dropping out of my stomach. And before I could even think to detach myself from the Darkling's arm and run back out to the carriage, we were striding headlong into the fray.

From behind us, the butler announced loudly: "General Kirigan and Miss Esfir Kosilov!" His voice somehow rang out clearly over the tremendous din that issued from the ballroom, turning many heads as we approached. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to disappear beneath the floorboards.

My dismay must have registered on my face, for the Darkling allowed himself a small chuckle. "Just pretend like you don't even know they're there," he then murmured for my ears alone, his head inclined towards mine in a way that made my already flip-flopping stomach do a series of cartwheels. "The only people who matter in this entire ridiculous room are on the dais, just over there."

"Oh, great, so we are going to bow and scrape to the King," I muttered back saltily as the crowd broke around us. Although I kept my eyes trained ahead on one of the conspicuous halberds of the Royal Guards, inwardly, I was cringing under the scorn dominating the faces of those around me. The ballroom was now veritably abuzz with whispers and gasps, as though the Darkling and I were some rare and frightening beasts on crashing the party. If being at the centre of attention at the Little Palace before a crowd of my supposed peers was bad, this was definitely a thousand times worse. At least among Grisha, I could believe that no one wanted me dead.

"Yes, we must thank our hosts and extend a warm welcome to Prince Nikolai," he replied with an audible grin. "You've also yet to be introduced to Crown Prince Vasily."

"And then we can leave?" I asked hopefully, even though I knew the answer was 'no'.

"Since we went through the trouble of coming all this way, we might as well make the most of the King's generosity," the Darkling suggested impishly.

"Don't be absurd. Some of the food travelled farther to be here than we did."

"All the more reason to stay and enjoy it, then."

"Truthfully, I'd rather sit through one of Behrad's lectures."

"As would I," the Darkling muttered almost inaudibly as the crowd broke away, revealing a large, gold, white, and sky-blue dais flanked by halberdiers on either end. Perched atop the platform on equally excessive gilded thrones were the King and Queen, decked out in the trappings of their rank. Standing at the King's right hand was a man perhaps a few years older than I was: he was blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and moderately attractive, despite the weak chin he had inherited from his father. I immediately recognised him as one of the princes, but I wasn't positive if this was Nikolai or Vasily. Since neither of the King's sons graced Ravkan vlachki, I had never bothered to familiarise myself with their likenesses.

Stopping before the dais, the Darkling released my arm. "Moi tsar. Moya tsaritsa. Moi tsarevich," he said with a slight, graceful bow of his head to each royal in turn. I did the same as he spoke but decidedly kept quiet. "Thank you for the gracious invitation to join you in celebrating the return of Prince Nikolai, your Highness," he then continued, speaking for the both of us (which was probably best). "I speak for all Grisha by saying we are happy for his safe arrival in Os Alta."

I avoided making direct eye contact with the King, but it wasn't hard to see the hint of a glare he fixed the Darkling with in return. "I'm sure you do, Darkling," he sniffed superiorly. "In any event, enjoy yourselves tonight and the luxury of being in a true palace."

"You are too generous, your Highness," the Darkling bowed again, his voice strained with the effort it took to keep civil. Automatically (cringingly), I bowed as well, trying to remain as inconspicuous as I could at the centre of all the hundreds of gawking aristocrats that surrounded the dais, the Darkling, and myself.

Just as I thought the Darkling might shift his weight to back away from the Royal Family and free us from the scrutiny we bore, the Prince standing beside the King's throne spoke. "So, this is the Apparat's 'herald of darkness'?" Vasiliy asked sceptically, sending another murmur running through the crowd. "From the way he described her audience with you, father, I thought she'd be more… Imposing," he sighed, disappointed.

"That's enough, Vasily. Don't insult our guests," the Queen scolded before the Darkling, the King, or I could respond. I nearly choked on the unspoken 'to their faces' that hung after her admonishment.

"No 'dark herald', Prince Vasily," the Darkling smiled tensely, his distaste for the Apparat's purulent and zealous nonsense as strong as my own, "just a Shadow Summoner, like myself."

"Then perhaps a demonstration is in order?" Prince Vasily suggested, his heavy-lidded eyes lighting up a little. For the second time in less than five minutes, my stomach fell to my feet. What, in the name of all the Saints, was I going to do now?

"And cause a stampede?" A strangely familiar voice laughed from behind the Darkling and me, turning everyone's heads. As I wheeled around, I found myself being approached by another young man dressed almost identically to Prince Vasily (though the sash he wore was only sky-blue instead of blue and gold). Prince Nikolai was incredibly handsome compared to his brother, his visage seemingly based on a prince's description in a fairytale. His hair, which was cut to a respectable military length, was a deep, golden blonde that made the hazel of his eyes sparkle like polished andalusite. Overall, he was the picture of grace and refinement, but the slight bend in his sharp nose, which looked as though it had been broken and reset more than once, tempered the air of command he exuded with geniality. The odd thing was that the more I looked at the prince as he approached, his walk full of confidence, the more I felt like I recognised him. I just couldn't put my finger on what wasn't quite right about his face that was making me second guess myself. "I don't think that's a good idea," the prince laughed as he strode between the Darkling and me to hop up onto the dais and stand at the Queen's side.

