“Luca Balquinal.” Luca introduced himself before I even opened my mouth. He clasped hands with Gavin before sweeping his palm along the arched neck of the other boy’s horse. He whistled. “Long time since I’ve seen an Aifiri Ashka in the flesh. Is he bred for pleasure or war?”
Gavin looked surprised. “Would you believe me if I said both?”
The stallion stamped a hoof and bannered his tail. Luca and Gavin both laughed.
“Never known an Ashka who didn’t love to show off.”
“You know your horseflesh.” Gavin cocked his head, curious.
“I’m Tavendel,” Luca said, by way of explanation.
“You should stop by my stables in Jardinier sometime,” Gavin said. “I’ve got an Alomar mare who’ll make a religious man out of you.”
“Not to interrupt,” I said icily. “But should we be getting back to the palais?”
“Sorry.” Gavin looked abashed. He started to swing down from his stallion. “Here, you should ride—”
“I don’t know how,” I snapped. “I’ll just walk.”
“That won’t do.” He gestured to Luca, and together they hauled me up on the horse in front of him. I protested, but Gavin wrapped a strong arm around my waist and angled my legs across the horse’s withers. He saluted Luca. “Thanks for the assist!”
And then we were rushing off through the city, and I didn’t have the energy to concentrate on anything other than keeping the meager contents of my acid-splattered stomach on the inside.
I bathed and changed quickly, trying to scrub away the cloud of nebulous shame hanging over me. I had nearly reached the Congrès when I heard my name.
“Mirage.”
I smelled him before I saw him—genévrier and ice, underlaid with a snap of metal and the bitter tang of masked pain.Sunder. A frisson of regret scuttled down my spine when I thought of how I’d ditched him and his wolves to visit the Paper City unescorted.
I spun to face him. He wore his black uniform, the argyle of his house colors slashed stark across his breast. He breathed hard, his hair damp with what looked like sweat. His eyes yawned with vicious disappointment. I looked away, Luca’s words weaving bright strings through my haze of memories.
The man’s in love with you.
“If you’re here to scold me, get it over with.”
“I’m not your father.” His voice held no expression. “But I did spend the whole of Matin looking for you. I heardGavinfound you, wandering up through the Échelles. Did it slip your mind that there are Red Masks trying to kill you? Or did you just want to get drunk with that Tavendel lowlife without supervision?”
“You’re neither my father nor my keeper,” I lashed out at him. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Did you forget asking me to serve as your commandant?” He reached for his side, then clenched his fist and lowered it. “Scion help me, but I thought you’d start acting more like a dauphine and less like a Dusklander brat once we defeated Severine.”
The words stung like a slap to the face, but it hurt more to see him like this—cold and unyielding as a glacier. His masklike expression conjured a memory from another time, before I’d learned that a heart beat hot beneath his frigid exterior. Ice slicked my bones and numbed my tongue.“Excuse me?”
Dowser poked his head out of the Congrès, irritation marring his usually placid mask. “I thought I heard voices. You’re late.”
I nailed all my angry words to my ribs. Then I brushed past Sunder’s fever-chill into the Congrès.
The room was full of people I barely knew. Besides the core trio—Dowser, Barthet, and Lady Marta—there were a number of legacies. Mostly Dexter, but a few from Sinister stood against the wall—after my conversation with Oleander, I’d loosened their restrictions. Gavin must have lingered in the palais after riding up with me from the Échelles—he lounged, smiling and handsome, beside his severe godfather. But there were also a dozen or more people I’d never seen before in my life, clutching pens and parchment and trying to look important.
Strangely, they made me the most nervous.
I smoothed my cobalt-and-magenta skirt around my chair. “I beg pardon for my tardiness. Shall we begin?”
“Lord Sunder,” Dowser said. “You had news?”
“Indeed.” Sunder braced his hands and smoldered at the table. “The Loup-Garou have subdued three riots in the last week. The first began when bakers in the Paper City inflated the price of bread higher than it’s been in tides, making it impossible for most of the lower classes to afford food. Looters rushed a grain silo, breaking down the door and spilling nearly a tide’s worth of wheat into the street. Considering the trade freeze currently in effect on the city, we ought to consider stockpiling what’s left, lest we all starve.”
“The Imperial stores are kept separately from the city’s,” Lady Marta cut in. “Based on my accounting, there is no danger of a shortage at the palais.”
