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That should not make me smile, but it does. Only briefly. The expression fades when I fold the authorization and tuck it between two legitimate records. My fingers brush the coded note hidden inside my sleeve, the one Mira brought back late last night after asking the right questions in the wrong places.

Corin Ardyn.

Lower-district household. Sister named Sable. Publicly human. Privately avoided by people who notice strange things and enjoy survival. No estate employment. No delivery record. No reason to have passed through Vaerith’s courtyard except the same impossible pull still humming under my ribs.

The name has not left me alone.

Corin.

It suits him but irritates me. Sharp consonants. Warm center. A name that sounds like it could be spoken gently or shouted in warning.

Mira shifts the laundry basket. “You sure about this?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. Love that. Very inspiring.”

“I am sure that staying ignorant is more dangerous than leaving.”

“That is the kind of thing clever women say right before someone proves them wrong with a spear.”

“Then I will avoid spears.”

“Excellent plan. You should write that down in one of your tiny illegal notebooks.”

I slide the packets into a leather folio and tie it shut. “Lord Vaerith expects the west leakage summary by supper. If anyone asks where I am, I am delivering amended contract figures to the registry archive because the eastern filing copy is missing its witness notation.”

Mira blinks at me. “Is that true?”

“It is true enough to be irritating.”

“How do you make lies sound like chores?”

“Practice.”

She steps closer and lowers her voice. “Iso, listen to me. If this man is what you think he is, he is dangerous. If Lord Vaerith knows what you think he is, you are dangerous. If both of those things are true at once, then I am going to need you to choose breathing over curiosity for at least one afternoon.”

I fasten the folio strap across my shoulder, smoothing my sleeve over the coded note. “I am not going to meet him somewhere private.”

“Good.”

“I arranged a public courtyard.”

“Less good.”

“It has witnesses.”

“So does an execution.”

“And multiple exits.”

“That helps only if you’re allowed to use your feet.”

I pause near the door and look at her. The worry in her face is not theatrical. It sits tight around her eyes and mouth, older than this morning, older than me. Mira has survived too long in noble houses to mistake risk for romance.

“I will not let this become foolish,” I say.

“You don’t always get a vote once foolish starts walking.”