"Moi tsarevich—Prince Nikolai," the Darkling said respectfully with yet another dip of his head as we all turned back to face the Royal Family fully. "Welcome home."

"Why, thank you, General Kirigan," Nikolai smiled almost roguishly. "If I'd known that mother would insist on throwing such an amazing party on my account, I would have come home years sooner." A titter of polite laughter then ran through the crowd, lightening the tension that had filled the air. Inexplicably, I felt myself relax slightly as if I was in the company of a good friend.

"Then we won't keep you from delighting in the festivities, your Highness," the Darkling bowed again, trying to make an exit for us. Despite myself, I couldn't take my eyes off Nikolai to dip my head; I was too close to figuring out how I knew him.

"How very considerate of you," the prince said appreciatively. "I could use a drink, now that you mention it."

Perhaps it was his eyes? No… Then maybe his nose? "Of course," the Darkling replied politely, effectively excusing us. I caught myself staring quizzically at Prince Nikolai when I felt the Darkling take a step backwards, the absence of him near my side unnerving. Hurrying to catch up, I bent my head courteously before following suit and withdrawing backwards from the royal dais. I only turned to walk normally once the Darkling did. As we retreated farther into the crowd, the buzz of chatter, laughter, music, and dancing resumed as if nothing had happened.

"I suppose that could have gone a lot worse," I muttered as we worked our way towards the far wall of the ballroom. Large double doors made of spotless glass and gilded sash bars were sunk between the gallery's pillars, leading to a wide terrace overlooking the palace grounds. As we approached, a servant opened the way outside for the Darkling and me, letting in a refreshing blast of cool air.

Without hesitation, the Darkling exited into the deepening night, his kefta billowing out behind him in the breeze. I followed and joined him as he leaned on a thick white marble balustrade far away from the door, the light filtering out from the ballroom bathing him in gold. "Even though the prince's timing and observations were apt, I wouldn't have let you fail had it come to it," he ultimately replied, though he didn't look at me.

A pang of shame shot through me, but I kept myself relatively composed as I glared out over the manicured palace gardens below the terrace. "I'm glad it didn't, but thank you all the same," I said quietly, once again feeling wretchedly self-conscious.

"And don't pay any mind to the vitriol the Apparat spews," the Darkling muttered, casting me a glance before returning to staring out over the grounds, brooding.

I had to laugh at that—a quick, barbed scoff that I wish I could have let out much sooner. "People have called me worse things," I responded truthfully. "And besides," I continued, trying to lighten the mood, "I think it has a certain ring to it: the Dark Herald. It's almost as menacing as being called the Black Heretic."

My attempt at a joke backfired because the Darkling turned sharply to face me fully, his eyes hard. "Titles such as those are dangerous," he cautioned gravely. "They make it easy for the masses to assign fear and distrust to someone who deserves neither."

"So says 'the Darkling'," I pointed out dryly.

"A moniker I don't covet or perpetuate lightly," he rebutted flatly.

I felt my face flush with embarrassment for having unintentionally offended him. "I didn't mean," I fumbled, tripping over my words to try and save the situation. We'd been having an almost friendly evening together thus far, and I didn't want to ruin it. "I was just trying to make you la—"

"—It's fine," the Darkling interrupted, his voice and demeanour gentler than before. "Very few people know how much I detest being called 'the Darkling'," he explained almost apologetically before turning back to lean on the terrace railing, his gem-like eyes trained on the fading horizon.

"Well, what shall I call you instead, then?" I asked tentatively as I joined him, trying to keep a comfortable distance away (both physically and emotionally). When the Darkling turned to look at me questioningly, I clarified with a small smile: "I'm not going to call you by a title you resent."

He stared at me for a long while, almost as though he was moved by what I'd said. I'd never seen him look so stunned before—his brows knit together, his lips barely parted, his eyes soft. For a heartbeat, I thought I had been too forward, and he might not answer me. But, as always, the Darkling caught himself, regained his composure, and fixed me with one of his usual, faint smiles. "Aleksander," he said.

"Any last name?" I cheeked, using his words from our first formal introduction.

"Just 'Aleksander'," he replied knowingly, his smile broadening a little.

