“But you’ve no head for drink.”

He looked as startled as she felt. “Of all the things, you remember that.”

She had remembered something else, too, as she’d tried to sleep. She’d come to ask him about it, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she appraised him. “You seem clear-minded enough.”

“It’s early. Still, I don’t know. This conversation feels just shy of a delusion.”

She fiddled with the glass. “I want to understand a few things.”

“Ask me.”

She wasn’t yet ready to share what she remembered. She set the glass down. “What did you tell the queen?”

“I told Inisha about you.”

“What, exactly?”

He hesitated. “I’m afraid to say.”

“I want you to.”

“You might leave.”

“I won’t.”

He stayed silent.

She said, “I give you my word.”

“I told her that I belong to you, and no other. I said that I was sorry.”

She couldn’t help the rush of plea sure . . . and jealousy. His words did make her want to leave. She felt so unalterably his. It was bewildering, because she didn’t know him, not really, and he knew two halves of her that she couldn’t fit together.

He was waiting for her to speak. He was so still. She realized he was holding his breath.

She said, “That’s political suicide.”

He smiled a little.

“How did she respond?”

“She said, ‘You overestimate your importance.’ ”

“Is that why you’re drinking?”

“Kestrel, you know why I am drinking.”

She looked into the shadowed corners of the room. Talking with him was like having a flower unfold inside her chest, then close up tight. Creep open. Collapse in on itself. Voice low, she said, “Why do you call her Inisha? That’s not her name.”

“It’s . . . her little name.” The pause made Kestrel think that he’d been translating a Dacran term in his mind before speaking it, but also that he’d been translating her question, and recognizing the implied intimacy it exposed between him and the queen. He held Kestrel’s eyes. “There never would have been anything between her and me if I’d known the truth about you. I should have known it. I can’t forgive myself for not knowing it. As it was . . . yesterday, in the garden, you asked if I used her for political gain. I didn’t. I used her to forget about you. You prob ably don’t want to know that. It’s ugly. But I must tell you, because there’s been too much hiding. More would break me.”

She looked at the green liquor left in the glass. It was green. It was liquid. This was a glass. To hide from her would break him. Simple things, so apparent, so not anything other than what they showed themselves to be. She dipped a finger into the liquor’s dregs and touched it to her tongue. It burned.

Arin made a sound.

She glanced up. She didn’t know where her voice had gone. She was nervous. Her flesh was resonant with the knowledge of what she wanted to understand and what she’d come here to find out. It was much riskier than what she’d already asked. She stood.

He watched her pace toward him.

She stopped just short of his chair and looked down at him. Her loose hair slipped over her shoulder. “I remember something. I’m not sure if it happened or not. Will you tell me?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“I remember lying with you on the lawn of the imperial palace’s spring garden.”

He shifted. Lamplight pulsed over his face. He shook his head.

“I remember finding you in your suite.” This memory was coming to her now. It had a similar flavor as the last one. “I promised to tell you my secrets. You held a book. Or kindling? You were making a fire.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“I kissed you.” She touched the hollow at the base of his neck. His pulse was wild.

“Not then,” he said finally.

“But I have before.” There was a rush of images. It was as if the melody she’d imagined while lying in the dark had been dunked in the green liquor. All the cold stops gained heat and ran together. It was easy to remember Arin, especially now. Her hand slid to his chest. The cotton of his shirt was hot. “Your kitchens. A table. Honey and flour.”

His heart slammed against her palm. “Yes.”

“A carriage.”

“Yes.”

“A balcony.”