“I’ll go now,” said Kell, crossing to the king’s side.

“Mind the prince regent,” warned the king. “These correspondences are a matter of tradition, but the man’s questions have grown prodding.”

Kell nodded. He had often wanted to ask King Maxim what he thought of the Grey London leader and wondered about the contents of his letters, whether the prince regent asked as many questions of his neighboring crown as he did of Kell.

“He inquires often about magic,” he told the king. “I do my best to dissuade him.”

Maxim grunted. “He is a foolish man. Be careful.”

Kell raised a brow. Was Maxim actually worried for his safety? But then, as he reached for the letter, he saw the flicker of distrust in the king’s eyes, and his spirits sank. Maxim kept grudges like scars. They faded by degrees but always left a mark.

Kell knew he’d brought it on himself. For years, he’d used his expeditions as royal liaison to transport forbidden items between the worlds. If he hadn’t developed his reputation as a smuggler, the black stone would never have found its way into his hands, would never have killed men and women and brought havoc to Red London. Or perhaps the Danes would still have found a way, but they wouldn’t have used Kell to do it. He’d been a pawn, and a fool, and now he was paying for it—just as Rhy was forced to pay for his own part, for the possession charm that had let Astrid Dane take up residence in his body. In the end, they were both to blame. But the king still loved Rhy. The queen could still look at him.

Emira held out a second, smaller envelope. The note for King George. A courtesy more than anything else, but the fragile king clung to these correspondences, and so did Kell. The ailing king had no idea how short they were getting, and Kell had no intention of letting him know. He’d taken to elaborating, spinning intimate yarns about the Arnesian king and queen, the prince’s exploits, and Kell’s own life in the palace. Perhaps this time he’d tell George about the tournament. The king would love that.

He took the notes and turned to go, already pulling together what he’d say, when Maxim stopped him. “What about your point of return?”

Kell stiffened imperceptibly. The question was like a short tug, a reminder that he was now being kept on a leash. “The door will be at the mouth of Naresh Kas, just off the southern edge of the Night Market.”

The king glanced at Staff, who hung back by the door, to make sure he’d heard, and the guard nodded once.

“Don’t be late,” ordered Maxim.

Kell turned away and left the royal family to their talk of tournament visitors and fresh linens and who preferred coffee or wine or strong tea.

At the sunroom doors, he cast a glance back, and found Rhy looking at him with an expression that might have been I’m sorry, but also could have been fuck off, or at the very least we’ll talk later. Kell let the matter go and escaped, slipping the letters into the pocket of his coat. He walked briskly through the palace halls, back to his chambers, and through to the smaller second room beyond, closing the door behind him. Rhy probably would have used such an alcove to hold boots, or coat pins, but Kell had transformed the space into a small but well-stocked library, holding the texts he’d collected on magic. They were as much philosophical as practical, many gifted by Master Tieren or borrowed from the royal library, as well as some journals of his own, scribbled with thoughts on Antari blood magic, about which so little was known. One slim black volume he’d dedicated to Vitari, the black magic he’d grasped—awakened—destroyed—the year before. That journal held more questions than answers.

On the back of the library’s wooden door were half a dozen hand-drawn symbols, each simple but distinct, shortcuts to other places in the city, carefully drawn in blood. Some were faded from disuse, others fresh. One of the symbols—a circle with a pair of crossed lines drawn through it—led to Tieren’s sanctuary on the opposite bank. As Kell traced his fingers over the mark, he vividly remembered helping Lila haul a dying Rhy through the door. Another mark had once led to Kell’s private chamber at the Ruby Fields, the only place in London that had been truly his. Now it was nothing more than a smudge.

Kell scanned the door until he found the symbol he was looking for: a star made of three intersecting lines.

This mark came with its own memories, of an old king in a cell of a room, his gnarled fingers curled around a single red coin as he murmured about fading magic.

Kell drew his dagger from its place under the cuff of his coat, and grazed his wrist. Blood welled, rich and red, and he dabbed the cut and drew the mark fresh. When it was done, he pressed his hand flat against the symbol and said, “As Tascen.” Transfer.

And then he stepped forward.

The world softened and warped around his hand, and he passed from the darkened alcove into sunlight, crisp and bright enough to revive the fading ache behind his eyes. Kell was no longer in his makeshift library, but standing in a well-appointed courtyard. He wasn’t in Grey London, not yet, but in an ostra’s garden in an elegant village called Disan, significant not because of its fine fruit trees or glass statues, but because it occupied the same ground in Red London that Windsor Castle did in Grey.

The same exact ground.

Traveling magic only worked two ways. Kell could either transfer between two different places in one world, or travel between the same place in different ones. And because they kept the English king at Windsor, which sat well outside the city of London, he had to make his way first to ostra Paveron’s garden. It was a bit of clever navigation on Kell’s part … not that anyone knew enough of Antari magic to appreciate it. Holland might have, but Holland was dead, and he’d likely had a network of acrosses and betweens intricate enough to make Kell’s own attempts look childish. The winter air whipped around him, and he shivered as he drew the letters out of his pocket with his unbloodied hand, then turned the coat inside out and outside in until he found the side he was looking for: a black knee-length garment with a hood and velvet lining. Fit for Grey London, where the cold always felt colder, bitter and damp in a way that seeped through cloth and skin.