Silence fell between us then as we each looked away into the distance. Truthfully, I would have been happy to stay out on the terrace all evening in the Darkling's—Aleksander's—company, separated from the commotion going on inside, even if he never spoke another word to me. There was some comfort in just being with him amongst so many strangers who, it seemed, felt nothing but contempt for either of us. But the universe had other plans. We had been alone for barely a minute at most before the doors to the ballroom opened again. Both Aleksander and I flinched to look behind towards the palace, moving ever so much farther apart as if we were two children caught misbehaving behind their nanny's back.

Followed by the din of the party inside, a servant bearing a small tray approached us, his gaze trained politely on the Darkling. Stopping before him, the older gentleman bowed respectfully before offering the tray. "For you, General," he announced formally.

The Darkling's eyes narrowed with a strange mix of suspicion and frustration as he took the folded piece of paper waiting for him. It bore no insignia that I could see, but I knew its contents were important by the way his eyebrows arched with intrigue as he read. Having gleaned whatever details he needed from the message, he crisply folded the note closed and then tucked it away in some hidden pocket inside his kefta. With that, the servant bowed to excuse himself and then hurriedly buttled off back into the palace. Once we were alone again, Aleksander turned to face me properly. "I have to go," he excused, his voice full of polite yet sincere regret.

"You can't leave me alone with these people!" I hissed, the thought of being without him and left to my own devices in such a strange situation utterly terrifying. "You said—"

"—You'll be fine, Esfir," he assured with a low chuckle, his lips twitching upwards in another suggestion of a smile as if he was happy to see I didn't want him to leave.

"What am I even supposed to do?" I asked, taken aback by his casualness and certainty.

"Go inside and have something to drink," Aleksander suggested lightly. "It'll calm your nerves."

"Be careful what you wish for," I warned as I looked over my shoulder, concerned, towards the ballroom. The thought of me—the uncouth and less-than-scrupulous nobody—diving back into the waiting crowd of gentrified men and women made my stomach clench uncomfortably.

"As soon as I'm able, I'll find you," he assuaged gently, drawing my attention back to him. I found Aleksander regarding me thoughtfully, his usually hard, grey eyes warm with a hint of tenderness that made my breath catch unexpectedly in my chest.

"You promise?" I heard myself ask, sounding very much the sensitive young girl I suddenly felt like inside. It was a question I would never have asked of anyone, let alone a man as secretive and mercurial as Aleksander. What was worse than feeling so immediately vulnerable and foolish, though, was the desperate sense of expectation (nearing on hope) that gripped me, its persistence hinging entirely on his next words.

The ghost of a smile that had been haunting his lips then manifested fully, nearly bringing me to my knees for the conflict of emotions it caused. "Yes, I promise," Aleksander confirmed with a slight nod.

Even though the knowledge that he would be coming back bolstered me a little, I still didn't want him to leave. "You owe me. Big time," I said pointedly instead of begging him to stay.

Aleksander laughed at that, his happiness rippling through the blooming night like sultry skeins of the blackest shadow. "Try to enjoy yourself," he half-instructed-half-requested before walking away without so much as a backward glance.

So unceremoniously cut loose, I lingered on the terrace, waiting for the right moment to go back inside. Although I would have much rather stayed on the terrace until Aleksander returned, there was no point: someone would notice I was missing before long and, truthfully, it was getting a bit chilly (even with my sable-lined kefta). After taking a minute or so to harden my nerves (and avoid any chance of sparking gossip for following too closely in the General's wake), I forced myself to rejoin the party.

As confidently as I could, I strode into the ballroom, my chin tilted purposefully upward to try and project more courage than I felt. At a loss for what to do next, I simply started wandering the room, keeping to the perimeter and avoiding making eye contact with anyone who noticed me. I had barely made it to the next set of doors leading out to the terrace when I noticed a familiar redhead standing amongst the crowd out of the corner of my eye.

It was Genya. Albeit she was standing with her back to me, but I knew her well enough to recognise her anywhere.

Thanking the Saints for sending rescue in the form of a familiar face, I picked up my pace and dove into the crowd, making a beeline for the Tailor. But as I neared her, she seemed to slip ever farther away from me, the bodies that surrounded somehow working in consort to keep Genya and me far enough apart so that I couldn't call out to her without looking ridiculous. Determined, I pressed on, working my way as quickly as I could through the lords and ladies without causing a stir. I had just broken free of the crowd on the King's end of the Royal dais when I saw Genya disappear through a door.

Without thinking, I hurriedly followed after her and found myself standing in a long hallway. Looking both ways wildly to try and determine where Genya had gone, I barely caught a fleeting glimpse of her hair as she vanished through yet another door. Turning to my right, I bolted down the hall, my footsteps muffled on the sapphire-blue runner that covered the gleaming hardwood floor.

