“Does it hurt?”

“It is nothing that won’t heal.” She shifted. “Your scars are far more interesting.”

Rhy’s fingers went to the mark over his heart, but he said nothing, and she asked nothing, and they settled into an easy quiet, steam rising in tendrils around them, the patterns swirling in the mist. Rhy felt his mind drifting, to shadows, and dying men, to blades between ribs, and cold, dark places slick with blood, and beyond, beyond, the silence, thick as cotton, heavy as stone.

“Do you have the gift?”

Rhy blinked, the visions dissolving back into the baths. “What gift?”

Cora’s fingers curled through the steam. “In my country, there are those who look into the fog and see things that are not there. Things that haven’t happened yet. Just now, you looked like you were seeing something.”

“Not seeing,” said Rhy. “Just remembering.”

* * *

They sat for ages in the bath, eager to leave neither the warmth nor the company. They perched side by side on the stone bench at the basin’s edge, or on the cooler tile of its rim, and spoke—not about the past, or their respective scars. Instead, they shared the present. Rhy told her about the city beyond the walls, about the curse cast over London, its strange and spreading transmutation, about the fallen, and the silvers. And Cora told him about the claustrophobic palace with its maddening nobles, the gallery where they gathered to worry, the corners where they huddled to whisper.

Cora had the kind of voice that rang out through a room, but when she spoke softly, there was a music to it, a melody that he found lulling. She wove stories about this lord and that lady, calling them by their clothes since she didn’t always know their names. She spoke of the magicians, too, with their tempers and their egos, recounted whole conversations without a stutter or a stop.

Cora, it seemed, had a mind like a gem, sharp and bright, and buried beneath childish airs. He knew why she did it—it was the same reason he played a rake as much as a royal. It was easier, sometimes, to be underestimated, discounted, dismissed.

“… And then he actually did it,” she was saying. “Swallowed a glass of wine and lit a spark, and poof, burned half his beard off.”

Rhy laughed—it felt easy, and wrong, and so very needed—and Cora shook her head. “Never dare a Veskan. It turns us stupid.”

“Kell said he had to knock one of your magicians out cold to keep her from charging into the fog.”

Cora cocked her head. “I haven’t seen your brother all day. Where has he gone?”

Rhy leaned his head back against the tiles. “To find help.”

“He’s not in the palace?”

“He’s not in the city.”

“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. And then her smile was back, lazy on her lips. “And what about this?” she asked, producing Rhy’s royal pin.

He shot upright. “Where did you get that?”

“It was in your trouser pocket.”

He reached for it, and she pulled playfully out of reach.

“Give it back,” he demanded, and she must have heard the warning in his voice, the sudden, shocking cold of the command, because she didn’t resist, didn’t play any games. Rhy’s hand closed over the water-warmed metal. “It’s late,” he said, rising out of the bath. “I should go.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said, looking genuinely hurt.

He ran a hand through damp curls. “You didn’t,” he lied as a pair of servants appeared, wrapping a robe around his bare shoulders. Anger burned through him, but only at himself for letting his guard slip, letting his focus drift. He should have left long ago, but he hadn’t wanted to face the shadows that came with sleep. Now his body ached, his mind blurring with fatigue. “It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”

Sadness washed across Cora’s face.

“Rhy,” she mewed, “it was only a game. I wouldn’t have kept it.”

He knelt on the bath’s tiled edge, tipped her chin, and kissed her once on the forehead. “I know,” he said.

He left her sitting alone in the bath.

Outside, Vis was slumped in a chair, weary but awake.

“I’m sorry,” said Rhy as the guard rose beside him. “You shouldn’t have waited. Or I shouldn’t have stayed.”

“It’s all right, sir,” said the man groggily, falling into step behind him.

The palace had gone quiet around them, only the murmur of the guards on duty filling the air as Rhy climbed the stairs, pausing outside Kell’s room before remembering he wasn’t there.

His own chamber stood empty, the lamps lit low, casting long shadows on every surface. A collection of tonics glittered on the sideboard—Tieren’s concoctions for nights when it got bad—but the warmth of the bath still clung to his limbs and dawn was only a few hours away, so Rhy set his pin on the table and fell into the bed.

Only to be assaulted by a ball of white fur.

Alucard’s cat had been sleeping on his pillow, and gave an indignant chirp when Rhy landed on the sheets. He didn’t have the energy to evict the cat—its violet eyes were daring him to try—so Rhy slumped back, content to share the space. He threw an arm over his eyes and was surprised to feel the soft weight of a paw prodding his arm before curling up against his side. He slid his fingers absently through the creature’s fur, letting the soft rumble of its purr and the faint, lingering scent of the captain—all sea breeze and summer wine—pull him down into sleep.