Five minutes later, he was standing outside the Five Points.

He could have gone anywhere, but he always ended up there. Muscle memory, that was the only real explanation. His feet carried him along the paths worn into the world, the cosmic slope, a gravitational bend drawing things of mass and magic to the fixed point.

Inside, a familiar face looked up from behind the bar. Not Barron’s wide brow and dark beard, but Ned Tuttle’s large eyes, his long jaw, his broad, surprised, delighted smile.

“Master Kell!”

At least the young Enthusiast didn’t launch himself over the counter when Kell came in. He only dropped three glasses and knocked over a bottle of port. The glasses Kell let fall, but the port he stopped an inch above the floor, the gesture lost on all but Ned himself.

He slid onto a stool, and a moment later a glass of dark whisky appeared before him. Not magic, just Ned. When he finished the first glass in a single swig, the bottle appeared at his elbow.

The Enthusiast pretended to busy himself with the handful of other patrons while Kell drank. On the third glass, he slowed down; after all, it wasn’t his body alone he was trashing. But how many nights had Kell borne Rhy’s drinking; how many mornings had he woken with the stale taste of wine and elixirs coating his tongue?

Kell tipped a little more into his tumbler.

He could feel the eyes of the patrons drifting toward him, and he wondered if they were being drawn by magic or rumor. Could they feel the pull, the tip of gravity, or was it simply word of mouth? What had Ned told them? Anything? Everything?

Right then, Kell didn’t care. He just wanted to smother the feelings before they could smother him. Blot out the image of Lila’s bloody face before it ruined the memory of her mouth against his.

It was only a matter of time before Ned reappeared, but when he did, it wasn’t with questions or mindless chatter. Instead, the lanky young man poured himself a drink from the same bottle, folded his arms on the edge of the counter, and set something down in front of Kell. It glinted in the lamplight.

A Red London lin.

The coin Kell had left behind on his last visit.

“I believe this is yours,” he said.

“It is.”

“It smells like tulips.”

Kell tilted his head; the room tilted with it. “The King of England always said roses.”

Ned gaped. “George the fourth said that?”

“No, the third,” said Kell absently, adding, “the fourth is an ass.”

Ned nearly choked on his drink, letting out a simple, startled laugh. Kell flicked his fingers, and the Red London lin leaped up onto its side and began to spin in lazy circles. Ned’s eyes widened. “Will I ever be able to do that?”

“I hope not,” said Kell, glancing up. “You shouldn’t be able to do anything.”

The man’s narrow features contorted. “Why’s that?”

“A long time ago, this world—your world—had magic of its own.”

Ned leaned in, a child waiting for the monster in the story. “What happened?”

Kell shook his head, the whisky muddling his thoughts. “A lot of very bad things.” The coin made its slow revolutions. “It’s all about balance, Ned.” Why couldn’t Lila understand? “Chaos needs order. Magic needs moderation. It’s like a fire. It doesn’t have self-control. It feeds off whatever you give it, and if you give it too much, it burns and burns until there’s nothing left.

“Your world had fire, once,” said Kell. “Not much—it was too far from the source—but enough to burn. We cut it off before it could, and what was left began to dwindle. Eventually, it went out.”

“But how do you know we would have burned?” asked Ned, eyes fever bright.

Kell knocked the coin over with a brush of his fingers. “Because too little of something is just as dangerous as too much.” He straightened on his stool. “The point is, magic shouldn’t exist here anymore. It shouldn’t be possible.”

“Impossibility is a thing that begs to be disproven,” said Ned brightly. “Perhaps it hasn’t been possible for years, perhaps it’s not even possible right now, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be. It doesn’t mean it won’t be. You say the magic guttered, the flame went out. But what if it simply needed to be stoked?”

Kell poured himself another drink. “Maybe you’re right.”

But I hope you’re wrong, he thought. For all our sakes.

* * *

Rhy was not in the mood.

Not in the mood to be at the ball.

Not in the mood to play host.

Not in the mood to smile and joke and pretend that everything was all right. His father cast warning looks his way, and his mother stole glances, as if she thought he would break. He wanted to yell at both of them, for driving his brother away.

Instead, he stood between the king and queen while the three champions cast off their masks.

First came the Veskan, Rul, his rough hair trailing down his jaw, still preening from his victory over Elsor.

Then Tos-an-Mir, one half of the favored Faroan twins, her gems tracing fiery patterns from brow to chin.

And of course, Alucard Emery. Rogue, rake, royal, and renewed darling of the Arnesian empire.

Rhy congratulated Lord Sol-in-Ar and Prince Col on the excellent showing, marveled aloud at the balanced field—an Arnesian, a Faroan, and a Veskan in the finals! What were the odds?—and then retreated to a pillar to drink in peace.