"Genya?" I called out as I came to a stop in what must have been the Royal Family's private chapel. Walking carefully into the eerily silent and darkened nave, I stood in the middle of the large room and took in the space. Far across from me at the other end of the room, protected by a low and balustraded templon, was a golden iconostasis, painted with exquisite renderings of the Lantsov patron Saints. The interior wall on my right and the ceiling were also decorated with beautiful illuminations, featuring other favoured icons and the symbols of their martyrdoms. On the left wall were three towering windows, letting in wide, silvery moonbeams—the only other light in the room beyond a few sputtering prayer candles lit in large, gilded candlestands near the altar's towering shield.

Looking behind me, I found another door leading out to what looked like a columned rotunda. Realising that was the only way Genya could have gone, I was just about to continue after her when I heard the sound of footsteps at my back. Freezing in place, I instinctually reached for the non-existent dagger at my hip and silently cursed my foolishness. I'd been tricked.

"So, you are alive," the Apparat hissed. When I turned to face him, he was standing before the central holy doors of the iconostasis, looking very much like a greasy stain against such a beautiful backdrop. His beady eyes narrowed into a hateful glare as I regarded him.

"Don't sound so disappointed," I smarmed back, seeing no need to keep up pretence since we were (unfortunately) alone.

"Not disappointed," he rasped as he took a few measured steps closer to me, "rather… Resolved."

I stood my ground, straightening my posture to try and appear more imposing even though the sight of the man before me filled me with dread. "Yes, you'll have to try harder if you want to get rid of me," I grinned slyly, jumping straight to the point.

"Whatever do you mean?" The Apparat mused insidiously as he took another few paces towards me, stopping only when he was about six feet away. Even at a distance, I could smell that a crypt-like odour of mould and incense that hung about him. It was revolting.

"That it's going to take a lot more than one pathetic assassin to kill me," I answered bluntly. A thrill of satisfaction ran through me when the Apparat's dark, flat eyes narrowed in anger. He didn't like that I was speaking plainly instead of playing along with his game of veiled remarks.

"Yes. History has proven that you Shadow Summoners are difficult to deal with," the Apparat growled, his long and dirty black beard quivering repulsively as he spoke. "Difficult," he repeated threateningly when I opened my mouth to make a retort, "but not impossible."

"I'd beg to differ," I drawled, intentionally trying to rile him (even though that probably wasn't the best idea).

"Really?" The Apparat asked with a little too much pleasure for my liking. "Because a little bird told me you spent three days in the infirmary after the unprovoked attempt on your life."

"It was a welcome rest," I shrugged indifferently to hide the unsettling feeling that came with knowing my daily life might not be as private as I thought.

"From licking the Darkling's boots?" The grubby priest questioned, his unfounded hatred for me burning in the detestable, crumpled glare he wore.

"From punishing all of Ravka for its sins," I corrected snidely, my temper flaring.

"The Saints will see you destroyed, and in your stead will send unto us the Sun Queen," the Apparat seethed in a violent whisper, spittle flying from behind his thin lips and crooked, stained teeth. Apparently, I'd struck a nerve.

I couldn't help but let out a short, sharp burst of disbelieving laughter. "You're crazy," I scoffed in disbelief.

"And you are an abomination," he cursed vehemently.

"And I'm a prince, but that's neither here nor there," the strangely familiar voice of Prince Nikolai interjected unexpectedly. Wheeling around, I found him standing near the chapel side doors and holding two untouched flutes of shampanskoye.

"What are you doing here?" I asked brusquely, completely forgetting what few manners I had picked up since arriving at the Little Palace.

Nikolai laughed, the sound nagging at my memory. "I could ask you the same thing," he answered. "You don't strike me as a devout."

"I—I'm not," I sputtered, turning back to face the Apparat by way of explanation. The rattish priest merely bowed his head respectfully towards the prince as if nothing had happened and I didn't exist.

"Good evening, your highness," the Apparat said, his voice once again as smooth and slimy as lamp oil. "I have been praying to the Saints for your safe return home. Your mother has been so worried about you."

If I'd have blinked as I looked back towards the prince, I would have missed the nearly imperceptible roll of his eyes as the Apparat spoke. "Yes," Nikolai sighed, sounding almost depressed, "praise the Saints for seeing to calm my mother's nerves and delivering me from the pleasure houses in Ketterdam."

"The Saints have brought you back to Os Alta for a reason, your highness," the Apparat insisted in full seriousness. "We are blessed to have you here, in the capital, where you belong."

"'Where I belong'," Nikolai chuckled, "is back in the ballroom. Come, Miss Kosilov," he smiled, extending one of the crystal glasses he held towards me. "I'd be most honoured to escort you back to the party, and, perhaps, you'd then allow me a dance?"

Sceptically, I looked from the flute of sparkling wine to Nikolai and then back to the Apparat, who glared at me once again. My mind then easily made up, I took the offered glass from the prince and dipped my head in thanks. "I'd be delighted, your highness," I smiled as charmingly as I could.

"Allow me," Nikolai said as he bent his free arm for me to take.

