She looked at him. “The stakes?”

“The truth.”

Kestrel couldn’t agree to that. She couldn’t even say no, for that would admit that the truth was something she couldn’t afford to give.

“Not enticing?” said Arin. “I see. Maybe such stakes aren’t high enough. Not for you. That’s it, isn’t it? I’d give you my truth for the asking. You know that. You don’t want to win something that’s free.” His eyes measured her. “Kestrel. You’re hiding something. And I want it. Let’s say this. If you win, I’ll do whatever you ask. If you tell me to leave the capital, I’ll go. If you want me never to speak with you again, I won’t. You name your price.” Arin offered his hand. “Give me your word that you’ll pay properly. On your honor, as a Valorian.”

She tried not to look at Arin’s outstretched hand. She held the collar of her coat closed tight against the cold.

To lose was unthinkable. But if she won … she could send Arin home. It would be for the best. It had become too dangerous for him to stay. Too hard.

“Kestrel.” He touched her bare wrist. Slowly, he slid his fingers into the warmth of the coat’s large cuff. Her pulse shot beneath his thumb. “One last time?” he asked.

Her fingers loosened, almost like they didn’t belong to her. They opened, and they found his.

It suddenly seemed that Kestrel had been an empty room, and that all of her wishes came crowding in. They thronged: delicate, full-skirted, their silk brushing up against each other. “Yes,” she whispered.

Arin’s eyes were bright in the darkness. His hand was hot. “Swear.”

“A Valorian honors her word.”

“Come.” He drew her toward a descending alleyway.

“Now?”

“Would you rather play in the palace? I wonder where would be best, my rooms or yours?”

She dropped his hand. She rubbed her palm, trying to rub away the feel of him.

He watched her do it. His expression changed.

“We’ll play later,” she said, and that was when she knew for certain that she might have agreed for the simple pleasure of playing against him, or even for the poisoned prize of sending him from the capital, but some weak part of her had also agreed out of the sneaking hope that she might lose. “Later,” she said again.

“No. Now.”

“We can’t wander around the Narrows waiting to stumble upon a Bite and Sting set.”

“Don’t worry,” said Arin. “I know a place.”

20

Arin wondered if the fever from the wound had truly left him. He felt wild.

It was the confusion.

He led the way back down into the Narrows. His stride was longer than Kestrel’s. He shortened it … and moments later, was practically loping.

Arin didn’t know what was real anymore. What was real? Kestrel’s look of disgust when she’d first seen him? But then the wan lamplight had caught her face more fully. He’d seen shock and grief.

Or he thought he had. You’re seeing what you want to see, Tensen had told him.

When Arin had pulled that stolen—borrowed? won?—coat away from Kestrel’s throat, a sensation had sparked the air between them. Hadn’t it? But then she’d turned to stone. Like she had before on the balcony, that first night. Maybe those sparks had been in Arin’s head. Maybe they were the kind you get when someone punches you in the face.

Arin hadn’t lied when he said that he trusted her. But that trust always came with a wrench of the gut. Trusting her made no sense. Arin knew all the reasons it didn’t. His trust was foolish. Unhealthy. To be honest, Arin didn’t understand his own trust. He wasn’t even sure if this stubborn impulse came out of real hope or was the habit of a beggar, fallen asleep with his hand held out for small coins.

Arin shot a glance behind him. Kestrel was casting worried looks around the skinny alley—at the sick and waste in the gutter, the wavy orange light from torchlit gaming houses, the crumbling stairs. Mean-looking slicks of ice.

She caught his glance. She tugged at her work scarf to hide her cheek as if he were a stranger. Like he didn’t already know who she was, and she might succeed in tricking him with her disguise.

Her disguise! Arin stopped in his tracks and marveled at the sight of her dressed as a maid. Her bright hair was hidden. Her face bare. Brow clean. That godsforsaken gold mark was gone.

He felt something buoyant. Practically giddy. It filled his lungs. It made him spin a story. A pure fantasy that exposed just how far his mind had gone.

Arin imagined her as Tensen’s Moth.

Yes, Arin mocked himself, surely that was it. Everything was explained.

Amazed at his powers of self-deception, Arin told himself his absurd little story. Tensen’s hints about Risha as the Moth had been mere insinuation. Tensen had said nothing straight. And Kestrel was in a good position to gather information for Arin’s spymaster, wasn’t she? Beloved by the court. Daughter of the general. Close to the emperor. Promised to his son. Tensen would never tell Arin if she was his source.

It fit perfectly. Look at her now. The maid’s uniform. That coat. Something hidden in her eyes. Oh, yes. Kestrel would make a fine spy.

And let’s not forget that ruined dress Deliah had described, with the ripped seams and vomit and mucky hem.

Wouldn’t it be like Kestrel, to risk herself?

For what? Herran?

Him?

Gods of madness and lies. Arin was insane.