Sometimes Arin could see the boy he had been before the war. When he did, he usually felt a tenderness for that child as if he were wholly other than Arin, not part of himself at all. That boy didn’t blame Arin, exactly, for existing when he did not, but when Arin caught a glimpse of the child, usually lingering about the eyes, Arin always looked away. He would feel a small sharpness, like the nick of the razor.

Arin’s face was wet, his hair black with water. He shivered, suddenly aware of the winter. He searched for something to wear, and pulled on a nightshirt and robe.

Arin felt again his nervousness as he’d stood outside the balcony curtain. The curtain had swung after Kestrel had closed it behind her, and he’d gingerly touched its sway. He remembered that hunted expression she had thrown over her shoulder before disappearing behind the velvet.

And then there, in the dark, with her … it made Arin’s throat tighten as if he were thirsty. Prove it, he’d told her, words thick with desire, full of a traitorous kind of confidence, one that came and then abandoned him and then returned and left in such rapid tides that he couldn’t keep his footing. Prove that you want him. Kestrel had pushed him away.

He could have sworn that he had sensed in her the same wish that was in him. It had been on her skin like a scent. Hadn’t it? But then Arin remembered how she’d escaped his house in Herran. He saw her again on the harbor: her hand on a weapon, that flash in her eyes. It had wrecked him. He had done this, he had made this, had lied to her, tricked her, killed her people, killed whatever it was that had made Kestrel open up to him on Firstwinter night … before she knew his treachery.

Of course she had chosen someone else.

There was a knock at the dressing room door.

“Arin?” Tensen called. “Can I come in?”

No, Arin wanted to say, and had he still been in front of the mirror and seen his face he would have said it, because his reflection would have shown something vulnerable and uncertain, and he would have despised it. He wouldn’t have let anyone see him then.

Tensen knocked again.

Arin’s wet hair was cold. A chilly rivulet crept down his neck. Arin dried himself off, rubbing a towel at his short hair as he kept his back to the mirror. He went to open the door.

Tensen scrutinized Arin, which made the younger man’s jaw go tight. But Tensen gave him an easy smile, pulled up the dressing room chair, and sat gustily down. “That,” he said, “was exhausting. And profitable.”

“What have you learned?” Arin asked.

Tensen told him about Thrynne.

“Gods,” Arin said.

“No, Arin. I won’t have that look on your face. Thrynne knew what he risked when he came to the capital. He did it for Herran.”

“I asked him to.”

“We all make our choices. What would you choose: Herran’s sake, or yours?”

Arin’s answer was quick. “Herran’s.”

Tensen said nothing for a moment, only gazed up at him with the pensiveness of someone considering a question not so easily answered. Arin didn’t like that expression, he bristled at it, but before he could speak, Tensen said, “What would you have me choose?”

“I can’t tell you what to choose for yourself.”

“No, what would you have me choose for you? Say that you were in Thrynne’s position—imprisoned, worse—and my intervention could help you but hurt our country. What should I do?”

“Leave me there.”

“Yes,” Tensen said slowly. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Arin threaded fingers through his damp hair and tugged until his scalp hurt. “Are you sure of this news?”

“My source is good.”

“Who?”

Tensen waved a hand. “No one important.”

“But who?”

“I promised not to tell. Don’t make an old man break his promises.”

Arin frowned, but said only, “This isn’t the year of money. And what did Thrynne overhear the emperor and Senate leader say?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Caution, Arin. I myself might have a way.”

“Oh?”

Tensen smiled. “A new recruit.” He refused to say anything more. He found a comfortable position in his chair and changed the subject in a way that spun Arin’s head. “Well, I think they make a charming couple.”

“What?”

“The prince and Lady Kestrel.”

Arin had known whom Tensen had meant.

“Their kiss was sweet,” said the spymaster. “One would assume their marriage was just a political alliance—I certainly did, until I saw them kiss.”

Arin stared.

“You must have missed it,” Tensen said. “It was at the beginning of the ball. But of course you were late.”

“Yes,” Arin said finally. “I was.”

10

Kestrel crept into bed at dawn, footsore from dancing. She hung her unbuckled dagger on its hook on the bedpost. She shivered, more from fatigue than cold, as she got beneath the blankets next to Jess. The other girl lay sleeping, curled on her side.

“Jess,” Kestrel whispered. “I broke your necklace.”

Jess gropingly stretched out her hand and caught Kestrel’s. “I’ll make you another one,” she murmured. Eyes still shut, she frowned. “I saw him at the ball.”