Knowing the Apparat was paying attention only to me, I graciously took the prince's arm and allowed him to escort me from the room. As we calmly strode in silence from the chapel, I could feel the Apparat's repugnant stare fixed on my back the whole while, hating me with every step I took. I only spoke once Nikolai and I were well out into the hallway and free of the slithery priest's hearing. "Where did you come from?" I asked directly, forgetting my manners once again.

"You looked like you needed saving," Nikolai smiled, not seeming to mind my crassness.

I looked at him sharply, once again trying to pinpoint how I knew him. "I had that handled," I asserted, unimpressed.

"Really?" The prince asked, a hint of humour in his voice. "Didn't look like it to me."

"Goes to show what you know," I muttered blackly.

"I could have you hanged for that, you know," Nikolai joked darkly. When I glared at him, he smiled mischievously, sparking a jolt of remembrance in me. "Not that I'd ever do such a thing," he appended with a familiar, impish wink.

"Of course not," I smiled as I drew to a halt in the middle of the hallway, forcing the prince to stop beside me and to meet my focussed stare, "especially if it meant you could get out of owing me fifty thousand vlachki."

Nikolai baulked a strangled laugh, which was quite unlike him. "I've no idea what you mean," he deflected a little too stiffly, his usually jaunty charm now laid on a little too thick.

"Of course you don't… Sturmhond," I deferred with caustic politeness.

That gave Nikolai pause. For a long moment, he stared at me, his mind frantically working behind his bright, hazel eyes. Looking at the dashing young prince, I found it hard to picture him with muddy green eyes, an extremely pointed chin, unusually red hair, and a lumpy, crooked nose. But seeing him smile and hearing his laugh, I knew it was him: the infamous 'privateer' that I had worked with a few years ago to pull off a rather ambitious heist of twice-smuggled Fjerdan ordnance. We'd managed to complete the job without a hitch, but not before Sturmhond and his crew of pirates fled Kribirsk and conveniently forgot to pay me for my part of the work.

"Well," Nikolai finally sighed, "this is awkward."

"Were you hoping I'd die before you ever saw me again?" I asked piercingly, contemplating throwing my shampanskoye in his face in retaliation.

"Of course not," he denied, offended. "I'd never wish you dead… Only arrested and behind bars where you'd never have another chance to run into me."

"You know I've never been formally arrested in all my life," I hissed, staunchly defending my reputation as one of the best thieves this side of the Shadow Fold.

"I'll admit, it was a bad bet," Nikolai said sheepishly. "But if it's that important to you, I can pay you now."

"To what? Keep me quiet?" I inferred shrewdly at which Nikolai winced. "Do your dear mama and papa not know what you've really been up to while away 'studying'?"

"No, they don't," he muttered before clearing his throat and taking a small sip of his sparkling wine. "And, if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer it to stay that way—for now."

"I don't give a volcra's ass about your parents or what they know," I said in a treasonous whisper, earning a small chuckle from the privateer turned prince.

"Then what do you want?" He asked lightly, but I could tell by the subtle narrowing of his eyes that he was fully intent on making a deal to keep me quiet.

I thought about that for a moment. When I first met Sturmhond, there were many things I would have asked for—for money, for influence, for protection. But now, even with a prince at my mercy, I found myself fumbling to make demands. Since being whisked away to live at the Little Palace, I curiously enough found myself wanting for very little. "A favour in return," I eventually answered open-endedly.

"Which is what, precisely?" Nikolai pressed deliberately, taking a slight step closer to try and pressure me to give him a definitive answer. It didn't work.

"I don't know yet," I admitted freely and with a casual smile. "But when I do, so will you."

"You always were difficult to negotiate with," Nikolai grumbled before taking another sip of his shampanskoye. "Glad to see that hasn't changed."

"You're one to talk," I fired back as we then continued strolling down the hallway, taking our time.

"I always knew I was a prince in disguise," he joked, walking alongside me as he did all those years ago in Kribirsk—as if we were equals. "However, your change in colours comes as more of a wonder, especially considering your opinions on Grisha."

"Dressing me up in expensive clothes doesn't mean I've changed," I deflected, though I wasn't sure I meant what I said.

"Perhaps not," Nikolai dismissed with a shrug, "though, in hindsight, seeing you in a kefta does explain your unusual skill set."

"You say that like I knew," I replied curtly.

"Didn't you?" The prince asked deliberately.

"No," I equivocated as we came to a stop before one of the sets of double doors leading back to the ballroom.

"Well, that begs for an explanation," Nikolai chuckled, back to being his usual affable (if not frustratingly keen) self. "If I remember correctly, you once said that the only way you'd allow a Grisha to test you was on pain of death."

"It's a long story," I grumbled as I took a deep sip of the sparkling wine Nikolai had given me. Although I knew what shampanskoye was (and perhaps sold a case or twelve on the black market), I'd never had the inclination to try it, and, looking back, I realised I'd been sorely missing out.

"Believe it or not, I have time," the prince teased as he opened the door for me and waved me politely through. Taking his lead, I entered back into the ballroom and waited for him to follow, the whole while pretending not to notice the bug-eyed stares of the crowd. Under such scrutiny, I then had to take Nikolai's elbow when he offered it to me; however, I truly wished I had any other choice. The wasp-like buzzing of whispers that erupted throughout the sea of aristocrats as we walked, arm in arm, was grating.

I had half a mind to slam back the rest of my sparkling wine but thought better of it (for the moment). "It's not exactly the kind of story I'd like to have overhead," I muttered as we neared precariously close to the dancefloor, which was full of graceful men and women, each pair twirling in perfect sync with their neighbours.

"I figured, so it's a good thing you owe me a dance," Nikolai smiled playfully as we finally stopped to watch the end of the current waltz.

That caught me completely off guard. "I didn't actually mean I'd dance with you," I hissed as the prince finished the last of his shampanskoye and then deposited his empty flute on the waiting tray of a nearby servant.

"But you sounded so sincere," Nikolai cheeked. "'I'd be delighted, your highness'," he repeated in a poor imitation of my voice, trying to irritate me. If striking royalty weren't a quick way to separate my head from my shoulders, I would have punched him then and there.

"I would've done or said anything to get away from the Apparat," I growled before draining my glass, much to the offence of those ladies around me.

"Really? Well, in that case, I should have asked for something more than just a dance," Nikolai replied waggishly as I also relinquished my empty flute. Truthfully, I was sad to be rid of it: there's nothing quite like the satisfaction of smashing a bottle (let alone a crystal glass) on someone's head when you're angry with them.

"Like what? A quick way to meet the Saints?" I asked back a little too sweetly.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," the prince winked.

"You may look different, but you haven't changed at all."

"Why fix what isn't broken?"

"I can think of a few very good reasons."

"Please, you're beginning to sound like my mother," Nikolai chided, playfully irritated, "and I know from experience that you're far more fun than she is."

"Not when it comes to polite company," I smiled, enjoying the familiarity of the banter Sturmhond and I had shared.

"Well, in that case, we could always sneak away to have some impolite fun of our own," the prince teased suggestively.

"In your dreams, Nikolai," I refused with a heavy roll of my eyes.

"Every night," the prince slyly whispered in my ear, earning a (not so gentle) elbow in the ribs from yours truly.

"Is everything alright, Miss Kosilov?" Aleksander asked startlingly from behind us, causing both Nikolai to turn to face him. I found him regarding me peculiarly, as if he couldn't understand how, when, or why I had become so close to a member of the Royal Family.

Gaping at Aleksander for half a second, his presence unexpected but not unwelcome, I struggled to find my tongue. "Yes," I finally answered after hurriedly collecting my wits, "Nik—Prince Nikolai and I were just, uh—"

"—Discussing the merits of an Udovan Waltz versus a Kerch Galop," the prince jumped in confidently, drawing Aleksander's attention away from me. As he stared Nikolai down, Aleksander's sharp, grey eyes narrowed shrewdly, suggesting he grasped that something more was going on than appeared on the surface.

Not missing a beat, Aleksander bowed his head respectfully. But as he carefully ingratiated himself to the prince, he sneakily flicked his stare back to me, a subtle half-smirk gracing his perfect lips. "I much prefer the Waltz, myself," he offered conversationally after righting himself, his face once again composed.

"Pray tell, General," Nikolai urged, almost as if to challenge him, "why is that?"

"Because, in my opinion, your highness," Aleksander asserted, his focus entirely on the prince, "the Waltz is the most complex dance of all. On the surface, the Waltz appears simple: there are few steps to its overall structure and, when done correctly, looks completely effortless. But when diving into the intricacies of the Waltz's composition, it becomes apparent that there's far more to it than meets the eye." Here he paused and knowingly glanced my way, very nearly making me blush.

"I didn't take you for an expert on dancing, Kirigan," the prince smiled, his eyebrows arching in mild, if not slightly cynical, wonder. But beneath his congeniality, I could sense an air of competition that made me want to roll my eyes. Somehow, I'd managed to insert myself in the middle of a pissing contest.

Again, Aleksander dipped his head deferentially, though I could tell by the stiffness of his movements that he was annoyed by Nikolai's general air of conceit. "No expert, your highness," Aleksander denied. "Just someone well versed in suffering the demands of coexisting with Ravka's aristocracy."

Nikolai chuckled at that, though beneath his affability, he sounded oddly possessive. "I'm sure, between the two of us, General, we could write a book on the subject," he smiled, still trying to get a rise out of Aleksander.

"I'd be happy to commiserate with you, moi tsarevitch; however, I think that best saved for another time," Aleksander segued effortlessly. "I wouldn't want to distract you from entertaining your other guests."

Cue the countless and (awkwardly) fawning stares of the young and doe-eyed women hanging around the three of us.

Sensing the attention on him, Nikolai scoffed a strained laugh before unexpectedly taking my hand. Delicately, he bowed his head and brought it to his lips, planting a suave kiss just above my knuckles. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Kosilov," he needlessly flattered as he raised his eyes to meet mine. "But, as the Black General so astutely pointed out, I'm afraid I must shower my attention on these other ladies. I wouldn't want to seem entirely enamoured by your quick wit and beautiful face."

"Saints forbid. We wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea," I countered dryly as I took back my hand, hyper-aware of Aleksander as he intently watched my every move.

"Yes, Saints forbid," Nikolai repeated coyly as he righted himself. "General Kirigan," he then nodded curtly in dismissal of Aleksander before turning away and wading into the crowd of his waiting admirers.

Confident we were no longer the main focus of the room's attention, I looked to Aleksander. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever come back," I smiled, relieved to see him again.

For a moment, Aleksander's stare lingered piercingly on Nikolai as the prince stopped to make small talk with a group of young and elegantly-dressed courtiers. "I'm a man of my word," he said as he finally met my gaze, his expression softening. "Though you seemed to be managing on your own."

"Hardly," I snickered quietly. "You arrived just in time to stop Prince Nikolai from dragging me onto the dancefloor."

"Would that have been so bad?" Aleksander asked, seemingly pleased that I wasn't upset over the prince's abrupt departure.

"Considering I don't know how to waltz or galop? It would have been terrible," I stressed.

"So there are things you can't do," Aleksander mused, a hint of impishness buttressing his tone. "I'll have to start another list," he joked as he held out his arm for me to take.

"Don't bother," I cheeked as I accepted his offer, modestly nestling my hand in the crook of his elbow. You're getting too comfortable with him, my better self warned as I allowed Aleksander to then cautiously—deliberately—draw me closer, obliterating the heart's length of distance I had intentionally tried to keep between us.

Aleksander laughed discreetly at that, the sublime timbre of the sound sending a tiny shiver through me as we began walking back across the ballroom. "And why shouldn't I?" He asked with a playful smirk, though I could tell by the flash of sharpness that narrowed his stare he was worried about what I might say next.

"Because there won't be much on it," I answered blithely. Secretly, though, I keenly recalled how I had answered a similar question from him only three weeks ago. I'd changed a lot since then, and part of me was arguing that it hadn't been for the better. "I wouldn't want you to waste your time," I smiled delicately, stuffing away my clashing feelings to ruminate on them later.

"You're never a waste of my time," Aleksander murmured so softly that I wasn't sure I had even heard him speak.

"Esfir!" Genya called suddenly from somewhere nearby in the crowd. Barely a moment later, she forced her way into sight, gently pushing past a group of young officers in military dress. "There you are," the Tailor smiled, her face positively glowing with the vivacity brought by using her power. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Good evening, Genya," Aleksander interjected with a dry sort of amusement. Clearly, he wasn't used to being disregarded.

"Good evening, moi soverenyi," she beamed with a quick half-curtsey before turning her attention back to me. "Where have you been?" She demanded pleasantly, though I swore I saw her eyes flick slyly to my hand on Aleksander's arm.

"I could ask you the same thing," I replied, returning her grin with a confused one of my own. "I've been here, in the ballroom, almost all night. Why did you leave in such a hurry?"

"Leave?" Genya laughed with a hint of awkwardness. "What do you mean? I just got here."

"I saw you just a short while ago—"

"—That's impossible—"

"—I followed you when you left," I insisted determinedly, mildly miffed that Genya was pretending not to know what I was talking about. After all, she had purposefully avoided me, and not the other way around as she seemed to think. "Did you not hear me call out to you?" I questioned, ignoring the pointed stare Aleksander was drilling into me. Whether he liked it or not, every conversation didn't need to centre on him—a reality I would gladly help him understand.

A perplexed frown overtook Genya's face as I spoke. I couldn't help but think it was an expression ill-suited to her exquisite features. "When?" She pressed back just as firmly. "I told you: I've only just managed to get away from the Queen. She's had me confined to her dressing room in the south wing since I got back to the Palace."

"But why would she do that?" I puzzled, my conviction quickly fading. "You said that she wouldn't have any more need for you tonight."

"That's what I thought," she agreed, annoyed. "However, she found a reason for me to touch up her face, among other things," Genya drawled, a hint of disgust colouring her tone. "But I'm here now to help you enjoy the party, so that's all that matters," she smiled, her usual self-assured demeanour returning in an instant.

I, on the other hand, remained completely bewildered. "Right," I agreed, forcing myself to act normally, even though I suddenly felt overwhelmingly disturbed. If the Queen had sequestered Genya in another room far on the other side of the palace, who had lured me into the Lantsov's private chapel?

"I'll go and get us some shampanskoye," she bubbled excitedly before fixing me with a playfully reproachful glare. "And don't run away on me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I muttered as she took off into the crowd.

"Care to explain what that was all about?" Aleksander asked. I could tell by the crispness underscoring his usually aloof tone, though, that he wasn't requesting an explanation: he was commanding one.

Discreetly, I looked around us to see if anyone was paying attention (or trying not to). Finding the people around us absorbed in their own conversations about politics, trade, and the other 'finer' concerns of Ravkan nobility, I leaned ever so slightly into Aleksander's side, tilting my head lazily towards his. To anyone else, it would have looked as though I was merely enjoying his closeness, but in reality, I was whispering just loud enough for his ears alone. "After you left," I told him, the intoxicating absence-and-fresh-snow scent of his skin infusing my every breath, "I thought I saw Genya leave the ballroom. I followed her, but she disappeared."

Aleksander didn't speak. Instead, he inclined his head nearer so that I could feel the brush of his cheek against my forehead. Reading his intentional silence, I continued. "I ended up in the Royal Family's private chapel," I murmured, my voice barely a sigh. "The Apparat was there, waiting for me—expecting me."

Drawing away as if I had slapped him, Aleksander stared down at me, his cool, grey eyes infinitesimally widened with a frightening mixture of concern and rage. "What did he say to you?" He demanded again in hushed tones, his voice as sharp and smooth as glass.

"Nothing much," I answered just as quietly, though severely taken aback. "Just the usual: taunts and threats—some thinly veiled, some blatant."

"What did he say specifically," Aleksander urged seriously, the muscles in his arm pinching my hand as his whole body tensed.

"Um," I fumbled, suddenly struggling to recall what had transpired before Nikolai had shown up. "It wasn't anything notable, really. He called me an abomination and said that 'the Saints would see me destroyed'."

"Anything else?" Aleksander pushed intensely, his voice never rising above a whisper.

"He mentioned the assassin he sent—that he knew I had landed up in the infirmary for a few days after fending her off," I muttered, the feeling of dread that had crept up on me in the Chapel returning with a vengeance. It wasn't common knowledge even among the Grisha how grievously the attempt on my life wounded me, so the fact that the Apparat knew anything of what had transpired (beyond his assassin not returning) was worrisome. Only Genya, Fedyor, Baghra, Aleksander, and those who tended to me in the immediate aftermath had any idea what happened that night—even the Corporalki Healers in the infirmary weren't apprised of the intimate details (or so I was told). Aleksander had insisted on keeping my attacker's allegiance and the extent of my injuries quiet, lest the information fuel to the Apparat's fanatical delusions. So for that mouldering wretch to have detailed knowledge of my protracted recovery, he must have found a way to sink his hooks into someone very close to me. "He has a spy in the Little Palace," I cursed, the realisation hitting like a punch in the gut.

"One at the very least," Aleksander hissed, the ice in his voice the only outward manifestation of the rage I felt coursing through his body.

"Well, that's inconvenient," I sighed with annoyance, "but not an impossible problem to remedy. So, what are we going to do about it?" I asked matter-of-factly.

"'We'?" Aleksander smiled, his fury melting away, the void it left behind taken over by a mild sort of astonishment. "'We' won't be doing anything."

"And just why not?" I snapped at him, pulling my hand away, incensed.

"Because I don't need your help," he answered stiffly, though I had a feeling he had, at least briefly, considered saying that it was 'too dangerous' or some other such nonsense. "I can handle the Apparat's underlings on my own."

"Oh?" I demurred with feigned surprise. "And how much experience do you have with sniffing out rats?"

"Enough," Aleksander replied pointedly.

"'Enough'?" I repeated disbelievingly. "It might interest you to know that, aside from… Relieving the more fortunate of their excess material possessions to make a living, I also happened to moonlight as a card shark."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Aleksander countered flatly.

"Everything," I scoffed. "Sharking at cards is literally a game within a game that hinges completely on lies. To be a good shark, you have to be able to sniff out someone else's tells and hide your own. It's a con I've been running—and pulling off rather fantastically, I might add—since I was fifteen."

"What are you trying to say, Esfir—besides the fact that you're an excellent cheat?" Aleksander drawled disinterestedly, though I could see a hint of a smile creeping onto his lips.

"That I know how to spot liars and crooks far better than you do," I replied emphatically, unable to keep myself from smiling slightly in return. "So I'll be helping to solve our little problem whether you like it or not."

---

* 'Shampanskoye' (шампа́нское) is the Russian transliteration of the French 'Champagne', or the literal term for such sparkling wine of Russian origin.

* 'Zakuski' (закуски) is Russian for 'hors d'oeuvres'.

* 'Ptifur' (птифур) is the Russian transliteration of the French 'petit fours'.